Ancestor Stones - Aminatta Forna [52]
My body was changing, it was true. My breasts were hard and taut. My nipples protruded. So, in time, did my belly button — popped out like a bubble. Veins coursed like underground rivers beneath my skin. Often I found myself flushed and covered in a sheen of sweat. I did not mind. I loved my body and its little store of surprises. Every morning I oiled my stomach and polished it until it shone, dark and round as a seed pod.
The first few times, Osman stared at me, nothing more. Sometimes he made me turn away. A rustling sound, Osman’s breath came thick and fast. As my pregnancy advanced he made me stand for longer. My feet swelled, I nearly unbalanced. I was shivering and naked. I begged him to let me sleep. There came a time when the tiredness overtook the fear and I sank to the floor.
‘Get up!’ Osman’s voice was low. It occurred to me he did not want anyone to hear us.
‘No, Osman. It’s enough now.’
‘What? Don’t you answer me back. Who do you think you are? You are my wife.’
‘Yes. Your wife who is pregnant — with your child. If you want your child to be born healthy then leave me alone and let me sleep.’
My tone of voice I knew was too strong. My mother had warned me of this. I had begun to feel contempt for Osman. I couldn’t help myself, I added: ‘Look at yourself Osman. What kind of man behaves this way?’
Osman stood over me. He reached down and seized my arm, tried to haul me to my feet. I let myself go limp. My weight was almost beyond his strength. Above me I could feel his rage massing, but I didn’t care any more. Who was this man? Not the one I had married. Osman continued to tug at me as I sprawled on the floor.
An image leaped unbidden into my mind. Of the two of us in the middle of the night, fighting like children. Maybe I was on the verge of hysteria. I think probably I was. I couldn’t help it. I laughed. A short, high-pitched shriek. The sound of the laugh sounded funny to my ears. I laughed again. I found I couldn’t stop. Osman let go of me. Good, I thought. I started up from the floor. Then he kicked me. The blow landed on my buttock and set my whole body quivering. I fell forward on to my knees. Now I was on all fours. Before I could get up, he kicked me again at the base of my spine.
At first I was too angry and my anger made me stubborn. I clamped my mouth shut and held on to my screams. Osman grasped my hair, swung my head around and slapped me. I tried to crawl away from him, naked on my hands and knees. There was nowhere to go. Instead I crawled around the room as he aimed blows at me. His panting grew hoarse as he wore himself out on me. In the end I allowed him to win.
I let the tears flow. I begged him to stop.
And I opened my eyes.
And when they were finally open I learned a lot about my husband in a short time.
Osman Iscandari. Only son of his mother, a woman with a cat’s cry for a voice who wore two strings of prayer beads wrapped in her headdress, a third looped around her wrist. Always sick. Always complaining her body was too warm or too cold. When she came to visit I saw the way she watched her son’s face all day, waiting for his expression to change so she could jump up and fetch him a bowl of roasted groundnuts or a sweet potato cake or offer to rub his head. When we gathered to eat in the evening she picked out all the best pieces of meat from the stew and gave them to Osman. At night she sat on the verandah with his head in her lap, braiding his hair.
My husband had three sisters who were married and lived nearby, but in the time I had lived in that house rarely did I see them come to visit their brother. And when the youngest one of the sisters did call, I noticed the way she spoke little, only answering: ‘Yes, brother,’ and did not look Osman in the eye or stay to