A peculiar calm prevailed over the atmosphere. We had just performed salat-al-janaza for the dead woman. Hemmed in by a half-circle of relatives, her mother alternated between moments of madness when she banged convulsive fists on the cold cement floor or tore at her hair and eerie episodes when she merely stared on stone-like. Expecting and dreading it, she would remain to witness this last journey. Handsome Hassan; father to Leila and husband to Alima, stood beside the main entrance to the house sobbing like a forsaken baby. An obvious reluctance to converse told how unbearable this was for him. I moved about shakimg hands, saying his thank you for coming and receiving some consolatory hugs. Later in the evening, I kept company with Leila while most men headed for the cemetery, some kilometers away. Processions unnerved me and Hassan had insisted on going.

As the day wore on, I drew farther from the crowd; the widower’s misery a noose around my neck. “Breathe Abu, breathe” came the caution to failing lungs. “What reason can you call to account for such profound melancholy?” How I yearned to wipe those tears of his face, to envelop the weak frame in an embrace and murmur; “I am here for you” but an army of sympathizers had built a wall around him.

Hassan and I crossed paths for the first time on the hottest day of the harmattan season, three years past. Sun rays and dust particles attacked with unwavering, unforgiving fury. Outside, surviving yellowish- green leaves attached to browned branches swayed gently to the suffocating breeze.

I was tired after a morning spent fighting burnt debris off the windows of my one room, boys- quarters apartment. The reason I had undertaken this insane task considering how vicious my nosebleeds got was that as the first streaks of dawn tore through the sky, upon flattening my face across the glass pane hoping to catch a glimpse of my neighbor lacing his shoes preparatory for a customary jog, I could see nothing but debris.

Nevertheless, neither heat nor dust played any part in the sequence of events that afternoon. It was boredom that chased me from my room and qadr- destiny that made us meet.

***

“Be quiet. Do you hear that? Quick, check while I hide these papers.”

“How do you know it’s her? Yes I am conscious you are sick of her lovely interruptions but for goodness sake, stop tapping the table so hard and go.”

“You know, your aversion is becoming quite worrisome as well. The editor was most insistent that every detail be put down.”

“Including hers. There is money involved.”

“You don’t think I should? Why? She is perfect story material. You said so last week.” Is this some sort of jealousy Sonia? You don’t really mind not being mentioned?”

“God of mercy. Where are you off to in such anger? So touchy this morning. It must be the green tea. Always puts you in a rage. Patience, my dear. I promise we get to the good part.”

***

This may sound cliché but when we met, Hassan was not so striking a fellow. There’s the matter of a rather massive head balancing most precariously on the thinnest, longest neck imaginable. He was short, had a massive nose, was bald as a Buddhist monk and had eyes fixed so far apart, they gave an impression of fleeing towards opposite ends of his wide face. His bow legs were somewhat shorter than normal and deeply browned. Regular feet were housed inside regular palm slippers. A multicolor backpack hung from his left shoulder.

My brain registered these mundane details and set in motion, the procedure for ordering visual apparatus to explore more cheerful views when at that moment, his full lips straightened into a grin and an arm was raised in salute. It was one of those quirky, everyday smiles; the ones that say “I’m nervous, save me.” Eyelids contracted to build a partial cover over his sapphire pupils as waves of happiness coursed through my veins. I remained rooted to the spot and shuddered when my heart suffered a tightening twitch. It was time to acknowledge his greeting yet, I kept gawking.

Like black clouds pregnant with rain drops, we drifted closer to each other, and he asked a question; the direction to a mosque, I think. Feeling light-headed, I tagged along although, I don’t quite remember my reply nor being invited; so strong was this strange pull on me. My new found atheism still in its first bloom, it was the first time in months that I stepped into a masjid.

Those inside made no effort to hide their surprise at seeing brother Abubakar who Shaitan finally led astray. I forgot to make ablution but when Hassan raised his palms above his shoulders and proclaimed; “Allah is the greatest,” I lifted my unbelieving, unwashed hands and repeated the words. While we stood straight, eyes peeled to the floor, Hassan recited the verses; “In The Name of Allah, Most gracious, Most merciful…” I contemplated how it would feel to run my rough fingers through his soft-looking beard; so black and curly.

“Allah is the greatest” and we bowed keeping our backs straight. “It must be heavenly to have such fairish skin” I thought, giggling inside while smoothing creases on my trousers. A cursory inspection of my nails confirmed what I already feared; they were long, uneven and dirty. I sniffed both armpits and recoiled from the discouraging odour. “Why did I not bath and wear something nice today of all days?

“Allah is the greatest” came the call ordering us to touch our foreheads to the carpeted floor. “I wonder if he has a girlfriend. Surely, he does not indulge in alcohol so why the pot-belly?”

