"I think I will be a ventriloquist."

I look up from my Quran at that. "What's that?"

"You know, those people that hold puppets and make these voices that don't look like it's coming from their mouths. Wait, let me try it," Zainab shifts her mouth to a corner and tries to speak, but it makes her look like she's disabled.

"How are you, dear Nadeen?" She says in a squeaky tone.

I smile at her and return back to practicing my Quran.

"Efiko, easy oo," Abdus Samad says from the other end of the class.

The class is quieter, the mumbling of recitations of my classmates filling the space. Today, we are going to have our Tilawah exams, which means our recitation of the Quran will be tested. I try to brush up on my spelling and elongations, and my mind is freer since we have already finished our school exams.

I cannot think about school exams without thinking about Nasir. Ever since the incident that day, he hadn't returned to school. I don't want to ask about him from Omar, because I am the one who put him there in the first place. I can't remove the image of him hugging his mother tightly, his hands trembling, his face buried in her shoulder.

If he has left our school, I know the guilt will eat at me, but I cannot stuff down the tiny relief I would feel. I would remain in the first position, and he would also be first, but at another school.

"Nadeen," Zainab calls me with an excited tone. "My siblings came over from school and gave me enough cash, but I saved it for both of us to go to the beach or the mall to watch a movie after we are done with all our exams. I still have three left."

My spirits lift, and I pray Daddy allows me. He is always restrictive of Iffat and me leaving the house to any other place than school, Mummy's shop, the market to buy foodstuff, and Madrasah for me. Mummy Anu says he is only being a protective father, Iffat says he is like a prison warden.

As Zainab hops to sit on my table and swings her dusty feet, her slippers old and worn, I think of how Yusrah had been irritated at the sight of her.

Yusrah still hasn't forgiven me for what I did during the Mathematics paper, and neither has Aisha. Although I still send them answers discreetly in the exam hall and they still collect and copy it, but they never say thank you, or talk to me after, even though I have sent apology notes to Yusrah.

Whenever Yusrah sees me in the school halls, she sticks her nose up, meets my eyes, turns to Aisha or Juwwariyyah, and makes sure to laugh out loud. It hurts, and I am more than upset that she hasn't forgiven me, but there is nothing I can do but continue apologizing. I am really scared to lose her as my best friend.

"Oya na, talk, which day is fine for you?" Zainab asks me.

"You could...," Use the money to buy new shoes and better clothes, I want to say, but instead I shake my head. "You decide the day, I'll tell my parents."

She grins and claps. "Yes!"

I pause for a moment before asking, "If you did something really bad to someone, and the person doesn't know but is hurt, what would you do?"

Zainab bunches her dark lips into a pout. "I don't know, it depends on the person."

"How?"

"Well, if it is done unintentionally..."

"It was intentional," then I quickly add, "In that person's case."

"Well, I think we do bad things sometimes. And besides, it depends on the person. If the person that did the bad thing is someone who hates or dislikes the person wronged, then seek forgiveness from God, if it was intentional without any bad feelings, well, do good by the person and seek forgiveness too, from the person and God. That's my opinion."

Zainab bounces down from the desktop as our Ustadh comes into the compound. As she hurriedly goes through her Quran, I think of what she says. Do I dislike Nasir? Or do I only hate the way he came into the school to take away my shine?

Can the two be separate things?

Ustadh starts the exam immediately, and I pass, and again, he praises me in the class. I take note of every word he uses - brilliant, great, a blessed brain- so that I can tell Daddy later, and watch as Daddy's proud smile would light up his entire face, and he and Mummy would talk about me after dinner hours, and how much they love me for being the best. I would eavesdrop on their conversation, and I would smile, and carry that wholesome feeling of love, of being appreciated.

"Now that we are done," Ustadh clears his throat and glares at Abdus Samad who is rubbing his sore palms on his thighs after taking several strokes of the cane. "I know Abu Hurairah has told everyone here about the Quran competition coming up in about two months' time."

We all listen, and I am aware of the competition, but I made no move to register because I really don't think God wants someone who did something terrible like what I have done to Nasir representing the entire class, and besides, I am not in the mood to jump from school exams to another preparation.

