Wild Thoughts

By Aisha Oredola

On our first night, I was finally staring at his face confidently; the stereotype is that Muslim brides should be shy, avert their eyes from the man’s face as they fiddle with their fingers and slowly let him take the lead but this wasn’t any man; he was already a part of me. I have known him in my silent prayers in months of Ramadan over the years – even the ones where darkness nearly threatened the moon’s glow on my soul, nearly locked it up in a box. They were hard because my soul had grown thicker due to neglect. After going through Ramadan, every year, especially the last ten days where I have to purge my emotions and worries to Allah, my soul softens.

I have known him in my night prayers, supplications, in sujood whenever I pressed my head on the ground in a bid to focus harder and communicate deeper with my Lord. I traced the outline of his face while my eyes stayed shut, even then I could tell he was smiling, the type where his lips spread softly like butter on his dark brown skin. I know every detail. You can not blame a woman stuck with another soul especially since it had been written. The power of His pen and will is impregnable. I have never feared loving effortlessly, boundlessly, like an endless flowing ocean. What I’m afraid of however is the other side of love and I know we must face it. There would be days when his smile will not reach his eyes and his silence would not mean I fill  his thoughts. Those days would need us to summon courage to fuel back our feelings.

He touched my forehead with his lips, placed his right hand on it and said a prayer. I wanted to know what he was thinking but my thoughts were his so I concluded they were similar. Love that is not acidic like an addiction, obsession nor sinful like idol worship must spring from the love of Allah, and ours did. Our night must have been blessed because it took just that for me to conceive. Layla, I knew, her name would be.

History leaves its name on the bodies of men. It is why when they die and turn to dust, the wind disperses it, makes it alive in the atmosphere and we, the living breathe it in, give it permission to repeat itself. I could have sworn that Layla would be like us, accept Islam wholly without questions. She would submit with ease, fall and stand up right after. Like us, Layla would testify to His light willingly through her actions even before she hits puberty and be on a quest to make it grow within her. I would in future come to understand that history would play a fast one on me.

Jalaluddin made me feel like the only woman he saw. When I was pregnant, I did not finish uttering a sentence before he did my bidding. He would look at me in a way that made my confidence shrink; if vulnerability was human, it would be me. Sometimes I pray fervently for boredom not to be the one thing that destroys this love. I tell myself to prepare for any trial to come, to beware to not give up, that what we share can’t possibly break under anything.

“I love you Nima.” He would say out of nowhere; like when I have finished throwing up my stomach’s contents – pregnancy problems. Who loves the after face of a pale looking woman who just finished retching into the toilet sink. Was it the way I quickly turned on the tap to cup many rounds of water into my mouth, to rinse it of the horrid smell? Or the way I pressed the toothpaste carelessly from the middle, let it rest on my forefinger, and rubbed all over my teeth and tongue before rinsing again to get rid of any trace of vomit? He was watching, smiling and I faced him after leaving the toilet. Was it my face then? What did it look like? He drove me crazy with his calm and surprising nature. I love him intensely.

The day I had Layla, I saw death lurking but I wasn’t ready, it couldn’t be my time. The pain blinded me; my legs were apart in a way that was impossible. Hours passed and I heard no cry. I thought of Allah, how he never leaves us. He was watching, I moved my lips. Thinking He wouldn’t answer me as I still pushed was not an option; if I die Jalaluddin would lose balance and my baby, she needed her mother.

The weakness was overwhelming as it competed with the terrific pain. The next thing I saw was nothing.

 My eyes opened at the sound of her tears. I knew my soul nearly left my body but prayer changes destiny. It is so mysterious. I held her in my arms for about a minute before I passed out.

*

I’ve been watching her for years; all the details on her face, I have memorized. Her right palm cupped some water. She washed her face once, twice, thrice. It brightened somehow, as if the moon found a home for its glow. My Layla. We gave her a Yoruba name too, Imole, it means light.

