Bridelike

By Peace Nkeiruka Maduako

Raliya, thirteen years old, stood in front of the famous boutique in the village, staring in through the glass door at the knitted white woolen skirt patterned with navy blue streaks. It had a high waistband knitted with navy blue wool and a hem finished with short frills, a mix of blue and white. Raliya thought that it was the most beautiful skirt she had ever seen. But it was expensive too; she knew she could never own it. So every morning, as she strolled through the market with the cool morning breeze blowing over her face, she’d stop and look again at her favourite skirt and dream of how she’d look.

Lost, staring into the shop, Raliya didn’t notice when the shop owner, Alhaji Sule, came to stand at the window to watch her. “Raliya,” he called. Shocked to see him, Raliya lifted her woven basket to her head and ran away towards the river. “Raliya!” Sule called, stepping out of the shop; he didn’t mean to scare the girl away. He watched her as she ran, her flowing skirt blowing about her in the breeze, held tightly around her waist with a red cloth that matched the scarf tied around her head. He smiled. Raliya knew better than to stand staring into anyone’s shop early in the morning without the intention of buying anything; besides that, she despised Sule. She felt he was an ugly and greedy old man, taking his late brother’s possessions by force from the poor widow left behind. He was rich, owned the biggest boutique in the village, and sold expensive woolen dresses to whoever could afford them.

#

Raliya fanned the flame in the firewood under the iron gauze on which she smoked her fresh fish. She sat on the bench and waved her hand over the basket to chase away the flies perching on the fish. She was sitting only a few feet from the river bank. She sold fish, fresh, dried, smoked, and any other way the people wanted to buy it. She smiled as she watched Sadiq row his canoe to the bank and alight with his fish net over his shoulder and a spear in his hand. He came to Raliya.

“Little sister,” he started. “I’ve got three more fish,” he said, lowering the net into the basket. “You smoke them too slowly, Raliya,” he added, poking the fish on the gauze. Raliya rolled her eyeballs as she bent over to inspect the fresh fish.

“Why don’t we switch places? You smoke the fish and sell, and I take the canoe to catch fish.”

Sadiq chuckled. “You’re a little girl; you can’t take a canoe to catch fish. There could be a water snake out there. I killed one in the boat one morning. It could swim into your net and bite you. Fishing is for brave people,” he said, posing like a hero as he looked back towards other young men rowing in the river. “The water is not as friendly as it looks. The current is stronger when you’re rowing.” He put his hand in the side pocket of his shorts. His legs dripped with water.

“Why don’t you teach me to fish then? I’d be the first girl to fish in the village.”

“Nonsense. Just stick to smoking, drying, and selling,” Sadiq answered as he took the net and walked back to his canoe. Raliya looked at him angrily. The back of his shirt was torn, and she could see his bare skin. She thought he was proud. If he weren’t catching her fish, she wouldn’t talk to him even though he was her cousin. She shook her head.

#

The sun was setting by the riverside, and the cold breeze blew over the water's surface as fishermen pulled their canoes to the sand. They packed their nets and cleaned them for the day.

Sadiq sat on the bench with Raliya, eating the fish she had dried. “How much did you make today?” He asked, taking the pause in which she kept the money.

“Stop. I’ll give you your share, alright?”

“How do I know you don’t cheat me since I don’t get to see the whole money first?”

“Don’t you trust me?” Raliya asked rhetorically, throwing the pause into the empty basket. “Let’s go home.”

After parting with Sadiq at his house and giving him his share of the money, Raliya carried the basket containing only one unsold smoked fish on her head and walked home through the market. Getting to the front of Sule’s boutique, she looked through the door again and was shocked to find that the woolen skirt was not there. Her heart skipped a beat as she looked around the shop several times and couldn’t find the skirt anywhere. Then it hit her, someone must have bought it! Her heart sank. With misty eyes, she walked home. Will she ever own a shirt like that for herself?  She thought.

Setting the basket beside the stove in the kitchen, Raliya retired to her room feeling depressed. She sat on the stool beside her bed and loosed the red scarf on her head. “Amaria!” Amra’s voice shouted behind her. She jolted in surprise.

“You scared me,” she turned around to face Amra, her eldest sister, the one who’d been caring for her ever since their mother died when Raliya was a baby. Amra sat on the bed, beaming from ear to ear as Raliya stared at her in the light of the lantern beside the door. Amra showed Raliya the wrapped gift in her hand, and Raliya sighed, thinking it was one of the regular gifts Amra often received from her numerous boyfriends ever since her husband had passed on.

“It’s for you,” Amra said with a grin.

“Really?” Raliya dived onto the bed and grabbed it. Too excited to think, she quickly unwrapped it. She had never received a gift before. The missing woolen skirt from Sule’s boutique unfolded under the shiny wrappings. She gasped. She screamed. She hugged Amra. Her dream had come true! She kissed the skirt and jumped to her feet. Amra laughed as she watched Raliya impatiently take off her old skirt and put on the woolen skirt. She admired herself as the skirt clung to her waist, revealing her curvy figure.

“Alhaji Sule brought it for you,” Amra said. Raliya froze; her excitement disappeared. She stared at Amra, who gently sat up. “He wants a new amaria. You’re getting married. Aren’t you so lucky? He’s so rich; if my husband were that rich, we wouldn’t be in this poverty right now.”

“No!” Raliya shouted. She stomped her foot on the cement floor. “I cannot marry Alhaji Sule! He’s old and ugly; I hate him!” she fell to her knees. “Please don’t do this to me, sister,” she pleaded.

“What do you mean?” Amra got up to her feet. “You’re not the one whose husband is dead or the one who has to sleep with men to feed her fatherless children. Shut up, Raliya. Alhaji Sule is a good man who’ll bring good fortune to our family.”

“Sister, please... I don’t like him,” Raliya pleaded. Amra looked her over angrily, walked to the door, and looked back at Raliya.

“He’s coming on Saturday to take you. You don’t have a choice. Prepare yourself,” she said before leaving the room. Raliya threw herself on the floor and cried. She rolled, hitting the brown carton box in the corner; the things in it rattled. Angrily, she kicked it again, sending it tumbling over and spreading its contents all over the floor. She stopped and looked at the items littered on the floor. The breeze blew in through the window and swept over her face. She sat up and looked at the woolen skirt on her waist. She began to fiddle with the frills on the hem and glide her palm over the navy blue streaks. Thoughts ran through her head; she reached for her red scarf and tied it back on her head. She looked out the window, enjoying the passing seconds of being in the skirt of her dreams.

#

The next morning, Raliya did not come to the kitchen for breakfast and headed to the river as usual. Amra went to her room to wake her, knowing she must be upset and so must be pretending to sleep in. Standing at the room door, she was surprised to find that the lantern was still burning, things were littered on the floor, the empty carton was upside-down, and Raliya was not in bed. When she saw that the woolen skirt was missing, it dawned on her that Raliya had run away.

Alarmed and confused, Amra ran to Sadiq’s house, but Raliya was not there. Raliya was nowhere to be found. Amra could not forgive herself. She ran to Sule’s boutique, cried, and broke down by the glass door. Sadiq ran to check by the river where Raliya sold fish. Upon getting there, Raliya was not there, nor was his canoe. The canoe was missing, and Raliya’s red scarf floated on the water, drifting towards the bank. 

The news spread quickly, and many who knew Raliya were rushing to the riverside. Sadiq walked up to the older fishermen. “We should check the river bottom,” he said. He looked out to the water. “She couldn’t have gone far. The current is strongest where the river is deepest. Let’s row over and dive in; she must have lost control of the canoe and sunk.” The men wanted to tell Sadiq that even if she was there, she was dead and would float in a day, but they just agreed; Raliya was like a sister to them, too. They rowed in on a canoe. They tied a rope to one of the strongest swimmers and let him dive in. After about half an hour of searching, they found a body and got it out. It was Raliya; the woolen skirt was still on her waist, and she looked so peaceful, even in death.

#

Amra walked to the backyard, wiping her wet hand on the wrapper around her waist. She touched the woolen skirt spread out on the line to dry. She felt the smooth, crispy feeling of the needlework. She took it up and folded it neatly; it had grown dear to her ever since the fishermen brought Raliya’s body to her while she wept on Sule’s boutique doorstep. Raliya died to have that skirt because she would not marry Sule. Sule stood there staring without empathy at the dead body in Amra’s arms, and all he could say was that payment would have to be made for the skirt since no bride was given to him. Placing the skirt against her cheek, tears filled her eyes as she looked towards the grave where Raliya was put to rest. Amra wiped her tears when her children playfully ran into the backyard. She put the skirt over her shoulder and turned to enter the house. Standing in the middle of Raliya’s room, she looked around and stopped at the brown carton box put away in the corner. She squatted beside it and looked through its contents. Raliya had put away a few things in that box: a damaged fish hook, four smooth pebbles, needles, old safety pins, a coin, a pencil, sheets of paper with sketches of a girl rowing a canoe, a matchbox. Who knew? Maybe it was Raliya’s dream to row a canoe. And she did. Amra neatly put the skirt in the carton, too.

In the evening, Sadiq stood at Amra’s door and knocked. His eyes widened expectantly when the handle turned. Amra opened the door, and his eyes narrowed. Somehow, each time he came by, he’d hoped that Raliya was not dead; she was not in the grave. She was at home and would see him through the window and run to open the door to him as before–his ambitious little cousin sister. He stared at Amra for a second.

“Are you well, Sadiq?” She asked him. He blinked, letting his hopes fade away into reality.

“Yes, I brought you fish,” he said, lowering the basket to show her a few fresh fish. Amra’s heart skipped. Raliya used to bring smoked fish home. Amra preferred her smoked fish to the fresh ones Sadiq often brought. She would prefer he didn’t bring them; it reminded her of Raliya too deeply. But Sadiq only brought them because he didn’t want Amra to feel Raliya’s absence too strongly.

“Thank you, Sadiq, you’re very thoughtful,” she told him. He smiled.

