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BN Prose: The Sweet Seller’s Daughter by Ese Iruobe

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I still have a sweet tooth but that’s not why I visit Mallam Ahmed’s sweet ‘shop’. I graduated from Princeton University six days ago and couldn’t wait to get on a plane to Lagos. As soon as the car turned on my street, I saw Mallam’s shop. Nostalgia assaulted my heart with bittersweet memories. It was still the same old wooden box with chain link double doors; filled with sweets, chewing gum, locally made biscuits and sweet bread.

I remembered the smell of fresh bread early in the morning, the rustle of sweet wrappers in my dungarees pockets and Hafsatu’s off-white smile as she sneaked extra sweets in my bag the very first time. I was nine and she was eight but she was extremely fearless and feisty for an eight year old. I always begged her to stop sneaking me extra sweets. I was sure her father wouldn’t have been happy about her giving away his merchandise. But she would wrinkle her pierced nose at me and wave her bracelet clad hands dismissively. I found her multiple bracelet wearing peculiar. She wore about twenty multicolored bracelets on each hand and made a different one every week.

She was always making bracelets. I would sit and watch her thread those colored beads for hours. She also loved ball gowns. It was all she ever wore. More than half of the gowns Hafsy wore were hand me downs from all over the neighborhood, mine included. I was glad to give them away. I intentionally created holes in them so that mother would condemn them early. I hated them because they were ugly and made me itch in the harmattan heat.

When I turned ten, I finally won my battle with Mom over those hideous ball gowns. I ran down the street to Mallam’s shop and gleefully dumped my giant bag of ball gowns at Hafsatu’s feet. She broke into song and dance. We sat together on her mat looked at the gowns together. She analyzed every detail, pointing out gold linings, purple flowers, a pink button, a hidden pocket. I nodded in agreement but these gowns were of no interest to me. I only wore them to church on Sundays after battling with my mother. I’d never really noticed the intricacies of the gowns till Hafsatu pointed them out. I was in awe of her excitement and unquestionable joy. It radiated from her like an unending sunbeam. She left me on the mat while she ran into the house to show the clothes to her mother, Alhaja. A few minutes later, Alhaja came out and thanked me. Their excessive gratitude made me feel shy so I found an excuse to go.

I visited the sweet shop every day after school. The driver would park the car and wait for me to have my daily ten minutes at the sweet shop. Hafsy would be there like she’d been all day; sandy feet, bracelets, nearly bald head and all. She was extremely chatty in the afternoons; talking my ear off in broken English. I learned some local slang from her which I used in school. All my classmates found it thoroughly entertaining. Everyday Hafsatu proclaimed that she was happy she didn’t have to go to school. I’d always tell her school was great. She’d say she didn’t think so judging by the look on my face. We would laugh and she’d give me extra sweets and a bracelet she had just made. I’d overpay her for the extra sweets, she’d argue with me about accepting the money. She’d pretend to be angry and throw the money in the dry gutter in front of the shop. I’d ignore her, wave bye and run off home. She always picked up the money after I was gone. I would tell her about boys in my class, she would tell me how a mad man chased her down the road. I’d laugh till I cried.

One day Hafsatu came to my house. I was surprised because she had never done that before. My friends from school were there. The cook brought Hafsatu in while we were all seated around my kitchen table. She smelled of sweets and fresh bread. Her slippers were worn and sandy. She didn’t have her smile that day. Her eyes looked troubled. She said she wanted to speak with me alone but all I could think about was her ridiculous ball gown. Ugh. Why didn’t she just wear normal clothes like other fourteen year olds? After all, I had donated half of my closet to her family over the years. Hafsatu said that she wouldn’t stay long, that her visit will only take a minute. I pretended not to understand her broken English. My friends snickered and looked at us in amusement. My friend Tola asked Hafsatu if she wanted to play with her Game Boy Color. Hafsatu stared at the Game Boy in Tola’s outstretched hand in confusion. Hafsatu said she didn’t understand. Of course she didn’t know what a Game Boy was. Tola and the other girls started laughing. I remained silent. I was embarrassed. Hafsatu stood at the kitchen back door biting her nails nervously. I told her I’d see her the next day. But it was a Friday and my friends were sleeping over for the weekend. I knew I wouldn’t see her till Monday. She looked like she was going to burst into tears.

After she had gone, the cook gave me a blue bracelet. He said Hafsatu left it for me. It was the most elaborate bracelet yet. I felt momentarily guilty then I suddenly became annoyed. She could have just given it to me on Monday, she didn’t have to bother coming to my house uninvited, I thought. That Sunday on the way to church, we drove past the shop. Hafsatu was there with her parents. She was wearing my bright orange ball gown and her twenty bracelets. They vibrated vigorously as she wove both arms cheerily saying, “Bye! Bye!” as we drove past. I rolled my eyes and returned a feeble wave. I was still annoyed at Hafsatu, or maybe I was annoyed at myself.

