Karma Circle
Interwoven tales of karma
Amira always hauls outstanding grades home, rolls of 70% grades to knead her Auntie, Halima’s ego. Today, the last day of term isn’t any different, she topped her class. Halima cautions her to “Gently, gently, place the report card in my palms, gently.” She squeals, places the report card on the sofa and embraces Amira.
“You’ve made me so proud.”
She reels off from Amira, picks up the report card and hops to the wall where she pins Amira’s report cards to extract praises from guests. Halima has a son and two daughters whose report cards, though occasionally outstanding, have homes in padlocked briefcases, because, “I don’t want the evil eye on my children.”
No expectations of evil eyes for Amira, because: Who envies a charity case?
Halima brags to family and friends that she lit a bonfire inside Amira’s brain and the results are evident even to the blind. The condescension grates Amira’s skin, so she pads her list of school needs without remorse. Life, as she sees it, is a sea of give-and-take opportunities. She gives Halima bragging rights, and she takes more money than she needs from her in return.
Amira slinks to Halima and presents next term’s list. She balances on her toes and bows her head.
“I hope the cost isn’t too much.”
Halima giggles to dismiss the absurdity of anything ever being too much for her. She unzips her bag and counts the naira in whispers.
“I’ve added fifteen, treat yourself to a movie. Invite your friends.”
Amira thinks. “Is she finally realizing that I’m a child, not a trophy?”
She hugs Halima.
“Thank you so much, Auntie! But those girls in my class are very unserious, and you know it’s our final year.”
“You’re right. You’ll make better friends at university.”
Halima sighs.
“Oh, today is salary day,” she points at the corridor, rolling her eyes. “Go and rest, let me deal with that headache.”
Amira skips to her room, thinking of more money extraction strategies. If she levels up her further maths grade to the high eighties, it might persuade Halima to send her abroad like she plans to for her own children. Amira decides to finally contact the famous Ustadha Samira with the ‘miraculous studying elixir.’
Halima had promised to increase her cook’s salary under stressed conditions: her husband hadn’t responded to her text about their vacation plans. The crafty cook sensed her weakened defense and pounced. Things are hard, but people see a big house, cars, and children, and assume their employers laugh to sleep. Besides, she can’t be blamed for the cook’s fondness for cradling children in her womb.
“Who has three children in five years?” she says out loud to an empty corridor.
The naira keeps collapsing. Inflation everywhere. How much did she promise again? Ten or thirty?
“Why did I make that promise? She can’t leave, she needs this job. Ten-thousand or is it thirty… too much for just a cook. I’d enter the kitchen myself, if I wasn’t so busy with my children. Plus, my niece. And my bakery…”
Halima inhales, and advances into the kitchen.
“Have you finished the stew? Good. And the fridge, cleaned? Good. About your salary, I’ll add three thousand. That’s all I can afford right now.”
Her phone buzzes, it’s her son’s private tutor, Munira. The prescient angel.
“Hello?”
Munira buzzes with euphoria.
“Good morning ma. Good news, I’ve been able to get the exam papers for our boy. But there’s a price. You know how things work. But we must do everything to get him to succeed. Okay, I’ll send the total.”
Munira feigns laughter at the pathetic, anything but funny comedic response from the other end.
“Okay ma, I’ll send it your email. Thank you.”
She receives the credit alert in a blink. More funds to purchase her dream car. Easiest business model: bribe her way to get exam papers for her tutees then pump the price for their parents.
Her eyes jerk with fatigue. Someone knocks at her door. She yawns, hisses.
“Who’s knocking?”
Munira reluctantly welcomes Zulai, her friend, former colleague and serial debtor into her room.
“See how your smile vanished when you opened the door. Is my face ugly?” Zulai asks.
She slips her handbag off one shoulder and onto the other as if she’s afraid of Munira snatching it to settle her outstanding debts.
Munira apologizes for the carpet of clothes on the floor, the books and papers skidding off the desk, and the scruffy bed. She lifts a few clothes and clears a space on the bed for Zulai.
“I hope you’re here to pay me back.”
“If I had all those juicy private tutorial gigs like you, I’d have paid you back since. You’ve refused to recommend me.”
“Recommend or dash you?”
Zulai laughs. “Anyone will do.”
“Did you meet my mother downstairs?” Munira asks. “She was about to go out.”
Munira exits and returns with a bottle of coke and a plate of chin-chin.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” Munira says, dropping the items beside Zulai’s feet.
“No, it’s the new job. The school is too hectic.”
Munira coughs.
“Rumours say the pay is good.”
“Lies! I’m barely breathing. In fact…” Zulai shuffles to the edge of the bed then grips Munira’s hands.
“I see where this is going. No. No more,” Munira says.
“Even at your worst, you have your family to fall back on. What do I have? This is the last time.”
“Every time is the last time.”
“The principal has promised to raise my salary after my probationary period. I’ll pay you back with interest!”
“Interest is HARAM!”
