Excerpt from 'The Book of Remembered Things' by Abubakar Adam Ibrahim

Today, I donned my black dress, the one adorned with intricate gold embroidery along the front and cuffs, its scent rich with cherished memories. Shamsu had gifted it to me. It was the first time I wore it since the tragedy occurred, and surprisingly, I didn't feel sorrowful.

My friend Hajara pulled me aside and remarked, “Anisa, have you noticed you’re the only one in black at this wedding?”

It was the wedding of her younger sister, who had recently turned 20, as though she hadn’t spent her entire life growing up in front of me; I had once carried her as an infant on my back, even when she had soiled my dress and thrown up on me.

On her special day, I stood out in my black outfit while everyone else celebrated in vibrant African prints and radiant smiles. All youthful, carefree individuals, many of whom were born as I watched.

“Why not?” I responded to Hajara, “Why is it wrong to wear black at a wedding?”

She stared at me in disbelief, as if I had committed a major faux pas. “Come on, Anisa! It’s a wedding, not a funeral! You should at least pretend to be pleased for my sister.”

I inquired further about her meaning. Hajara insisted that my unmarried status at 34 shouldn't warrant mourning attire at weddings. She then laughed, easing the tension, saying, “Oh, Anisa, I was only joking, wallahi.”

I retorted, “Hajara, don’t talk about marriage as if you're happier than I am, especially since your husband is out with those young girls in Nasarawa.”

I wore a black dress today, Mother—black at a little girl’s wedding.

***

At times, I experience heavy bleeding, a flow as intense as a newly embraced borehole. Newness hardly describes me; my heart feels worn down with the ticking clock—tick-tock, tick-tock.

I saturate my pads in mere minutes, switching to ultra ones to contain the spirited flow, preventing leakage that would stain my skirts. In Father’s house, all this blood.

If he were present, he would have exclaimed, “Subhanallahi, Anisa! We need to find you a husband.” How he would have remarked that years ago if he had been around.

Sometimes, I need to look at pictures to recall his face, especially the ones he deemed haram and set ablaze after declaring that the faithful could be misled by such images. Those carefully hidden in the commode as he ramaged through drawers, collecting our photo albums to feed to the flames.

“These are the deceptions of Iblis. May Allah curse him,” he proclaimed, returning to ransack more items. The flames soon consumed our cherished belongings, including Lawiza’s jeans, our makeup, CDs, and dresses he disapproved of. Even your high heels went up because of their click-clack sound that drew the attention of men.

When he began tossing radios and the TV into the fire, I asked him, “Father, what are you doing?”

“Silence, you!” he shouted. “You shouldn’t be here. You're meant to be married. I’ll find you a husband soon, in sha Allah.”

And so, he cast more of our possessions into the blaze.

He turned to you, pointing out, “Have you seen how women dance on TV these days? Naked women! Subhanallah!”

But you offered no replies, only tears fell.

I watched as the flames devoured our essence—the remnants of who we were. After satisfying their hunger, the flames left behind nothing but a peculiar smell and smoke, leaving me feeling like a stranger in my own being. I noticed the emptiness mirrored in your eyes as well.

Yet you turned away, instructing me, “Anisa, clean up this mess and come inside before the maghrib prayers.”

When the U.S. invaded Afghanistan, Father returned one day, filling a black rucksack with a red spider embroidery.

“Muslims are being killed,” he said. “I must go to jihad! Jihad!”

Initially, we thought it was a jest. But he left, determined to reach Afghanistan on foot to confront the infidels harming Muslim infants.

We waited for his return, for the silhouette to appear at our threshold when dusk slipped in. The sun set repeatedly, yet he never returned. Days morphed into months, and eventually, years slipped by.

There were times I assumed he had perished—sometimes even wished it—but recently our friend Mustafa the cloth merchant claimed, “Anisa, I saw your father in Kano.”

I pressed him for details, and he affirmed with certainty, “Haba, how could I not recognize your father? I saw him with my own eyes, kiri-kiri!”

I inquired, “What did he say?”

“Nothing. He just waved and walked away.”

I ponder what Father would think if he witnessed my situation now, under his roof, knowing the burdens I carry. A woman of my age should not be tidying in her father’s house.

At times, I fret; at others, I remain indifferent. My reproductive status has become trivial. Instead, my concern lies with the fertility of my intellect.