Kareemah; The Fulani Girl - Poems For Review - Nairaland
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| Kareemah; The Fulani Girl by talk2ahmed(m): 1:40pm On Jul 12, 2010 |
Up till today, whatever the prejudices against the Fulani’s may be, I take an exception. Kareemah was one Fulani girl who made me gape and awe always by her niceties. She was the personification of beauty; thin voiced, tender, timid and small, light skinned, pink lipped with tiny fingers. It wasn’t just these alone, but her intelligence, she was a walking dictionary. Precocious, and at once quick-witted. I learnt she later became a Neuro-surgeon. Damn! Everything about her simply complemented her essence, pacing with the grace of a pussycat; her eyes had a sparkling quality of originality; liquid with innocence. Today, I remember her for what she provoked in me; giddy feelings. I fantasized about her a lot, not even when she had to go out during breaks. ‘Do you want choco-mints or strawberry? ’ I’ll ask, she’ll simply use her eyes to select one from my open hands and then I handed it to her, while she thanked me. Her uniform was trim to her slim shape, I liked her Addidas Mukluk…mine was a plane Nike brand boot. It happened that in primary six, the year I really hoped a primary seven was created just to make sure we continued as one class. We were paired up-males and females on every seat. Kareemah was my seatmate, whenever she answered questions in class, you hear the discreet echoes of boys mimicking her in admiration. She closes her eyes in slight resentment. I habitually accompanied her home, we started really liking each other; we had to remain likers because at that age, being lovers was criminal. Just as my parents had warned, she must have been warned not to come too close to boys ‘because they were dangerous’. I knew we liked each other because I never shared my noodles meal with anyone except her…she noshes it like my kid sister does. I take up her school bag and hang it over my shoulders, she hinges mine too over her back with her beige cardigan around her nape. Atimes I take a different route, going past my house to avoid being seen by any of my folks. Walking home with a girl meant you were a bad boy. I knew I wasn’t the boy her parents warned her of, so our routine continued. When we get near her house, we smiled at each other and then I return home. No handshakes. She rather offers me caramel bars and cheap candies. I had mother tongue interference in my speech. The one time she ever jittered me was when she tapped nitpickedly at my wrist emphatically telling me there was “no such thing as milkish colour”. I wasn’t so good in English so I copied some lovely lines from a story book, after exactly two days of editing, checking up my Longman dictionary for probable errors and colouring the edge of the paper with a highlighter Marker…I finally had a love letter for my Kareemah. During a health science class, I summoned courage after the second break to deliver my missive. I aimed at her bosom pocket and dropped the letter into it. She whiffed playfully at the letter before reading it. Just as I did that, fear started creeping in from my shirt collar, so much that my right foot knocked the front desk steel legs mistakenly. Fear of her laughter, I imagined her laughing and jeering while reading my grammatical blunders. Trust me, few minutes later I stretched my hand in her direction, ‘Give me!’ I demanded, ‘Give you what?’ she declined, making nose to me, I pressured on…yet she still refused. She shrugged and wouldn’t bulge. Throwing a dog-eared notebook at me I ducked then plunged my hand into her pocket without wanting to hurt her in any way to just retrieve my disaster of a letter. Struggle ensued and the chairs creaked just as some stifling sounds of hands against books gave us away. She tweaked my hand in protest. “What is that…?” the teacher cautioned, while the parts of the class susurrated in symbiosis. You see now! She murmured withdrawingly. Fear swooshed in through my ears and I just passed out. I wished I had a lifeline; a magic to disappear. She came for what was obviously falling off Kareemah’s pocket, the nearly squashed letter…she peeked at it and began to read. She read it loudly and the entire class was overwhelmed in barrels of laughter. I died as they laughed; tears came to my eyes because of her dearness to me. ‘I’m sorry’ she muttered. ‘Why’ I asked and she could feel the warmth of my response on her cheek. Before the last class ended, I ran home. The next day, I dodged school. She traced my house that very day, enthused. She implored while fiddling with her cardigan and avoiding my eyes, “I didn’t talk to anyone in class today because you didn’t come”. In a blend of shame and excitement, I couldn’t say a word, I went in and fetched her a glass of water. I hadn’t changed into my house wear yet, so I started seeing her off, she promised to call-by every morning for us to walk up to school together. Whenever we were together, she exudes a special scent; I smelled sweetness, sweetness beyond my olfactory satisfaction when she handed her sharp-lead-yellow pencil to me, “don’t forget to come with it” as if to ensure I don’t abscond from school the next day. She became a goddess in my eyes…she became my barometer for measuring friendship for many years to come. If not for Kareemah, I might never have learnt how to effectively use my lips. Until I married, she was the first and only girl I ever kissed. |
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