There were so many people in the room there wasn’t really any space for me, but somehow I squeezed in.
We squatted down on the floor, 30 robed mallams and me, all facing the witnesses.
If you stood, you would have seen everyone was arranged in rough circles emanating from the corner where the royal father sat.
He had a turban of delicate white cloth, one skein of which was tied under his chin. Next to him was a man in a blue robe. His arms were resting on his knees, balancing him out. The skin was stretched tight over his bony hands. In between his fingers he’d laced a string of prayer beads.
I tried to get comfortable. I’ve always had trouble squatting. I don’t think my legs are supposed to do it. I put my knees down and crushed the fingers of the man sitting next to me. He gave me a little wave and a ‘don’t worry’ smile.
Even more people came into the room. How were we all fitting in? I noticed my host Korau had disappeared. Wasn’t this supposed to be his daughters wedding? Maybe he was no longer required for this part of the ceremony… Or had I just barged in here when I was not supposed to? I think he’d asked me to sit down. What was going on?
At the signal from the royal father, there was an intake of breath and everyone opened their palms and we began. A man near me began speaking in Arabic, I watched his Adam’s apple bob up and down as he recited the circular rhythms and internal rhymes of the passage.
A man suddenly appeared in the door and yelled at the top of his voice. “Something something Bature!” I was confused. Was he angry at me? His rasping voice sounded urgent and aggressive. He fled the scene instantly but there couldn’t be anyone else he was talking about. No one else seemed bothered. Seconds later he was back, a thin silhouette against the bright light of the doorway, tattered hat and bulging eyes pointed in my direction. He gripped the doorframe like a man struggling against a cyclone, as if he were a backwoodsman chased into town by the Sasquatch. He opened his crooked toothless maw and yelled: “Bature!”
This time the father of the groom looked up to him in annoyance. “Oh god I am ruining the man’s proudest day!” I thought. I looked around but couldn’t sense any other form of animosity towards me. The yeller ran off again, his bony elbows sticking out of his sack like kaftan.
I looked about me at the village elders collected there in that room (which was rapidly beginning to heat up as the tin roof sucked up the midday sun) They clasped their hands together in front of them. They regarded their hands like a book. Some followed the words of the recitation moving their mouths slightly as if reading from their hands, as if the words of the Koran were worn into their hands by work. My neighbour’s fingers were thick and strong. The stems of his fingers were bony, but the pad at the tip was more bulbous. His skin was calloused and thick. When I was younger I shook hands with a blacksmith, and his hand felt like a thick coil of rope. These looked like a twist of steel cable.
The man was back in the door, yelling some more. What had I done! This time I recognised it. “Bature! Give me money!” I should have realised. Everyone laughed. The recitation had changed to Hausa. I looked at the back of the head of the man in front of me his hair was tight crumb-like bunches. A fly was crawling through his hair in between the knots, he didn’t seem to notice.
As quickly as it had started, it was over. People began to stand and walk out of the room, climbing up into the light. Confused, I asked my friends waiting outside: “Is that it?” Apparently it was. We walked back to the van through the streets of old Farakwai, Korau pointed out to me the clay pots in the ground where the bodies of jihad-area massacre victims are buried.
The yelling marakwai led the way. One marched in front of us like a sergeant major, yelling salutations and praising me, singing my virtue. Every few steps he’d swirl around or do a little jive, his elbows flapping like a chicken. The other wailed and bawled, he clawed at his face as if over come by the beauty of the occasion. His mouth was a downturned mask of emotion.
We squatted down on the floor, 30 robed mallams and me, all facing the witnesses.
If you stood, you would have seen everyone was arranged in rough circles emanating from the corner where the royal father sat.
He had a turban of delicate white cloth, one skein of which was tied under his chin. Next to him was a man in a blue robe. His arms were resting on his knees, balancing him out. The skin was stretched tight over his bony hands. In between his fingers he’d laced a string of prayer beads.
I tried to get comfortable. I’ve always had trouble squatting. I don’t think my legs are supposed to do it. I put my knees down and crushed the fingers of the man sitting next to me. He gave me a little wave and a ‘don’t worry’ smile.
Even more people came into the room. How were we all fitting in? I noticed my host Korau had disappeared. Wasn’t this supposed to be his daughters wedding? Maybe he was no longer required for this part of the ceremony… Or had I just barged in here when I was not supposed to? I think he’d asked me to sit down. What was going on?
At the signal from the royal father, there was an intake of breath and everyone opened their palms and we began. A man near me began speaking in Arabic, I watched his Adam’s apple bob up and down as he recited the circular rhythms and internal rhymes of the passage.
A man suddenly appeared in the door and yelled at the top of his voice. “Something something Bature!” I was confused. Was he angry at me? His rasping voice sounded urgent and aggressive. He fled the scene instantly but there couldn’t be anyone else he was talking about. No one else seemed bothered. Seconds later he was back, a thin silhouette against the bright light of the doorway, tattered hat and bulging eyes pointed in my direction. He gripped the doorframe like a man struggling against a cyclone, as if he were a backwoodsman chased into town by the Sasquatch. He opened his crooked toothless maw and yelled: “Bature!”
This time the father of the groom looked up to him in annoyance. “Oh god I am ruining the man’s proudest day!” I thought. I looked around but couldn’t sense any other form of animosity towards me. The yeller ran off again, his bony elbows sticking out of his sack like kaftan.
I looked about me at the village elders collected there in that room (which was rapidly beginning to heat up as the tin roof sucked up the midday sun) They clasped their hands together in front of them. They regarded their hands like a book. Some followed the words of the recitation moving their mouths slightly as if reading from their hands, as if the words of the Koran were worn into their hands by work. My neighbour’s fingers were thick and strong. The stems of his fingers were bony, but the pad at the tip was more bulbous. His skin was calloused and thick. When I was younger I shook hands with a blacksmith, and his hand felt like a thick coil of rope. These looked like a twist of steel cable.
The man was back in the door, yelling some more. What had I done! This time I recognised it. “Bature! Give me money!” I should have realised. Everyone laughed. The recitation had changed to Hausa. I looked at the back of the head of the man in front of me his hair was tight crumb-like bunches. A fly was crawling through his hair in between the knots, he didn’t seem to notice.
As quickly as it had started, it was over. People began to stand and walk out of the room, climbing up into the light. Confused, I asked my friends waiting outside: “Is that it?” Apparently it was. We walked back to the van through the streets of old Farakwai, Korau pointed out to me the clay pots in the ground where the bodies of jihad-area massacre victims are buried.
The yelling marakwai led the way. One marched in front of us like a sergeant major, yelling salutations and praising me, singing my virtue. Every few steps he’d swirl around or do a little jive, his elbows flapping like a chicken. The other wailed and bawled, he clawed at his face as if over come by the beauty of the occasion. His mouth was a downturned mask of emotion.
posted by Andrew Walker at 1:05 am
1 Comments:
This is great info to know.
Post a Comment
<< Home