“All I need is fifty, that’s all.”
“Fifty is what you call that’s all?”
Zulai kneels.
Munira hisses, picks up her phone and transfers the money.
“You’re already leaving?”
“Yes,” Zulai says. “I need the money urgently so I can settle something.”
“I hope you’re not using my money to pay off other debts!”
“I’ll pay back. I promise,” Zulai says.
After crossing to the next street, Zulai dials her sister.
“Hello? You’ve seen the money?”
“Yes! I’ve ordered the parts already. She believed you?” her sister asks.
“Yes. Oh! She likes feeling like a philanthropist, foolish woman.”
Zulai’s stomach rumbles. “Let me call you later, I need to hunt that useless tailor.”
Madam Asiya spies Zulai flying towards her shop, muttering as if she’s heading for war. She hisses and turns to her employees and their rattling sewing machine.
“How can someone so pretty with a fair face like that act like a thug?” she asks, then she rushes out of her shop singing Zulai’s praises.
“Welcome, oh, you’re shining, oh, the sun should just hide today, why do we need it when we have you?” She offers to hold Zulai’s handbag but is thwarted by a sharp thwack on her arms.
“Ah! This woman is too violent. They said she’s a teacher, her poor students must be suffering,” Madam Asiya thinks.
Zulai tucks her handbag in her armpit. “Are my clothes ready?”
“Not yet ma.”
“You said three weeks, we are getting to six. Whatever you’ve done, just give me.”
“Good things take time ma. Please come in, have a seat. Let me get you something to eat.”
Madam Asiya soothes down Zulai’s protests, orders her assistant to “Take very good care of her, while I get her something cold,” and spins out of her shop.
Standing outside a snack shop, Madam Asiya calls her other customer, the woman she rented Zulai’s clothes to.
“Hello? Hello? HELLO?”
“I can hear you.”
“When are you bringing back those clothes?” Madam Asiya asks. “I’m tired of making up stories.”
“I traveled. I’ll bring them next week.”
“Last week you were mourning, now you’ve traveled?”
“I like those clothes. Let me pay for them.”
“Is this woman crazy? Is she completely useless? Wait. Oh… I know her address,” Madam Asiya thinks, recalling a bumpy cab ride that led to an affluent estate flanked by wild grass and orange trees.
“The owner is at my shop, shouting and threatening to call the police. I don’t like problems. Bring them back!”
“I’ll send 10k to you. I really like them; you need to hear the compliments.”
“That wasn’t our agreement. Our agreement was only rent. Ah, you’ve never treated me like this.”
“More reason why you should allow me to buy them. Okay, let me pay 15.”
“No.”
“17.”
An idea strikes Madam Asiya. “Let’s see if she’ll keep raising the price.”
“No.”
“25, final offer.”
“40k or nothing,” Madam Asiya says.
“25.”
“35k or I’ll send the owner of the clothes to your house. And she’s a CONFIRMED mad woman.”
“Fine.”
“Send it now.”
Madam Asiya enters a grocery store, buys one bottle each of fanta, sprite and seven-up, plus those biscuits in the red and yellow pack that Zulai is fond of chewing like a goat.
She decides her next step, “after two days, I’ll call her crying that my shop was robbed.”
Nana, one of the plaza’s security guards clocks Madam Asiya smiling as if she found money on the roadside. She jumps in front of her. “You will not pass this place until you pay.”
“For what?”
“Loitering.”
“Loitering? My shop is just there.”
“Pay. Or, you won’t pass. Simple.”
“This plaza is becoming something else. I pay rent. I pay maintenance fees, still I pay for my own power. Now, I must pay for security? For what? What kind of place is this?”
“Protection fees.”
“What?”
“Haven’t you heard about the rampant theft going on? I’ll protect your shop.”
“Isn’t that your job?”
“When they come, I’ll swallow Panadol night and sleep.”
“Come in the evening.”
“Better be around, or I’ll be the one leading the thieves to your shop.”
“If you cheat me, someone will cheat you too!” Madam Asiya warns.
The security guard beats her chest. “God is my protector.”
“That woman irritates me,” Nana thinks. “Her shop is always busy, with fancy handbag carrying women. She doesn’t have a choice. She will pay.”
“Ah! Ustadha!” Nana runs to Ustadha Samira, the “solution” woman.
Ustadha Samira groans as she notices Nana hastening to her.
“Hopefully what I gave her worked. She looks happy. I guess it did.”
“Sister! Assalamu Alaikum,” Ustadha Samira says. She speeds up and embraces the security guard. “I’m so happy to see a blessed smile on your face.”
“Wa Alaikum Assalam, Ustadha. We don’t see your face around here anymore.”
“I’ve been very busy.”
“That herb you gave me worked. Very well!”
“I’m happy to hear that.”
“I’m telling you! Since I spread that thing in front of my house, my troublesome in-laws don’t visit at all.”
“Any time they even think of visiting you, they’ll forget immediately,” Ustadha Samira says.