In time came the final salutations; “Peace be upon you” to the left and right. I had spent over ten minutes inside God’s house fantasizing over a man.

In spite of everything, we became fast friends. He often said to me; “Hold fast to this book Abu (a small Qur’an is pushed before me) and we shall be together in paradise.” I watched his face become animated as he spoke about a creator; well-loved and believed in. He was unconscious of a tightened grip around my slender fingers while he went on with his speech, telling me of Iman- faith and Ihsan- perfection and Fiqh- jurisprudence and Tawhid- monotheism. Perhaps, he sniffed out my disbelief and like all mallams, became eager to turn me around. My throat went dry and I could only manage a slight nod.

“Insha’Allah” I said in a broken voice.

***

“Quite a pity Sonia is absent today. It is such a beautiful morning. The rain last night, has made our garden, a vision to behold. The sand smells of my carefree childhood, chrysanthemums are ablaze in the sun and strange birds won’t stop singing.

“I miss her. Her rough fingers with their perfectly trimmed nails perusing page after page, numbering and editing; pointing out the smallest errors.”

“The way she places her elbow on the desk and rests her face on closed palms or, how her rather long gowns caress the floor like an altar-bound shy maiden. The empty seat torments me. Amina may even suggest taking her place.”

“I should kiss her but I am not certain. I think she likes me but she’s scared to speak. Why else would anyone agree to spend hours working at such a story for a wannabe author?”

“I will kiss her. It is settled.”

“No, I will not.” My palms are so itchy.

“When next we see, I shall know.”

“What if she kissed me? What would those full lips taste like? Her tongue encircling mine; fighting, giving and receiving as much. She is strong as a mule, that one. We could have an affair. How delightful and shocking.”

“One minute while I play besotted husband. I have lived in such insanity for so long, I begin to think myself truly mad.”

“The drafts? Still not ready, dearest. Your critique will be most welcome when I’m done but for the present, I need be alone. By Allah, whenever you are close, all I can do is gaze at your beauty and marvel at my luck. It is no wonder, this manuscript remains unfinished.”

“Bah, silver tongued devil” my dove says beaming with joy. “Eat and write faster. Your wife awaits with longing.”

“Phew. I’m not one to tarry but, that woman is a reward for some sin for which, I must have forgotten to seek forgiveness.”

***

Hassan was soon appointed deputy Imam by the shura- election body. I stood at the front row whenever he led prayers, baritone voice resonating from the pulpit one or two times every day. Weekends he spent, doing house to house dawah- giving fiery sermons against boko-haram and encouraging guardians to send their wards to school. He’d have rice and chicken at these homes- most people went out of their way to make mallam happy. Back home, his schedule was simple; sleep, prayer and more prayer at night. He kept a beard, put on trousers which never extended below his ankles and talked to everybody with khushoo- shyness and tranquility. As for my obvious deficiency in faith, he remained silent. I guess he believed I was only lazy.

However, he spoke to me often of a childhood spent hidden in a madrasa- an establishment of learning ruled by whip-wielding teachers who enforced memorization of the Qur’an.

***

“Sonia does not wish to be kissed. I do not particularly want to anymore. She seems angry for some reason.”

“Do you always assume wicked things about people? I did not try to derail Hassan. He could not have asked for a more faithful friend.”

“Why are you squeezing your face? Pen and paper please.”

***

Hassan soon learnt to ditch cap and above the ankle trousers during our outings. When we were without money for cinema, we did film nights after night prayers- often sitcoms, using bowls of popcorn and Coca-Cola as snacks. He had a very healthy laughter which exploded from deep within his larynx and away through the mouth making him jerk uncontrollably to and fro. He’d wrap his right arm around my shoulder or grip my knee trying to draw me into his amusement at something funny on-screen. What anxieties I lived through!

***

“Gentle steps on the staircase. I’m soon to feast on home-made cookies and a fruit-mix drink.”

“Do you know that Hassan encouraged us to wed? He was our go-between, practically dumping her on me when she made a move on him.”

“I have someone else in mind” he said. “You know I am very pro-monogamy. Amina is good-looking, homely, and humble. She has no other interests in life besides a husband and children of her own.”

“I suspect people started talking to him about us. Remember Yusuf, the one with the cleft palate; a chronic do-gooder, always praying and fasting while he could have underwent a surgery and had the money for it. Very prominent amongst the overly religious zealots. Didn’t he tell you I was different and did you not believe him?”

“Why deny the truth? Remember how you suddenly had so much work to do whenever I wanted to visit? Positively rude to me, you were. Such horrid business too, with everyone avoiding me like a plague. Dear, the peculiar thing about sadness is that it gives you no time to do things that can release you from its hold. You think more and more about your deplorable state which only drags you deeper into depression.”

“I loved him. Is that what you wish to hear, heartless child? Shall I be judged even after everything you now know? Yes you do, lonely creature. You are far worse than me unfortunate friend, for I have loved and a soul that has not, is not alive.”