There was something about her bending posture that took me years back to the look in his eyes as I rose after failing to find my earring. The grass must have swallowed it. I pressed my fingers to my ear covered under my burgundy scarf, mourning its loss. He shouldn’t have been there, with those questioning eyes staring down at me. I felt bare being scrutinized that way. Later, I would come to know that it was just my mind fumbling because Jalaluddin was being himself, ever collected and full of depth.

“You’re looking for this?” He stretched out his arm. His hair was thick, full and very neat. I realized his face was impassive as he held out my earring to me. Was he a guest of the bride or groom? I was Khadija’s Chief Bridesmaid. Unknowing to me then, I would even birth Layla months after she would have Kawther. I and Jalaluddin didn’t waste time with our courtship.

“Yes. Thanks.” I picked it up gently and dived my hands under my scarf in a struggle to hook the pearl earring back on.

“You are welcome. . .Can I know your name please?” His smile was genuine, it changed the look on his face immediately from impassive to wholesomely interested. That was how it started, our story.

She was done with her ablution. Her smirk drew his lips to my mind, the fullness of it. “Done. Your turn.”

“Alright, your highness.” I teased and stretched my lips harder, trying so hard like Jalaluddin advised to get her to loosen up and be comfortable with me again. He has told me that I can’t fight fire with fire and Layla’s case needs wisdom to address not noise. She didn’t even say anything; her wet legs made way for me to perform my ablution next to the running water.

“You should have locked the tap.” I mumbled.

“Oh. Sorry.”

She at least has my attitude but cunningly, like she made a deal with Jalal in my womb, she got his dark brown skin shade, deep brown eyes and its size, full lashes and long curvy nose. His female version. They did it to make me jealous. I, who went through hell in the labour room and nearly died.

She’s gorgeous, and I’ve a desperate desire to protect her from the evil of the world. I was twenty when I took in with Layla. She talks to her father – even if it’s just surface things – but avoids me somehow, I really don’t understand. That is why I’m pleased he’s out of the country on a business trip so I can mend things with her.

We prayed our solatul dhuhr and after we did our supplication, Layla immediately got up to grab her phone, her thumb rapidly tapped the phone screen as she strutted out of my room.

*

The withdrawal isn’t new to me; it’s a strategy she uses to push me out of her worldly affairs. I’ve tried to avoid any rift with her. The last one we had still hangs in the air boldly, reminding us that there’s a certain barrier we shouldn’t cross. Jalaluddin’s head has been tossed from mother to daughter in his role of being the mediator. I hurl words intended to make her wake up from her blindness but she takes them as jealousy and envy of her youth and independence. She, in turn utters words doused in anger and bitterness. I never forget the sentences her mouth forms when she speaks back, calmly and nonchalantly.

“You’ve your many clients as a psychologist but I’m not one, Mum.”

“You’re obsessed with me. Focus on your own self for Allah’s sake, Mum.”

“I’m too busy reading chains of words in gigantic books to bother about your own words, Mum.”

They always end in ‘Mum’, like some sort of reminder that she acknowledges that I gave birth to her but it ends there; her life is now hers to live. How can I let her have her head in those notions without speaking? Her next move scares me and I’m right to be afraid. Layla is experimental and too inquisitive to stop. She wants to try it all and be certain of what is right and what is wrong. Jalaluddin’s worry is well handled by him. He prays for her, gently speaks with her, they communicate, even if it’s still futile. She loves him. Me? She has shut out like a stranger.

It was that incident. The one where she was chatting with Kawther about her relationship with a guy named Damola, and her curiosity on sex. According to her, a woman is entitled to her body and can give it to whoever she deems fit, before or after nikaah. My daughter’s words froze me as I invaded her privacy and read her chats. Kawther was hellbent on explaining to her why it is absolutely haram to commit zina, any kind, as long as it leads to zina of the private parts but Layla said she was in love and in a relationship with Damola. A few more chats and I discovered that Damola is a tag bearing Muslim, who doesn’t practise and has irrational beliefs. He’s a final year Law student. Layla must have met him easily since they’re in the same department. Layla stubbornly told Kawther she wasn’t giving what they have up, even if it means to let him sleep with her.