"Nadeen and Husseinah will be representing the female category." My head whips up at that. I meet Husseinah eye's, Big Daddy's daughter (the owner of the madrasah) and she looks away. We have never been close, and I can't tell if she dislikes me.

"And for Hussein and Saleem for the male category," Ustadh says. "You will begin preparations tomorrow, so get ready to be going home a bit later."

As we stand up and disperse, I want to tell Ustadh Sa'id that I don't want to participate, but then Zainab jumps in front of me.

"Where are you going?" She asks in her ventriloquist impression.

"I don't want to do the competition."

"What?" She is serious now. "Why?"

"I just don't want to."

"You don't really have a choice," Zainab says. "His own job is to pick, it is your job to prepare. And if we don't win, everyone here is going to blame you. And every class as well."

She's right. I know that. One of the curses of being book smart was that every competition, be it school or Madrasah, was already expected of me to represent my class. There was no feasible excuse for me, no choice.

It was a must.

So I leave Madrasah, knowing fully well I have another preparation to face. I think about what Daddy will say if I tell him I have been selected, and I imagine it to go like this,

"Nadeen, you have made me very proud today. That is why I love you."

Or, "Nadeen, you have proved to me that you are of my blood today."

Thinking about this makes me smile, and also it would put Daddy in a good mood for days, boasting to whoever he speaks to of how he blessed me with his great brain. 

Zainab and I do not leave together. I am supposed to go to Mummy's shop after, to help Iffat since Mummy had to go and buy some foodstuff from the market. We are both supposed to help her carry some cartons of biscuits back home. A rat had sneaked its way into the store and is now terrorizing the place when it is closed, eating from Mummy's profit.

When I get to the street of Mummy's shop, most of the stores are already beginning to close, and the streets are filled with people, most returning from work, most faces worn and imprinted with stressed-out frowns as some of them yell expletives at the Marua drivers trying to climb the sidewalk to speed past the growing traffic on the street. Hawkers begin to descend into the traffic, holding their wares out to the windows of the vehicles.

From a distance, I see an old Peugeot parked in front of Mummy's shop, and Iffat is at the show glass, using a fork to take out snacks while talking to the male customer before her.

"So you have finished secondary school?" I hear the man ask her when I get closer.

"Yes," Iffat says.

"Wow, that means you are a big girl." The man teases. 

I reach them both, and both their eyes turn to me.

"Is this your friend?" The man asks. He looks older, like in his forties, with an oily smile and bejeweled fingers.

"No, my younger sister," Iffat answers.

I am used to people asking if we are related. Iffat is as fair as Mummy, with a face still healing from acne spots. I am as dark as Daddy, with smooth skin people which has made people always ask for my skincare routine. We looked nothing alike and behaved nothing alike.

"Wawu, it's like in that your family, you are all fine oo." The man says. 

Iffat has always been called pretty, and even her discolored facial skin didn't succeed in marring that beauty. I am what I have seen through an Instagram video on Iffat's phone; I am 'mid', not pretty, not ugly, although Iffat disagrees, and gets angry when I use that word to describe myself. But I only get compliments on my beauty when I am around Iffat, like an accessory matching a beautiful outfit.

 "Do you want buns too?" Iffat asks the man, ignoring his compliment.

"Yes, and that's all." He smiles, and a discomforting itch crawls my body. "How much is everything now?"

"Five hundred naira."

He brings out a thousand naira note. "Can I get that with your number?"

My eyes widen slightly, and I am not surprised. Iffat is prone to getting the attention of men, even the older ones.

"It's not that I can't give you, Sir. I don't have a phone, Sir. I am actually saving for one." She lies so smoothly I almost shake her. And what was with that nasal voice she has adopted?

"Ahn ahn, so how will your boyfriend now be calling you?" The man asks. 

I look around, hoping Mummy can come and branch by the store and this man will be forced to leave.

"Boyfriend ke? I don't have a boyfriend too." She says. 

"Hmm, is it not a fine girl like you? Okay, keep saving for the phone. It is good that you are financially knowledgeable now." He reaches into his wallet and brings out two one thousand naira crisp notes. "Add this small money to your savings. Okay?"

Iffat collects the money, her mouth partly open. "Thank you, Sir. I am really grateful, Sir. It means a lot to me."

"Good, I hope the next time I pass here, you would have bought a phone." The man brandishes one of his smiles and waves as he returns back to his car and drives off.