“You think I too have not....” She stops suddenly, hands over her mouth, dragging the words back in, as if by sheer force of will. Whatever she planned to say, I would never know. Every few seconds I catch her eye. There’s anger, shame and something else within. I am not sure I want to find out.

I accepted Amina for my wife caring little about Hassan's plot or its implications. We’ve had a somewhat happy life save her desire to ever be reminded of my affection. The true battle of treachery is at night when she yearns to reveal what little intelligence she gained on the internet; “You have to move like this, darling. I will have more pleasure if we do it that way. I might even...”

“Allah forbid Abu. From behind? It was not created for that. You are my husband but what you suggest is haram.” Impatient to end each session, I shut my eyes and summoned Hassan’s image. In such treachery, I did spend many nights with this unsuspecting woman.

“I should tell you of the sore-throat which drove Hassan into the waiting, willing arms of Alima.”

“Oh dear, I toppled the bottle of anti-anxiety meds. Seems like ages I’ve been on them and I maintain it is her fault.”

***

Hassan’s lover; tall as a Russian model and graceful as an Arabian princess. The goddess who bumped into his world undoing months of bliss. She was perfection. Even Abu, who does not fancy the delicacy of women... yes, I can say that with conviction.

Immaculate. Picturesque. Beautiful. Dainty. Young.

Whenever she smiled, her dazzling white teeth with its beauty gap lit up the world. My once feathery blue, romance-laden sky, she transformed into a dull brown scourge of lonesomeness. Everybody loved her. I suspect, they liked Hassan even more because of her. Nobody ever seemed to notice the slight limp on her left leg or its one extra toe.

In the clinic where she worked as a nursing assistant, patients could not have too much of her. Complaints of their many imaginary illnesses met an attentive ear. She laughed when spindle-legged, dirty children with runny noses and swollen bellies came running into reception. They fought to sit on her laps not caring for the uniform and devoured the sweets she offered, scurrying off before they were hailed in for check-ups.

The morning was foggier than usual. We languished on my living-room settee, clad in sweaters and socks watching a repeat wrestling match on television. Hassan’s ailment had plagued him for almost one week. When he inhaled, it sounded like a fuel- starved truck moving up a steep hill.

“Why don’t you go to the clinic?” I asked for the umpteenth time, bored and dozing off. The contender was about to deliver a flying kick that would win him the WWE title. “Anything they give you would be better than drinking warm water and salt.” Hassan obliged. He went later that evening. He returned with lozenges and a lost heart.

On the seventh day of January last year, he told me he was getting her an engagement ring. Mentioned it in the most casual terms armed with his trademark smirk. He was here in my house he claimed, to consult Amina on the type to buy.

How dare he do this to me without warning?

I shrugged off a jab of pain and conjured my killer smile, baring all teeth. “Finally taking the step brother? I am delighted. May Allah bless you both.”

I felt prickly sweat below my epidermis. My body itched in one thousand different places and I was certain my face crimsoned.

“Rather fast though” I ventured to add squeezing all the fingers of my left hand with the right.

Amina seemed amazed. “Abu she is a catch and he is perfect.” Something told me she still wasn’t over her obsession.

“Alhamdulillah” was my reply.

Like a hungry pig in a sty, I shadowed them. She had introduced him to social media by that time. I recalled the many occasions I tried to get Hassan to open a Facebook account. His reply, always: “Whatever for Abu?”

Never was there any sign of a quarrel or break-up in their posts. Her photos and status updates spoke simply of passion and luck and contentment to my disdain. I wept alone lots of times. Every second, I spent wishing a protracted illness upon my rival.

A short courtship followed. Before long, invitation cards for the marriage ceremony of Alima to Hassan were distributed. I persuaded myself something might still happen. I could bare my mind to Hassan and make him choose. An unsettled suspicion that his choice would not be in my favor delayed this occurrence.

However, I gathered my courage days to the big day; helped in part by a modest drug overdose. It was to be the turning point of my adult life; a confession soon unfrozen, never to be forgotten.

I spoke to my hero of a concealed love and to his credit, Hassan did not react with outrage. He hugged me close and brushed the tears which streamed down my shamed face. I rubbed his’ off with the back of my palm and managed a smile.

“Bu, I will marry Alima” were his words, using a name he called me only while we were alone. To my hungry ears and wounded heart, it seemed he said other things I longed to hear; “I’d rather have you.”

“You will come?” A statement more than a question.

My nod was barely perceptible. In those moments, I struggled against a particularly intense wish to shout. This must be how heartbreak feels.

“I won’t miss it Alfa” I replied, with my own nickname for him. We laughed awkwardly and somehow without thinking or even planning it, our lips touched. My palms cradled his face while his clutched my shoulders. The finger marks would be visible on my skin when I take off my jersey-turned-T-shirt later that evening. His taste was salty and our kiss long, broken only because in the end, we both needed air.

