The Arts-Muse Fair

  The first night of lockdown, Aliyu and Hafsat sat together and talked, for the first time like husband and wife. Since their arranged, brief wedding in January, they had been living in their 3-bedroom flat, like tenants from different ethnic groups, avoiding each other, saying only salam with stoic faces whenever they ran into each other. Until today. Usually, she stayed in her bedroom when he was in the living room, watching TV or relaxing and he did the same. But this night, the brief power cut forced her out of her room when the heat of March became unbearable. She found him sitting on the couch, pressing his phone and fanning himself with a book. She wanted to turn back but she decided she wasn't ready to be suffocated by the heat because of a husband that was forced on her. She said salam, sat on the sofa across from him. From the glow of his phone, she could see that he wore only a singlet and sweatpants. She stood up, adjusted the curtains to let in more breeze and got

Photo credit: Aminu S Muhammad BY ADESINA AJALA He writhes violently on the bed like a dying fowl slithered in the throat, blood spurts from a ragged hole in his chest. He starts to gasp, mumbling unknown words before he goes drowsy. She feels the edge of the knife again and rubs the sticky blood between her fingers. Her heart speeds, as if it were crashing into the side rails, as if it were about to tumble into the sea. She takes a glimpse at him again. He's drooling thick saliva now. She saunters to the bathroom and kneels under the pouring shower. She washes her guilt into the cesspool. Like Pontius Pilate. She inches to the side of the bathroom; the mirror reflects her demons back to her. She bites her lips. The crown of her wedding ring carries a stain of his blood. She moans and whimpers, then let her voice starts to climb high, a coarse cry breaks from her throat. Sweat, blood and tears. Grief overwhelms her now. Her conscience stings her. She runs downs