Nana claps.
“Let me be on my way, I just came to buy a few things.” Ustadha Samira steps back. “Actually, Nana, you need to continue buying the herbs. Otherwise, the power will lose its potency.”
“I thought you said it was a one-time purchase.”
“Did I? No. You must have misunderstood. I’ll get a new batch for you.”
Nana scratches her arm. “Still the same price? It’s a lot o.”
“Anything to safeguard your home and peace of mind is worth it,” Ustadha Samira says. “Isn’t that right, sister?”
“You’re right. I’ll make sure I have the money ready in advance.”
“You are blessed.”
“Bye, Bye, Ustadha.”
Ustadha Samira asked Amira to meet her in the plaza; public places are safer, easier to blend. She sees her, leaning on a column, in front of the phone repair shop with a green sliding door. Just like she’d instructed. Amira’s obedience to instructions boded well for their future business relationship.
Amira flails her arms when she sees Ustadha Samira.
The Ustadha clicks her tongue, she pauses, turns her face away and assess the environment as though she’s on bodyguard duty for a VVIP. All clear. She strolls to Amira, leans on a nearby column, and pretends to admire the sky.
“You’re Ustadha Samira right? You match my friend’s description,” Amira whispers.
Ustadha Samira nods.
“I have the money,” Amira says, tapping her yellow handbag.
“Open your palms,” Ustadha Samira says.
She removes a black nylon from the pockets of her hijab, stretches her arms, looks sideways, drops it in Amira’s palms.
“The steps?”
“In the night. Make sure no one sees you or it won’t work. Place two teaspoons inside a cup of warm water. Drink every drop. You’ll become very productive. It’ll give you some meat in the right places too. Win-win.”
“I’m fine with my size,” Amira says, but a visible thrill re-energises her droopy face.
“And,” Amira shifts to the right, so Ustadha Samira can hear her clearly. “Not drugs? I don’t want to do that anymore. That’s why my friend suggested you.”
“No o, all my herbs are completely halal.”
“Great! my cousin has an important exam next term, it might help him too. I hope this will be enough to share.”
Two of her recent customers were found dead in their beds, both were boys. “It was their time,” Ustadha Samira says to herself. Nothing to do with her or her herbs.
“It works perfect for boys too!” She smiles at Amira, “good for their muscle growth.”
Ustadha Samira clenches her teeth to protect her tongue from lashing out at Umma, her plumber. The bathroom’s floor is littered with wrenches, a red hacksaw and brown globules from a dirty shoe. She folds her arms and yells, “When will you finish this job?”
A wrench falls off Umma’s hands, plummeting with a loud clank. Ustadha Samira yells again, “better not make a mark on my new tiles.”
Umma stands, then wipes her hands on the back of her black jeans. She perceived the Ustadha’s shadow earlier, sensing negative energy that hastened her heart beat. The bad-tempered woman doesn’t scare her, she’s an irritant but an amusing one with a high-class taste and a gullible brain.
“Even with her long hijab, this woman likes to shout too much,” Umma thinks.
“I gave you this job because you’re a woman like me. I was impressed by that, but see you disappointing me, just like other plumbers.”
Umma rolls open palms towards Ustadha Samira, as though she’s showing off fresh henna.
“Madam,”
“Ustadha, not Madam.”
“Ustadha, I’m taking time so you can have the best.”
“Why is the best always the most expensive?”
Umma whispers, “common sense.”
“What did you say?”
“Quality mad-Ustadha.”
“You’re disappointing me.”
“Only the best for you. Only the best.”
“Make sure you finish this job soon,” she warns. “I’ll be in my room.”
Umma sends a text to her supplier, in anticipation of getting more money from Ustadha Samira:
Have those cheap faucets arrived?
Before placing the phone back in her tool bag, an unknown number calls her with the voice of a screeching woman, informing her about a horrific accident and an unconscious victim who has her number on top of her recent calls log. Umma checks her log; her younger sister’s name sits on top. She describes her sister to the caller who affirms every detail from the thumb-like birthmark above her collarbone to the white spots of discolored skin on her left arm.
“I’ve taken her to the hospital, but they are refusing to operate until they get paid. They said 30k, okay, okay, can you hear me? Transfer to the hospital account, let me get the details and share with you.”
Umma dials her sister. Switched off. She makes the transfer.
Twenty-two minutes later, her mother’s name flashes on the phone screen. She prefers to ignore her, but her mother tends to fall into paranoia, soaked in “village people have finally caught me,” vibes.
“When are you coming back?” her mother asks, interrupting the plumber’s greeting. “This girl just came back crying. Her phone was stolen.”
“What? Mama, I’ll call you back. I’ll call you back.”
Umma googles the hospital. It doesn’t exist. She dials the number that called her. Switched off.
“Ah! I’ve been scammed. Demonic Fool. May God punish her! I had plans with that money.”
“Mad-Ustadha?” Umma calls out. “They’ve increased the price by 100k!”