Monday came. After school I ran to the sweet shop for guilt had nearly killed me. Hafsatu was not there. No one was there. The shop was closed for the first time ever. I knocked on the gate, the owners of the house said Mallam and his family were not home. I returned the next day to find Hafsatu’s parents, Mallam and Alhaja sitting on a mat. The sweet shop was open; it was business as usual. They said they had gone for a wedding.

“So Hafsatu is resting inside?” I asked.

“No, Hafsatu do wedding.” Alhaja said beaming. Mallam was quiet.

I repeated my question because I was sure I didn’t hear right. Alhaja repeated the answer excitedly. Mallam nodded and smiled. They looked so happy. They said Hafsatu had just married Alhaja’s 35 year-old third cousin in Borno State. “Hafsatu is only fourteen!”, I thought. And then I felt sick.

I ran back home and vomited. I hurried to tell Mom about it. Mom said it was part of ‘their’ life, laughed off my distress and sent the driver to buy me my favourite Blue Bunny ice cream. I ate two spoons of it and vomited again.

“I’m here eating ice cream while Hafsatu is terrified and alone,” I thought. She had never left our street before. I imagined her ‘husband’ forcing himself on her. I knew Hafsatu was not happy. I was ashamed. I was just like everyone else. I abandoned Hafsy when she needed me the most. I realized I was comfortable being her friend in secret; only at the sweet shop, only in small doses. I couldn’t acknowledge our friendship when it mattered, in the midst of my peers. I was a hypocrite.

I returned to the sweet shop to ask for her phone number. There was no phone number. Hafsatu’s husband didn’t allow her have a cell phone. I asked for the husband’s phone number. Mallam gave it to me and I called. It was brief. He didn’t understand half of what I was saying and I was told not to call again. I couldn’t eat for days.

Mom was sympathetic but told me to leave it alone. She said I’d get over it but I never did. I visited the sweet shop every day just to look at it, to replicate the warmth and joy Hafsatu’s presence brought. It was never the same but still I tried. I visited her parents and continued to ask of her. I gave Alhaja gifts for her but I knew she’d never receive them. I searched for Hafsatu in every Hausa woman’s face. I heard her laugh randomly in the voices of child hawkers on the street. Two years passed and I was off to Princeton. That same year I heard Hafsatu ran away from her husband and found her way back to Lagos. She was beaten and bruised but her parents could not keep her. Her husband came to Lagos to retrieve her and that was the last I’d heard of Hafsatu.

Now that I’ve returned to Lagos, I walk down the street to the sweet shop every day. It is still there, still looks the same. Alhaja sits there as usual. She looks older but still has not changed much. Whenever she smiles at me and I see Hafsatu in her face. There is a pain in my heart. It doubles when she tells me Mallam is dead. I ask of Hafsatu. Alhaja says she has six children – five boys and a girl.

As I walk back up the street to my house I’m in awe of life. We had lived barely 23 years on this earth but Hafsatu had already seen a lifetime.

Photo Credit: igboyam.com
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Ese Iruobe is a 4th year student studying Business Management and Accounting at Temple University in Philadelphia, USA. She is an aspiring fiction writer. Ese runs a blog that’s the diary of a bold fictional character, Imina. In 2 weeks, Ese’s blog had over a 1000 views. In a month, that has almost tripled. Check to see what the hype is about at iminasmelange.com. {Reader’s Discretion Advised}

Hello! My name is Ese Iruobe, a 22 year old aspiring fiction author. I'm Nigerian, female and currently a senior at Temple University in Philadelphia, PA, USA studying Business Management and Accounting. I am also pursuing an English minor and writing certificate form Temple’s College of Liberal Arts. I have always been interested in reading novels, writing articles, short stories and essays. My true passion is indeed fiction. I wrote several poems and notable essays throughout high school and received the Literature award during my valedictory ceremony. In college I was an opinion writer for TechNews-Illinois Institute of Technology’s college newspaper. I am currently writing several short stories and a book which I hope to publish. I also have a wordpress fiction blog/website (www.iminasmelange.com). It is about an unconventional Nigerian-American character called Imina. I usually share my new posts on Facebook and Twitter @mzsuwa. My other interests include learning musical instruments, humor, third world politics, women’s studies, dancing and listening to music (rock, indie, R & B, Naija, hip hop, house, electro). I am a realist and an idealist. I love making people laugh but I keep in mind that not everybody understands my humor. My main goal is to affect people with my stories by inspiring hope, anger, laughter, love and basically any and all possible human feeling. ENJOY!

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