***

It has been five months since her burial. Hassan left Kano four months, three weeks and five days ago. It’s surprising how natural talking about him with friends has become. We laugh and I even throw in a few private jokes. The finer feelings of my heart lay shut up far away.

“As the moon, shining and shimmering in its orb takes over duty from our sun.”

“When daughter and wife retire for the day and my house goes still.”

I pull aside huge curtains and peer at the scintillating stars. My thoughts are of Hassan; beautiful reveries of what different turns our lives could take in an emancipated world.

Too soon, my knees grumble and I seek the bed turning away from the back of my wife; the poor woman having given up on unimpressive, appalling lovemaking, now comforts herself with sleep all nights while I battle insomnia.

I had a spaceship,

long ago.

Faster than all the empirial ships.

Me against them.

David and Goliath.

I held the stick and manuvered,

Just flying past those lasers.

Just past those tentacles.

Just past the emperor himself.

But not fast enough to outrun time.

I piloted, sitting on the toilet.

Dad’s national geographics,

clustered in their holder,

smell of geraniums outside.

Here it was, in shiny array

of ceramic tiles;

of sensors and weapons,

ready to seek my fortune,

catch the monster,

blow those pirates.

Then math came into my life.

Not a joy, just a chore.

Writing numbers and letters,

and somehow, I forgot.

I lost my spaceship,

not to anything

with cruel intent,

just to my rising blood.

And it is now gone,

adrift , abandoned,

In the dark vacuum.

I search for it sometimes, in the night.

Just can’t help myself.

Where is that spaceship?

But I know that all I’ll find,

If i find,

is the wreckage.

Better keep it lost, then.

Marshmallows suck. There. I said it. Before you attack me hear me out. Let me set the scene. You're sitting outside on a chilly October night, surrounded by your closest friends, laughing and singing dumb campfire songs. Even though the music is loud, the comforting crackling of the fire is still heard and it reminds you that you are here. You are not spinning around alone and forgotten. You are here. In your best friend's backyard, with your other friends, with food, with music. For a split second, everything is okay. You don't think about how you failed your Chemistry test. You don't think about how your dad left. You don't think about how Katniss should have gotten with Gale. You don't feel crippled by life. You feel okay.

Until Emma brings out the marshmallows. Sure, some people like them. They're soft. Squishy. Kind of like boobs. But those little clouds of gelatin, corn starch, sugar and water are demons in disguise. They are impossible to roast properly. If you overcook them they shrivel and burn, just like your GPA. If you undercook them, they're hot and cold. Indecisive. Just like that girl you were gonna ask out. Marshmallows can act like they are perfect. All golden on the outside when really they are just sticky and gross on the inside, just like your life. On the outside you seem to have everything together when in reality you are just as confused and lost as everyone else. But, for the sake of those still clinging to the hope that marshmallows are good, lets just say you were able to correctly cook one. It's golden. Melty. Not too burnt, not too soft. Right in between.

Now try eating it. You can try this three different ways. The first, is just eating it right off the skewer. Good luck with that. You will burn your face off. In your haste to remove the smoldering skewer from your face you will burn your fingers. You will end up in the emergency room with second degree burns and when the nurse asks you what happened, you will lose all dignity and tell her you tried to eat a marshmallow.

The second, is waiting until the marshmallow has cooled down enough to touch and eating it with your hands. Bad plan. Very. Bad. Plan. Only three things can bring something together faster than a college student with a two hour deadline; Hate, the gel form of super glue and a half melted marshmallow. Got melted marshmallow between your fingers? Get used to living a cohesive life with your fingers cemented together, because friend, that's never coming off. It will get stuck in your hair. It will get stuck in your clothes. Accidentally touch someone? Congratulations! You and that poor person are now siamese twins. There is no escaping it. You will suffer through life with a preventable handicap. All because you tried to eat a marshmallow.

The third and final way one can try to enjoy a marshmallow is by making a smore. What could be better than a warm chocolate covered melted marshmallow squished between two golden graham crackers? Sanity. Have you ever tried to eat a smore? The chocolate never stays on the marshmallow. The graham crackers always break. You will burn fingers and your mouth. The chocolate will always be colder than the marshmallow. And those are just the trials of eating a smore, I'm not even going to mention how hard it is to make one. Twenty years later you are still living in denial. You still pretend to enjoy this process. You are trapped in a never ending saga, because you just had to eat a marshmallow.

So, Emma brings out the marshmallows. Everyone gets up and goes for the skewers. You sit alone, accompanied only by the cold air, distant laughter from friends and the fire. The red, blue and orange swirl together into flames and the comforting crackling has now turned into a mocking laugh. You are alone. Again. Marshmallows suck.