The Absence Of Constraint

Amna watched the butterfly flit against the broken glass of the window, desperate in its escape quest, the peas she’d been shelling momentarily forgotten. 

She watched it beat its multicolored wings, increasingly frantic, then finally got up to crack the lever open so it could regain its freedom. 

Regarding her own reflection in the glass, she traced her split lip and her sunken eyes, the bags that accompanied them like loyal bodyguards, and wondered when she had grown so old.

A familiar sound jolted her out of her reverie, and she heard him long before he appeared, the sounds of objects crashing to the ground and the stamp of his heavy feet announcing his imminent arrival better than any escort would have. 

Like clockwork she felt herself shrivel up, sinking into that place inside her that had learned how to survive what she knew was coming. 

"AMNA!"

His roar shook the very foundations of their tiny house, its run-down existence wilting further under the careless assault of its owner; doors creaking as they were slammed, drawers quaking when they were flung across the room. 

Amna quaked with them, grasping at the folds of her dress—almost tearing the worn fabric—and trying to contain her harsh breathing. She felt the beginning of tears gathering at the corners of her eyes and ruthlessly pushed them back. He hated it when she cried. 

"Where are my cigars?!" He snarled at her, finally manifesting in the doorway and looming over her. 

The dim lighting gave him a fearful shadow, darkening an already hateful countenance to unbearable heights.

"I put them on the dresser," She said hurriedly, trying to quell her shaking frame.

 "Please. They're right there."

"They are not!" He growled, taking large steps toward her corner of the room.

 "Do you know how expensive they are?"

"Please, Omar, I put them right there so you wouldn’t miss them. I swear it!" She held her hands out pleadingly, as though she could somehow stave off the inevitable. 

But she already knew.

Her husband reached for his belt, and she started to wail.

#

The party was in full swing by the time they arrived at Alhaji Sanusi's extravagant home, the only house on Pilton street that wasn't faded and crumbling, glory long past. 

An infiltrator into the frayed threads of their lives reflected in the eyes of its weary inhabitants. The Sanusi's monthly parties were always welcomed, if only because they gave their neighbors a chance to forget themselves for a night before they had to go back to drowning themselves in their sorrows.

"You're so lucky Amna, married to such a charming man! And one so considerate as well!"

Omar pinched the skin of her back in warning as the owner of the voice approached, revealing Mrs. