The hustle and bustle of the city pulsated relentlessly, and amidst the buzz of querulous haggling, blaring of horns, whizz of vehicles as they passed by, dust and exhaust fumes trailing as they speedily went, Huma nestled in the comfort of her father's new car-his very first.

Despite the persistence of the noise while her eyes shut in respite, she basked in the tranquility that possessed her mind in the darkness as she meditated her breath.

A lot had happened over the years: the good, the bad, and the ugly, but mostly the good. It had been a most auspicious time for her family, surmounting dogged hardship and surpassing expectations to be blessed abundantly, enough to afford charitable intentions. Now they helped instead, mitigating the suffering of others--a common burden--because their period of lack had been humbling unto compassion and empathy.

Brisk footsteps sounded outside, drifting into her hearing, and she rolled her eyes under dropping lids to the rearview mirror, and watched her father stomp his feet on the tarred road as he approached, clutching a black nylon bag in one hand and hiking up his jalabiya with the other.

She rolled her head on the headrest when the door snapped open, and folding the overflowing gown across his legs, he dropped into his seat, then stuck out a hand and reached up to the roof of the car.

The bag crackled as he grabbed it and twisted in his seat to place it in the backseat, and leaning forward, he slammed the door shut.

Huma noted the beads of sweat coating his forehead, the bridge of his nose and upper lip, and smiled to herself, knowing the reason behind his hassle.

He dug into a pocket of his shirt and wriggled out a handkerchief. "Your grandmother's bitter kola-I almost forgot. You marry a woman and her relatives will bleed you dry." He muttered, taking off his finely embroidered Kufi cap and wiping his guzzled head. "Bringer of happiness indeed! That woman is a terror!"

Laughter bubbled in her throat and folding in her lips to repress the urge, she reached for her father's hand on his laps and squeezed reassuringly. He turned to her as he reciprocated, grasping briefly, his eyes haunted. Her lips trembled and Huma had to look away and stare out the window. If she wasn't careful, the laughter tickling her inside would erupt and her father wouldn't appreciate finding his distress a matter of entertainment.

Grandmother Jawaria, one who brings happiness, the name was nothing but ironical to him. Contrasting his disposition towards the old woman, Huma thought her vivacious and witty-she lit up the dreary nature of the place with her anecdotal stories, quipping retorts and fiery personality, and it was in that fire her father burned each time she 'graced' the household with her presence.

Her father had been pitiably improvised in his early beginnings, born to peasant farmers in their hometown, where he had grown with a hoe slung on a shoulder and a cutlass in hand.

Her mother had been one of those fair maidens books talked about were forbidden to certain unworthy folks, but that hadn't stopped the pursuits of many, especially him.

They had fallen in love once upon a guava tree.--typical love story. From what Huma knew, Grandma Jawaria had vehemently deplored their union-a struggling man could not ensnare her daughter in the name of love and keep her trapped in the maze of poverty forever.

"It will all end in tears", apparently her infamous phrase, was what she had purportedly foreseen after they had defied her and married against her wishes.

Even now, with their recent streak of good fortune, she still saw him as that same struggling man destined for terrible misfortunes. Her father thought her vain and appallingly materialistic, and hardly a virtuous muslim---Islam preached contentment in all things, and the woman was hardly that.

As the engine revved and the car rolled back into the road, Huma was reminded of the unfortunate circumstance surrounding her untimely visit: her uncle, Azeez( from her mother's side), died recently. He had been a policeman, shot dead by bandits--currently terrorizing towns and villages, wreaking havoc, in some parts of the country-- at his place of work when they had ambushed the nearby police station and opened fire, killing the policemen on duty before robbing a bank in the area. No one had been left alive-to Huma's knowledge, a novice officer, a young woman, who had just started working, yet to receive her first pay, had been killed as well.

Her uncle was never intimate with the family-although he had visited on rare occasions, like on salah days-but Huma had been disconcerted when she heard the news while away on internship in Ogun state. They had buried him immediately, as it was observed in Islam, and they hadn't informed her until it was time to return home. Along with the pleasant surprise of a new car, the new house (they had moved), her father had broached the news as he loaded her things into the boot of the car, dampening the good with the ugly.

The mourning period would end soon enough with thoughts of dear uncle transcending into paradise as it was believed. May Allah receive him with loving arms.

"Just six months," her father was saying as he veered a turn, eyes watching the road on both sides, before the car slid down into the second lane. "And look at you, back to your old self. You were so thin I began to wonder if you were seriously ill and refused to tell us. Do schools nowadays suck blood?" he shook his head while a wry smile played on his face. "Now you look well fed."

Blood surged to her face and a flush of embarrassment rose in her cheeks. And at that moment Huma was thankful for her caramel skin. Her cheeks grew hot and no one could tell but her. It had been a reinvigorating experience, her internship. It had been a challenge convincing her mother to let her travel after the school had placed her: it was too far away and I was compromised -a challenge she surmounted with her very supportive father.

Despite her flaw, she had been welcomed amicably by the workers and fellow interns; instead of being dismissive and unconcerned, they had ensured her rapt attention to certain operations executed, encouraged her to write out questions and have them promptly answered. As if by some stroke of serendipity, Mrs Ehana Abigail worked there as well.

It had been such a miraculous and incredibly pleasant discovery to see one of the few persons who had admonished and dispelled her doubts and inspired her altogether.

Under her tutelage, Huma had striven harder and earned a place as one of their most committed and hardworking interns, the supervisor's lavish words lauded her efforts, officially recommending her to the company on return when she came job hunting and bestowing her cash rewards.

Although, she had met people and failed to establish any meaningful contact, seeing Mrs Ehana had been more than enough to keep her consoled.

Upfront vehicles lined up, stopped by the traffic lights, and the car slowly ground to a halt. Hustlers who had been on the prowl, loitering the pavement, their wares on display on various forms of carriage, hemmed in, taking advantage of the traffic jam.

By Huma's window, an elderly merchant hoping to peddle his wares peered in with a crooked smile on his weathered face. He was dressed in the same outfit as her father and on one of his hand was a compartmented structure in which tawdry jewellries hung and glinted in the sunlight.

"As-salam-u-Alaikum," the man greeted cheerily like he was having the time of his life baking in the scorching heat.

"Wa-Alaikumussalam wa-Rahmatullah," Huma's father responded in tune, hunching forward in his seat to wave at the man.

The man then thrust his collection forward, mumbling imploringly. Huma saw her father shake his head at the offers, and noticed the almost imperceptible fall of the man's face and his demeanour dampen, and even though she didn't wear any form of jewelry, she dipped a hand into the sparkling array and took out a bracelet of wooden beads.

The man's face lit up with gratitude, and Huma beamed as she handed him the dickered price, tucking the beads into her purse

"Na gode." With a grateful smile, he rushed away, a leap to his hurried strides as he sought out other potential buyers.

"Seems like you made someone's day today," her father remarked, amused. "You paid too much."

It didn't matter if she did, because she could afford to. On the flash of the green light, the line let up and they were once again moving unhindered. It was a smooth ride until the car horn was blaring in front of an enormous, ornate gate.

Huma watched with wide eyes, awestruck, as the gate was unlatched and swung open by a uniformed man. As they drifted in, the gateman-because that was what he was-waved enthusiastically at her, barring his teeth in an all too sincere smile, but Huma just stared, nonplussed, as he slid out of view.

"Here we are," her father announced and got of the car.

Huma remained glued to her seat, her heart swelling in her chest, her eyes seeing but not believing.

Behind the car, her father popped the boot and carefully hefted her luggage unto the ground, then beckoned to the lingering gateman to help move the things into the house.

Clutching her purse on her laps, Huma fought a savage battle with disbelief, blinking furiously as she registered her new home. The abode was anything but humble; assorted plants decorated carpet grassed grounds, lacing the surrounding walls; the marble floor stretched expansively to all sides; and there, at the centre, like the pinnacle of creation, undisputedly defying her disbelief, a palatial duplex towered, the architectural work and lustrous colours blending magnificiently to exude a feel of imperial elegance.

We have a place!

She squealed in her head. It's not a dream. Of course, she had pinched herself in an effort to shatter the conjured image. With a hand that trembled, she grabbed her purse and climbed out of the car, placing one foot on the floor, and assured of its solidity, dropped the other.

Like one in a daze, Huma walked to join her father and the gateman at the door where they battled with her luggage, revolving and darting her gaze this way and that, in awe.

"Auntie!Auntie!"

Two children, a boy and a girl, charged at her as she entered and stepped into the living room, leaving her things in the capable hands of the obsequious gateman whom assured her of having it safely deposited in her room.

She didn't have enough time to fill her eyes with surreal beauty of the place as they clutched her legs affectionately and capered about her clamouring for attention.

Huma recognized Mohammed, a rather troublesome, rambunctious nine-year old, and Khadija, his capricious, equally rambunctious seven-year old sister: Her bittersweet cousins who called her auntie, regardless-to them every one was either 'auntie' or 'brother'. Huma squatted and hugged them to her sides. These ones she was familiar with.

"What did you bring for us?" Mohammed asked when Huma released them, eyes shining eagerly.

And straight to the goodies.....

Her father walked past, nylon in hand, and disappeared inside, she guessed, before he was interrogated for sweets. Or was it something else?

Khadija pulled her hijab back properly on her head and stuck a finger in her mouth, and like her brother, gazed expectantly.

"Someone just arrived from a long trip, and the first thing you do is ask for yeye sweets and biscuits." A disembodied voice queried. "You can't allow her rest first? Did your mother not teach you anything?"

The children pouted and stepped aside and Huma looked up, smiling and rising as her grandmother, Jawaria, entered the room from the door her father had vanished through. The old woman of sixty-seven had a remonstrating scowl on her face directed at the children, which immediately dissolved as her wrinkled face contorted with a whole hearted smile on seeing Huma, a long awaited sight.

Jawaria was there one moment and the next, in a flurry of creamy white, Huma was engulfed in a bear hug by the much bigger woman, the scarf wrapping her head brushing roughly against Huma's cheek. It was divinely miraculous how agile and energetic she was. The woman crooned as she rubbed Huma's back in the affectionate way a mother would rub a baby. Her father had thought she would drop dead before the age of seventy, but here she was, hale and hearty and full of life-the old bird wasn't going anywhere.

Huma winked cryptically at the kids from over the woman's shoulder, and they shared a secret smile before scampering out.

"Look at you!" Jawaria exclaimed in a voice cracked with age as she drew Huma from her and inspected with rheumy eyes, turning her this way and that so that she could get a better look.

Jawaria had refused the prescribed lens by the optometrist, claiming her eyes worked just fine; even if the cost would have been her father's "obligatory" duty to an elderly woman and "loving" duty of a son-in-law, she had insisted vehemently against it.

"You are just glowing! What did you eat over there? " she asked, hugging Huma to her side as they walked together, deeper into the house. "You must tell me. Let me eat good food and outlive my enemies."

Huma chuckled. It was good to be back.

Almost.

****************

Of all the great changes that overwhelmed Huma on arrival, the highly anticipated was her new room in this strange, ethereal house.

What did they do? What did her mother do? As luck would have it, her mother was out, food hunting. It was a relief to know: before her joyous mood dampened, she would love to have a moment to breathe, to feel, to think.....to rest, without the harping and harrowing.

Standing at the centre of her room, her bare feet cushioned by the fluffy, grassy feel of the fitted, black spotted rug , her luxuriant room surrounded her, and even if the air was tinged with its foreign smell, she felt the warmth, the friendliness, the coziness.

It felt like......home.

Her walls were painted sky blue, and on them her drawings were plastered in no ordered fashion-just like how they had been at their house. Former house, a house that was now abandoned history among a dusty collection-she corrected.

Here, she had her own bed, complete with pillows and a duvet-she had never used bed covers before, just worn out wrapper to shield herself from blood hungry mosquitoes-and she didn't have to share with her mother.

There was a chest of drawers beside the bed. To her right was a full-length mirror---no more rummaging her purse for broken shards. There was a dressing table in front of her with its mirror, in which her washed out face reflected, and a stool. A built in wardrobe was to her left and a door just next to it.

That must be the ensuite..

Her luggage was on the floor next to exit/entry door. Exhausted and famished, she thought to leave unpacking for tomorrow. Pulling off her hijab, she sighed as cool air fanned her hot, sticky skin, and then swiftly peeled of her sweat drenched Abaya, loose trousers and underwear.

Naked, she glowed in the gold of sunlight as she moved to the wardrobe, tracing her fingers admirably along the edges before swinging the doors open.

A single bag was inside, and she guessed it to contain her house clothes. Towels hung and suspended from hangers, and she grabbed one and wrapped it around her body, smiling at the way it coated and brushed her skin-she had never used a towel before.

Huma took her time exploring her way into the bathroom where she marveled at the pristine whiteness of the tiled walls, the white contrasting the deep blue of the floors. Hands to her cheeks, her eyes and lips rounded as she took in the bath, the shower cubicle, the toilet, the hanging bathrobe, the cabinet.

Wow...

They had a shower cubicle and a bath? They had a shower cubicle and a bath!

No more bathing from a bucket outside the house.

Quickly, as if it would all disappear if she so much as blinked, she flung her towel into the air, dashed into the cubicle and turned on the shower that rained warm and cool drops, pelting her skin, and she relaxed into the pleasing sensation, closing her eyes and being careful not to put her head directly under the shower head. A shudder slithered through her body and she smiled as water washed her clean.

It was bliss. Allah be praised.

After a long, satisfying bath, she stepped out, her body dripping, and bent to retrieve the carelessly tossed towel on the floor, wrapped it around herself and padded into her room through the open door. She had forgotten to close it-oh, the charm of new things.

Patting her body dry, she reached into the bag in the open wardrobe and picked out clean loose trousers, a matching long-sleeved shirt, and a flower patterned scarf. Donning them on, she moved to the dresser and sat adjusting the scarf, tying and retying, until she was satisfied with the way it looked.

Downstairs she heard the gleeful laughter of her cousins, and knew what it meant. Huma expelled deeply. Her mother was back.

Mean while, Zainab walked gingerly through the children who sat on the floor, their clamourings appeased by the muffin cakes she had fortified herself with, having preempted what would happen on her arrival. These children were beginning to give her nagging worries.

Her daughter was back. Zainab knew that. Huma would have to wait. A nylon bag in hand, she hiked up the bottom of her Jilbab as she trod to the living room, the bag rustling as it collided with her legs and bounced off as she moved, her nose crinkling under her glasses.

Her intention was to talk with her mother about the outcome of her errands, and she knew she would be in the living room watching a nollywood movie at this time of the day.

"Ngwao, Oyam." Zainab greeted in ebira on entry.

Jawaria who had been engrossed in the ongoing movie on the screen glanced up from where she sat, all encompassing, and leisurely reclined in the couch placed at a distance beside the television. "Finally, you are back-my daughter that wants to kill me with hunger. You know I am an old woman and I can just drop dead at any moment. We just lost your brother, do you want to usher me on my way as well?"

Zainab, weary from visits, was languid as she trudged to occupy a seat opposite her mother. The grief of her brother's loss tugged at her heart but she kept faith that he was in a better place.

When she had slumped down and removed her glasses, replacing them in the case, she mumbled an apology, which was lost in the heated dialogue of the actors.

"So, how did it go?" Jawaria inquired absently, eyes transfixed on the screen.

"Quite well," Zainab breathed. "I took her picture to the interested potential suitors." Reaching into the nylon, she produced three pictures and passed it to her mother.

Jawaria's eyes were still glued to television as she groped at the pictures Zainab proffered. Now in her gnarled hands, and with great reluctance, she dragged her eyes to the pictures, which she viewed at an altered reading distance with derisive snorts jerking her head as she inspected each one.

"Look at this one," she held out the picture of a man probably in his late sixties for Zainab to see. "At what? Sixty-nine? Seventy? He is still chasing after girls. Does he not know his clock is ticking to a stop? His mates are preparing how to die properly, and he is here, after nine wives, that ugly nose is still sniffing for fresh fish."

Zainab gave her mother a reproachful look and said nothing.

Just then, Huma sidled into the room, timidly watching both women as she went to take a seat next to her grandmother.

She wanted to greet when she noticed her mother's watchful gaze following her, but life doesn't always grant wants.

Jawaria's face erupted into a smile, her wrinkled face stretching, as Huma sat beside her and she picked up the remote controller from where it lay on top of a stool and pressed down the volume of the television.

" Huma! Huma!" Jawaria chirped and Huma's face broke into an embarrassed smile, her brows creasing. " Huma is a fine girl, iya iya o." She crooned.

Zainab remained quiet but observant.

Huma noticed the pictures in Jawaria's hand and her smile dampened a bit.

"These are the men seeking your hand." Jawaria said, handing the pictures over and Huma grasped feebly as she took them. "Go on. Choose."

One by one, Huma assessed her would be husbands.

Picture one: A man, probably in his late thirties, stood smiling brightly in his native attire. His body was turned slightly to the side, and in his arms he held a squalling child attempting to flee from the scene-- Most likely a widower.

Picture two: A young man extravagantly dressed (by Islam standards) posed rakishly as he leaned out of a car, his face in a smoulder--- A question mark.

Picture: A man wearing a jalabiya and a Kufi hat, probably in his late sixties, sat in a chair, his hands clasped in front of him, the expression on his face told stories of experience and fruitful years-- husband to nine wives.

From where she sat, Zainab eyed her daughter, watching the play of expressions on her face. Huma held out the picture of the a face she couldn't place to the view of the women, waving it in a questioning way.

"That is Idowu," Zainab answered.

"Don't go for that yahoo boy," Jawaria admonished with a shake of her head. "Don't look at me like that." She remonstrated when Zainab's face contorted scornfully.

"When you just called the young man a criminal?!"

"What is the source of his wealth, then?"

"He is an importer and exporter,"

"Of people's money, abi? Exporting from their bank accounts and importing into his. It's called fraud, you naive little thing."

Zainab scowled, squirming in her chair disagreeably.

Her mother chuckled mirthlessly. "Is it until he uses your daughter for rituals? What an elder sees sitting down, a child, even if he were to climb the tallest tree, will not see it."

With the adage, she looked at Huma askance."I say choose the old goat." Jawaria said out of the corners of her mouth. "He will kick the bucket soon-most likely on the wedding night."

Huma's throat stirred and she placed a hand over her mouth to keep from laughing.

"Haba! Mama!" Zainab squawked. "You cannot say such things!"

"And why not? I am old and dying just like he is, but he will enter the grave first." Jawaria retorted. "Listen," she began in pidgin english, twisting on the seat toward Huma, giving her full attention. "When I was much younger, a beauty-just like you-young and good looking," she preened like a peacock, gesturing meaningfully. "There came this man with a sugarcoated tongue, promising me an abundant future. I wanted to go to school and he was from the city. He seemed so genuine and loving and.......now look at me how many years later. He wanted a full time housewife and I didn't get to go to school. He wasn't a believer in education for girls just like every staunch illiterate I know."

Twisting again in her seat, Jawaria gave her daughter, who was watching her with appalled eyes, a knowing look. "A ruined figure and six children became my future. And he married other wives! Can you believe that? I was just ANOTHER one."

Tapping Huma's hand, she turned and fixed her a look. "You probably have relatives all over the world, be careful." She harrumphed with a petulant jut of her chin.

Huma's throat was burning, tingling.

Regaining her composure, Zainab was exasperated. "Mama, marrying more than one wife is permitted in Islam, as long as the man is able to provide for them and love them equally."

"Ehenn," Jawaria drawled incredulously. She pointed an accusing finger at Zainab. "Is your husband not a human being? He is married to just you is he not? Are you any different from other women?" She edged forward in her seat, wriggling her body, clearly going on the offensive. "Let me ask you a question: how would you feel if your husband decided to marry a second wife?"

Zainab's face paled at the question, her eyes flicking between her mother and daughter. "I will...well, he is the man of the house. If he decides--" she faltered, unable to continue, the words like lead in her mouth.

At that moment, a movement swept by the door so swiftly it was thought to be a bird-----but not fast enough to elude Jawaria's hawkish eyes. "Nadeem! My devout son-in-law, I saw you. Please, you are urgently needed."

It was almost a minute before Huma's father, Nadeem, stepped in. His face showed signs of contemplation regarding ways to escape whatever situation unscathed. His face impassive, he stood before the women, fully dressed, tall and in charge.

"So, Nadeem, dear loving husband, a question if you may," Jawaria smiled cloyingly, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Before, Allah and man, I want you to tell us if you have ever thought of marrying a second wife?"

Nadeem looked at no one in the room, as he tried not to fidget where he stood. He dared to look thoughtful as he hung his head, clasping his hands behind him. Zainab's face was riddled with disbelief as she grasped at his evasive mannerism.

Huma ducked her head and hid a searing smile behind a palm. Jawaria ginned triumphantly and made a mocking gesture with her nose.

"Nadeem....?" Zainab's voice was hollow and small as she rose. Wordlessly, her husband left the room and, staggering a bit, she went after him.

"Children," Jawaria began, staring after the couple. "They think they know everything. But adults are worse, unlike children, they are easily blinded as their minds grow more rigid and they lose their child like curiosity and open mind. That is when death starts."

Huma sank back in her seat, depressed. The thump of her head on the headrest drew the pensive woman's attention, and she watched her granddaughter's drab features.

"They make it so easy," she said, leaning back and nudging Huma until she broke into a lazy smile.

"I know you are worried. I know you are scared." She plucked Huma's nose and chucked her chin. "But trust in Allah."

Smiling sweetly, her eyes twinkling, she positioned herself comfortably in her seat, and grabbing the remote, turned up the volume, the room filled with the sounds of the movie, and her attention once again was riveted to the television screen.

Alone to her thoughts, Huma gazed down at her laps, at the scattered pictures, her mind addled. She had to make a decision: this was one of the terms under which her parents had agreed to let her follow her dreams, to keep her promise. One she had agreed to at an age where she had been desperate.

Who?