"Iffat!" I screech her name. "You were lying!"

"And so? I needed urgent 2k, and he was ready to give me exactly that. I am tired of disturbing Mummy and Daddy for money."

"But he...," I stop and stare at his retreating car.

"Look, I cannot even go for that one, if that is what you are thinking," Iffat says. She plants her hands on the curves of her hips. "And besides, would you rather I give him my number and Daddy finds out a man is calling me and beats me, or for me to lie and collect free money?"

I do not respond to that.

"No reply, I thought as much. Oya, let's start going. We can buy Pringles and Fanta on our way back, I am even choosing to share the money with you, if you like, don't eat and be doing holy holy," she says.

"Stop calling me that," I say, although my voice doesn't carry my anger. It's one thing hearing Daddy mock me with that occasionally and another for Iffat to use it too.

"Okay, I will, just let's go," she locks the store and points to the cartons of biscuits stacked outside. "Oya, me I am hungry oo. Ah! And that woman will have fresh kulikuli this evening oo. Let's go oo, Nadeen."

As we move, I think about what Iffat did, and how she breezed past her actions without guilt. Perhaps with time, I would learn to breeze past what I did to Nasir without feeling an ounce of guilt.

-

-

-

Those invisible hands seek me out every day now.

I try not to believe those Yoruba movies on TV that Grandma used to binge-watch when she was alive. I try not to remember the looks on the actors' faces when juju has been sent to attack them, how the juju finds its way to their chest, and how they would clutch it, as if in serious pain.

I try not to think there is juju in my chest, I try not to think about the number of mornings I don't read the Quran or say the prayers for protection, and the way it leaves me vulnerable to spiritual attacks, but this feeling doesn't go away.

Maybe it is a Djinn, the thought floats to me, but I force myself not to think in that direction, the fear worsening everything.

It is like someone is here with me all the time, squeezing my heart, sometimes so hard I can hear my heart thumping, like the loud beating of a drum. Sometimes it is painful I begin to sweat. And on days it gets so bad, my stomach is a mess, hands trying to claw out,  and  I have almost thrown up twice, but nausea only resulted in me dry heaving in the sink, with nothing coming out. The hands work overtime through my entire body on the days that Daddy's moods are like a battlefield and one wrong step will leave you stepping on a landmine and his wrath exploding on you.

With a new position at work comes new duties, and sometimes Daddy stays back late at the office. So when he comes home, he is grumpy, and I make sure to be extra careful; no unnecessary talks, stifled laughter with Iffat, and remaining out of his sight. 

Today though, Daddy has just finished yelling at Mummy for not having his food ready on time. His face was so close to hers, his teeth bared and eyes bugled I think about a lion about to eat its prey. But Mummy keeps calm and avoids replying to him back or eye contact, and I keep my eyes on his trembling fists by his sides, waiting for him to hit her, for the beating to start.

But Mummy is smart, and because she keeps her cool, Daddy goes back to sit in front of the TV and continues grumbling. Mummy returns back to the kitchen, and as I follow after her, I feel my stomach rumble, the hands pushing my lunch up through my throat.

I run to the bathroom, and I throw up for real this time.

"Nadeen!" I hear my mother shout, and I feel a hand on my back as I raise my head, my vision swimming, my head banging. "Nadeen, how many times this week have you thrown up? Tomorrow, you are going to the hospital and I am coming with you."

I shake my head as I wash my mouth. "No, I can go after school, and this is just the only time I threw up. It isn't serious, and you do not need to come with me."

"What if you faint?"

"I won't," I say. There is no point in her losing sales the next day. Her salesgirl had to go back to her state for some personal matters, and I can't afford for Mummy to lose money over me.

When I turn to head out the door, I see Daddy there. I freeze. He is looking at me with hard eyes, and a tingle crawls all over my skin, a sign that the presence of those squeezing hands will find me again to use my heart as a stress ball.

"Go back to the kitchen and continue making my food," Daddy instructs Mummy. Mummy doesn't say anything as she leaves, and Daddy's eyes remain on me.

"You, to the parlour with me now." He orders me.

I trial after him, and I wonder if I had just irritated him with vomiting before he had his dinner. Daddy moves to sit on the couch, and he motions for me to stand right in front of him, the TV playing with the NTA news behind me.