My Layla, a 200 level Law student, the president of a book club that’s fast rising, almost eighteen. She no longer is the candy floss loving five year old, the desperate date palm chewing seven year old, the one who has memorized the entire Qur’an at the age of twelve, the queen of hadith references ever since the age of fifteen that I see when I stare at her for so long, but I swear by Allah that I would rather have it that way in this phase. She has evolved into someone I don’t recognize and can’t reach.

I and Jalaluddin have tried for years to have another child but failed. The pressure from his parents sicken me, they say one child is a risk in the parenting department, and that he needs a male child anyway. Muslim or not, culture flows in the blood of our family members and their stereotypic reasoning have shaken our marriage. We are Muslims; he is open to polygamy but how can I share him? Would he even dare marry another woman especially now that our daughter is derailing? Wouldn’t that be a selfish reason for him to?

I remember yelling her name after reading messages poisonous enough to kill me. She clapped to remind me she was in the bathroom. I couldn’t take it. My upper body heaved as I took in breaths. When she was out, I saw coldness in her eyes as they fell on my hands.

“What are you doing with my phone?”

“What do you think?” I shot back. “Layla so this is it? This is all the trash in your head?”

She bit her lower lip and dried her arms with the towel before turning to her left to face the mirror on the wall. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I rambled about the guy named Damola, his beliefs affecting hers. She shrugged and said she didn’t mean it. Kawther had successfully talked her out of it and she would break up with him. Something about how she untangled her hair, stood with legs apart and examined her face in the mirror, completely neglecting me, convinced me she was just saying that to shut me up.

“Don’t worry, it’ll be over soon. Happy now?”

“Are you playing with my intelligence?”

My own daughter looked at me condescendingly from head to toe. “You’re the psychologist here, you should know, Mum.”

I dashed at her and struck her face with a heavy fall of my hand. It was then that an invisible barrier lived between us.

*

The Amala and Ewedu looked like art on our plates after I dished them. She was still locked up in her room, probably lamenting as to why Nigerian Universities were on strike because living with her parents had become a strain on her. After our row last week, the one in which I slapped her hard, she left the house and didn’t come back until the next day, and said she slept at Kawther’s. We believed her. Jalaluddin told her she was grounded;  no leaving the house until further notice. She scowled, folded her arms and ran to her room, slammed the door.

“She gives me so much concern.” I buried my head in his chest as I wept. His fingers stroked my hair while he said soothing words then started reciting my favourite verses from the Qur’an.

“Nima, Layla is our gift and this stage is a test. We have to be strong.”

I raised my head from his chest and locked eyes with him. “You’re not going to marry another woman, are you? You’re not going to get frustrated and start over with another woman?”

“What does another woman have to do with this?”

“You’re answering my question with a question Jalaluddin.”

He didn’t let me go as I struggled away from his hold but drew me closer. “I know you’re worried about Layla, not being able to conceive again, my family, and my future actions but I’m not interested in another woman Nima, only you.”

“I love you.” I embraced him, wrapping my arms around his neck while he rubbed my back.

“I love you too.”

I covered our lunch with flat ceramic plates and said a short prayer before climbing the stairs to Layla’s room. I tapped on the door of her room twice. The cream lacquered door and my left palm bonded as I rested it for a bit before knocking.

“Darling, lunch is ready.”

“I’m not hungry.” Her voice bounced to me outside the door.

I sighed. She should have opened the door before replying. “Open up Layla. We need to talk.”

It must have taken her a lot of courage to open up. My legs were already aching as all I needed was to eat and sleep today being a Saturday. I took steps into her room; it was a mess. Several clothes were scattered on the bed, you couldn’t even see the bedspread, there were biscuit wraps littered on the persian rug, her scarves laid on the dresser and it was then I saw it; the broken mirror above her dresser with glass shards on the ground. Layla folded her arms across her chest, there were cuts on them.

I grabbed her hands immediately, tears welled up in my eyes. “Imole mi, please talk to me, what’s wrong?”

“I don’t want a session Mum, I’m alright.”

“Stop this. Talk to me, I need you to speak Layla. Something is wrong, what is it?” I pulled her face to mine, she was crying now.

“I’m filth. I’m filth now.” She covered her face and let out an ear piercing scream then crashed to the floor. I held her, dragged her upper body to mine and gave her the hug I always wanted to.

“Let it out. I’m your mother and I love you no matter what.”

“I did it Mum.” She sniffed, avoided my eyes. “The day I stormed off, I did it.” Her hands covered her face again. “I slept with Damola before going over to Kawther’s. I’ve committed zina.”

This couldn’t be happening to me. When I was seventeen, my mind was on making a first class degree in psychology, working on my cooking skills, memorizing more chapters of the Qur’an. I knew the rules and followed them. Allah made them easy for me. I corrected my parents and taught them more about the sunnah, gave sisters advice on handling feelings for the opposite sex. None of my friends got married not being a virgin. It came easy to us. We had a motto then, ‘He’s so fine but he ain’t Jannah’. Our focus was on Allah, our Lord and anything so worldly that got to us, I and the girls tagged it as ‘dunya shenanigans’, it would soon fade, nothing was permanent. Now my own daughter, who had easy access to knowledge of the deen way earlier than I did had done the worst to her soul.

“You hate me now, don’t you?” She stood slowly, wiped her face. “I’m not the daughter you prayed for.”

Silence paralyzed my tongue. She made her choice and has no excuse. It’s grievous how she gave herself to a man who isn’t worth it in any way. I wanted Layla to have double of the knowledge and experience in Islam that in had at that age. I kept feeding her not knowing she was saturated. I should have paused, let her take as much as she could. Of what use is it to memorize the entire Qur’an and not apply its lessons? What did Layla want to prove when she ran into the arms of the devil because I hit her? Would she have not made the decisions she made had I been lenient? No. She knows what’s right from wrong but a mother’s love defies all reason.

Layla was facing the window while I imagined how that man buried himself in her, took advantage of the darkness in her soul. My first time was created out of love and hers, a period of abyssal. “Are you sorry?”

She turned slowly, unbelievably. “Sorry?”

“Do you regret what you’ve done Layla? Do you see it now? Have you satisfied yourself?” I didn’t want to sound mean but I had to know, sentiments aside, if she was ready to seek forgiveness or was still being stubborn.

Her whisper came. “Would Allah forgive me?” Layla made a move, as if to walk towards me but changed her mind.

“If you sincerely repent…” I wanted better for her. Several times I told her of I and Jalaluddin, how it was new to us both but our bodies learnt. She should have experienced it that way. Not like this. “If you’re sincere, and drop him, drop it all, strive to be better, never go back to all of that, Allah would forgive you.” I looked away; my imagination couldn’t be suppressed. I saw her under him while he took her innocence, and she let out cries, probably wanted him to stop but he didn’t. It was too late. “We aren’t infallible Layla, we all get wild thoughts, but we must weigh the consequences before carrying them out becomes a consideration.”

“I’m so sorry Mum. I’m so sorry.” She fell on her knees in shame, pressed her fingers on the carpet and shook her head vigorously. I wasn’t prepared for this but neither was I prepared to fall effortlessly in love with Jalaluddin. Layla is of us, part of me and him, and I would love her, come lightning, come thunder.

“Did he hurt you?” My eyes reddened. I walked up to her, ran my fingers from her shoulders to her elbow.

“Oh mum!” She heaved and sobbed, opened her mouth, shut it.

I pulled her to my chest. “You deserve better, you do.” Layla had done the most but has now reached her breaking point. I want her to discover the blessings in rules, the gifts of what is halal and know before even thinking of the brief pleasures of haram, that it is a ball of curses that brings nothing but an overdose of bitterness, regrets and pain in the end.

Aisha Oredola has been published in The African Writers review, Freedom Magazine, Kalahari Review, Fitrah Review, Lion & Lilac, Quills Journal and Elsewhere. She was longlisted for the 2019 Collins Elesiro Prize and won the 2020 Panacea Essay and Short Story Contest. ‘Rid Me Of This’, is her debut novel.