Dear Friday,
I have been nursing the idea of writing to you for a long time. I love writing to or about the people and things I love, but I always wonder how best to begin, or what to say to you. You are so many things that I do not know how best to string words together and form a letter to you. Are you surprised? Don’t be. I may be good with words, but those treacherous beings have a way of deserting me when they are needed the most, which is quite ironic for someone who is supposed to be a poet. Do not be surprised, you do not have to be human for me to love you.
I love you for a lot of reasons. As a child, I loved you because you were that special day when school closed early. Lessons were cut in half, and the teachers, and everyone else, were convinced that for some reason, the whole day should end by noon. Then, we just had to go to school for four hours and we were free. And when we came back home, we were treated to the best meals. Special Friday delicacies. You were the day Mama loved to make masa the most. Or even tuwon shinkafa da miyar taushe, in the afternoon, and rice at night. You were about the only day rice was cooked at night. Mama made tuwo every night so much that I thought doing so was some sort of divine instruction. We were also dressed in our best attires, and allowed to go visit relatives. We got to go to our aunts’ and uncles’ and play with our cousins or meet at our grandparents’ and fill the house with our laughter and mischief. And we got money too. Those shiny coins, and later, pieces of paper, were the gateway to dreams. I didn’t know making money would be difficult as an adult, I would have started saving back then. But back then, nothing was more important than the taste of ice cream as it melted on our tongues, and the crispiness of fried fish as we munched it, basked in our ignorance, oblivious of what was lurking behind the facade of freedom that adulthood wore.
I didn’t stop loving you even when adulthood came and stole most of the things that made you joyful as a child. You didn’t abandon me either. Of course, you couldn’t hold onto all the things that made you special as a child, but you tried your best. At least you never allowed me to stop dressing up on Fridays. I can still go days without putting on any traditional attire, but not on you. You are sacred for me. And dressing up on your days, is my effort at holding on to a culture that is fast disappearing. Your days were no longer short in the university, it was mostly business as usual, but you had your own charms. Like how, when I took lectures at the old campus, I looked forward to you so that I would listen to the khudba and pray the Friday prayers. I loved the silence when the Imam’s voice travelled through the audience. I loved seeing the elderly women, who were regulars at the mosque, dress in their best attires and sit to pray. I loved it when the ladan said “a tsaya, a shiga sahu, a rufe salula, babban dan yatsa a kan layi, rufe salula malam”. I loved the imam’s voice. I always imagined how his lips moved, and his tongue rolled when he recited the Qur’an.
You were also my favorite day for a date, back when I still had those. I grew up in a culture where Friday was especially reserved for love. So many Friday nights when I had to go out when the night was still young, I passed by young couples seated on mats spread on dakali or on the floor in a zaure. Some with kerosine lamps engulfing them in their soft yellow lights, illuminating them so that it would be clear to whoever was passing by that nothing sinister was going on. You’re the day people looked forward to meeting the loves of their lives. To feel the butterflies flutter in their stomachs when they lock gaze with their lovers, and to forget their worries in the temporary sanctuary that love provides. So, I tried to pick up this tradition too, for the few times love was strong enough to sweep me off my feet. And even though by the time it was my turn, the charm of kerosene lamps was missing and few dakalis existed in my neighborhood, I improvised. I looked forward to when the Sleeper would come in your evenings, and we would sit, and talk, somewhere under the shade of that tree outside the female hostel in AKTH, with the moon sometimes staring down at us through the windows between the leaves. And on some other days, I looked forward to your coming for that was when I mostly went home after some weeks for the weekend, and if luck was on my side, I got to come back to the hostel with some cash in my wallet and foodstuff in my bag.
And now as an adult, who must work five or six days a week, I look forward to you because most times, you come bearing the gift of the weekend. A time when I could stay at home, and if I was lucky enough to avoid a wedding invitation, or some literary event of some sort, I could relax. When you come, it means there will be two days without the constant humming of analyzers and refrigerators, the nagging of bosses who never seem to be satisfied, the endless questions from interns and students, and the overwhelming atmosphere of the hospital environment.
Above all, I love you most for the spiritual haven you carry. The tranquility of your evenings. The promise in your nights. The voices of worshippers in some mosques as they praise their Lord and His Beloved. The way I go through most of the day trying to moisten my tongue with the praises of him who is worthy of all praise. and how moments when your sun is about to set, I lie down quietly somewhere, with my eyes closed, shedding off the weight on my back and conversing in a language that is never spoken with words.
With Love
Nasiba.
- In The Poetry of Life: The What-Ifs | Nasiba Babale - December 6, 2024
- In The Poetry of Life: The Last Stanza | Nasiba Babale - November 22, 2024
- In The Poetry of Life: Dear Friday | Nasiba Babale - November 8, 2024