"When did this vomiting start?" He asks me.

"It... I didn't vomit, and I don't know, like two weeks ago."

Daddy looks me up and down, and I want to be under the warmth of my Adire cover so badly.

"Iffat!" He suddenly calls, and I shake. He keeps his eyes on me as we hear Iffat scrambling to reach the living room, and she hurries to stand next to me, questioning eyes between me and Daddy.

She had been excused from the kitchen that night because of her exams, and she had been taking her reading seriously as the day draws closer.

"Sir?" Iffat answers when Daddy keeps quiet. He reaches for the remote control and mutes the TV.

"When last did your sister see her monthly visitor?" Daddy asks.

Iffat's head whips to me. "Monthly visitor? Ngbo, Nadeen, does someone come here monthly?"

"Are you stupid?" Daddy growls at her, and she flinches, taking subtle steps back. "That's why you are a failure. Ordinary to use that dead brain of yours to answer you stand there and ask stupid questions."

The hands find my heart, and I try with everything in me to hold in my erratic breathing.

"I am going to ask again; when last did your sister see her monthly visitor?" He asks, sitting forward, a promise to deal with Iffat if she doesn't answer.

"Uhm...she...she had her period just last month if that's what you are talking about." She says. She is braced for his hit, her hands partly shielding her body.

"Last month," Daddy's eyes meet mine, and they narrow in scrutiny. "Nadeen, which boy have you been prostituting yourself to?"

The question hits me so hard that I almost fall back from the shock of it.

"Si...Sir?" I stutter. Maybe I didn't hear him well.

"I asked you, which boy have you been prostituting yourself to?" He yells at me this time.

Iffat and I exchanged glances that lasted only a millisecond. "I am not...I did not..."

"So why have you been vomiting? And complaining of stomach aches?" He asks me.

"I...I don't..."

"Or is it in that Madrasah you go to?" He prods on. "I know you can't really have the chance in school, but that Madrasah that you have been coming from late...have you been lying to me that you have a competition? Have you been branching to a boy's house?"

"No!" I say immediately. "No, I haven't. I am...," I gulp, not believing I am about to say this. "I am not pregnant."

"And how do you know?"

"Because I didn't...I didn't get involved with any boy." I answer.

He looks at me for a very long time. Iffat is as still as a statue next to me. Inside the kitchen, the sizzle of fish dipped in hot oil pierces the air, like a background foreboding song.

"I know one of the Doctors at the General hospital," Daddy says at last. "I will call him tomorrow morning and I will personally tell him to send over all of the results of the tests you will take after school. If, Nadeen, look at me when I am talking to you. If, and I swear to God, if there is a bastard developing inside your body, I will abort it in this living room with a pestle to your stomach. Do you know how they use pestle to pound yam in the mortar? That is what I will do."

He wags a finger at me. "If after all the talks that I have said about not going near boys has not entered that head of yours, you will see. You have decided to learn the trade from your mother abi? I will show you that this house isn't a brothel."

He leans back into the couch, and neither Iffat nor I say anything.

"That was how it was one quiet girl that was a neighbour of mine when I was young that ended up sleeping with all the boys in the entire street and when she got pregnant, she cannot say who the father is. And you, Nadeen, I am not blind. I see her in you. Your own is even worse because you are using the image of a good Muslim girl to cover yours. It's people that always do holy holy that are always the most wayward. Hiding your true colours behind religion. Hypocrite."

Hyprocrite. The word wraps around me, and Nasir comes to mind. Hypocrite, the word stung me when the teachers praised me once again as they marked my script, telling me how when the results were released, I was surely going to top the class. Hypocrite, the word finds me as I practice for the Quran competition, daring to go near the words of God with the evil I have done.

"I will not have you two disgracing me when you eventually decide to get married," Daddy says. "I will not have any man complaining that I gave him second-hand goods."

"Go," Daddy dismisses us.

Both Iffat and I head to the room. She closes the door once we are inside, and looks at me.

"What was that about?" She asks me. "Did you vomit again?" I nod. "Wow, Nadeen, what's wrong? Are you okay?"

"I don't know." 

"Just go to the hospital." She pauses before adding. "And Daddy is funny. You? Pregnant? Of all people." She laughs at the idea. "When it is not Sixteen and Pregnant airing on TV. Daddy is losing it I swear. Imagine you and one Alfa's son having sex at Madrasah."

I cringe at that dirty word and my name being used in the same sentence. The disgust of her statement made me bubble with anger, but Daddy's insults are quick to find me again.

Tears brim in my eyes, the salt peppering my vision. With two blinks, I hold it back in.

"Imagine getting married sef, very disgusting thought," she shudders. "Talkess of now being preg...Nadeen, are you crying?"

I feel stupid. It isn't like Daddy beat me, so why were the tears coming?

"No," I wipe my eyes. "I have to go and help Mummy."

I don't wait for Iffat to say anything else before I leave the room. I hesitate to pass the parlour to the kitchen, but when I do at last, I feel Daddy's eyes following me closely. Mummy looks up from the pot, and she wipes the sweat from her face.

"Nadeen, how are you feeling now?" She asks me.

"I am fine," I croak out.

"Ahn ahn, are you crying? When he didn't beat you?" Mummy asks. "You have to understand that your father is just stressed and doesn't mean anything he said. It shouldn't get to you na. Be strong."

So I touch my face just to find out there are tears there. I wipe them quickly and swallow every sob, the painful lump going down my throat.

Mummy has made one of Daddy's favorites; fried rice with fried croaker fish and fried plantain, by the time we are done, we serve quickly, and Mummy calls over Daddy and Iffat to the table.

Daddy is frowning as he sits. "We thank God oo, Iya Iffat, that you haven't tried to kill us with starvation in this house."

Mummy doesn't say anything and sits in the seat next to him. But I notice the way Daddy looks at her up and down, his mouth contorted in displeasure. Mummy sees it too but is silent as she spoons the food into his plate. 

When she is done, Daddy speaks.

"Iya Iffat, have you ever taken a look at yourself in the mirror?" He asks. Iffat meets my eyes, her gaze wary.

Mummy finishes dishing the food and sits back, silent.

"Look at the rags you have on, and the way you are sweating beside me," he continues. "I come home after making money to provide for the family, and you haven't cooked, and even that madman at the roundabout has neater hair than yours, and you want to sit before me and eat. Do you want me to vomit like Nadeen?"

Mummy slowly rises from her seat and moves to the room. Daddy mumbles something and gives a long, slow hiss. He begins eating, squeezes his mouth in irritation, and continues eating.

"Before any of you get married, you better learn how to cook properly from other women, not this nonsense your mother made," He says as he takes in two spoons of rice. I am reminded of a starving dog I saw by the roadside eating at Iya Abbey's restaurant earlier in the evening, eating from a pound of burnt rice and beans with flies swarming around.

Daddy only eats this way in the house, but outside, he adopts a more 'polished' mannerism to his eating, using a fork and knife even when eating okele like Fufu and Eba, and chews like those aristocratic British men in movies.

I look away, another wave of guilt washing over me at the terrible comparison I had of my own father.

Iffat pushes the food around on her plate, and I can tell she isn't hungry. Same with me, I take small spoons and pace them, afraid I might dry heave or vomit and Daddy might lose it that night.

Some days later, when Daddy's friend and colleague, Mr. Ogbonna, comes around, Daddy calms down in a way none of us would have been able to achieve, not even me with my academic achievements. They make jokes about how stressful the office has been with new clients coming in, and as they talk, Daddy teases him about his 'comfort' woman.

"My other woman is fine, and she is the reason why I haven't run mad," Mr. Ogbonna guffaws in a voice that sounded like it should belong to a car engine than a human being. Then silently, from where I stand in the kitchen, I hear him add, "that is why you should find yourself one too. I thought you Muslims can marry up to four sef? Lucky you. I would have married all four in one day."

"Let the clients keep coming, and then we can see about that." Daddy jokes.

Mr. Ogbonna guffawed again. "But that your wife is very fine too oo. She, well, she covers up too much. I am not saying she should open her body oo, but you know, at least get her some clothes that will show other people how blessed you are. You are slowly becoming a big man, and as your friend, I have to tell you the truth."

Daddy doesn't say anything for a long time. "Well sha," he finally says, and nothing more. 

When we return to school the following Monday, Nasir still doesn't show up, and that is when I do the unthinkable.