“I thought I should give you some money, too,” Sadiq added, dipping his hand into his wet side pocket.

“No, no. I’m alright. Would you come in and have soup with us? You should stay with us sometimes. I’d love to have you here,” Amra lied. Each time she saw him, she remembered Raliya. She hated to see him. It wasn’t his fault; she hoped she would get over it.

“Oh. I have work to do at the river and my father’s wood shed. My father says I’m a man now. I have to think about my future,” Sadiq said, posing again. Suddenly, he remembered something. He drew closer to whisper to Amra, “Have you noticed that people avoid the boutique now?” He asked.

“They should. Alhaji Sule is a brute.”

“I hear he’s been doing prayers for the dead. Maybe Raliya and his late brother haunt him in his sleep. I hope his boutique doesn’t close down,” Sadiq said. A flush of anger came over Amra. She stared at him.

“You hope what? If that’s how you feel, I think you should go now!” she blurted, turning to enter the house and slamming the door. Sadiq stood flummoxed, the fish he brought still in his basket. 

Amra gnashed her teeth behind the door, her heart beating fast for a few seconds. She heard Sadiq’s footsteps leave the door and felt remorse for yelling at the poor boy. He was nothing but a good soul. Spinning around to open the door, she hoped he hadn’t gone far, but he was already out of sight. She looked around and shut the door again. Loosening the wrapper on her waist, she wrapped it around herself again and tightened it. Someone knocked on the door. She opened it quickly, thinking Sadiq had returned to give her the fish, but it wasn’t him. Alhaji Sule stood before her.

“I’ve reconsidered. You may keep the money; the skirt was a gift after all,” Sule said, standing at ease at Amra’s doorstep. His expensive staff pinned to the ground, and his greedy eyes avoiding her stern look as she stood before him.

“But why? Oh! You want your amaria instead? Come in and have her; she’s in the grave over here,” Amra responded disgustingly.

“I don’t want anything from you. It’s your fault anyway. You didn’t tell me your sister was crazy enough to disregard tradition. She looked like a promising bride, but she was not,” he said before stomping his staff on the ground and squeezing his wrinkly face as though Amra stunk. Amra gripped her chest in dismay.

“You’re a beast, Alhaji!” Amra cried. “You didn’t even attend her burial!” She pointed at him.

“Don’t point at me. Just tell your sister to let me be!”

“Never! You hear me? Never!” Amra yelled as he walked away.

#

It was true Alhaji Sule had lost his customers. He had lost his peace. Whenever he closed his eyes, he’d see Raliya in that woolen skirt, in his dreams, in the dark corners of his house, behind every curtain. She was everywhere. He was jolting around all the time to find no one there, only the wind. He couldn’t sleep. He decided he would relocate his boutique or maybe stop selling woolen skirts. But before doing that, he would visit the sanctum to continue his prayers for protection. 

His babariga attire swept into the sanctum on a cool evening as the sun set in the sky. The wizard kept making incantations, waving brown sticks over a calabash filled with freshly slaughtered goatling’s blood. “Hmm!” He said, spitting into the blood.

“What? What do you see?” Sule asked anxiously. The wizard ignored him and began to jingle another calabash with red beads woven around it with strings, chanting loudly. Sule rolled up the sleeves of his robe and looked around again at the trinkets hanging down the shrine wall. A skull was there, too, staring right at Sule from a corner. His gaze returned to the chanting wizard whose voice grew only louder, his bare body oily and sweaty, glistening in the beam of light that came in through the little window.

“Aha! I see,” the wizard said, peering with wide eyes at the mysterious smoke rising from the calabash. “Dip and wash your hands in the blood,” he commanded Sule. Reluctantly, Sule obeyed. “The ancestors have accepted your sacrifice. The dead are appeased. You may go and return tomorrow with one more goat as a tribute to the ancestors.”

“I’m truly grateful. I will bring the goat first thing tomorrow morning,” Sule said, grinning with wrinkles over his aging face. The wizard brought forth a calabash of clean water for Sule to rinse his hands in. Happily, he left the sanctum to return to his boutique. 

As Sule turned a corner, he saw someone running towards him.

“Sule! Your boutique...” the man panted.

“What? Ehen? Talk, what happened? Do I have a customer?”

“No, no. Your boutique... Your boutique is on fire.”

“No!” Sule jumped. He picked up his robe in his hands and ran. “How can it be?!” He screamed, seeing the vehement flame consume the boutique in the distance. The people rallied around and poured buckets of water, but the fire did not give way quickly; it turned all the woolen dresses into crispy ash, and the wind lifted the ashes into the air. Amra sat quietly in the dark in a distant shop and watched the fire frenzy; the matchbox from Raliya’s collection was in her hand. Tradition was dead inside of her.


Biography
Peace Nkeiruka Maduako is a Nigerian fiction writer, poet, and art lover who could spend all morning sipping tea and admiring artworks. Her works have been featured in Callapress, SweetycatPress anthologies, Confetti Magazine, SpillWords, Academy Of Heart And Mind, Kalahari Review, and more. She resides in Imo, Nigeria.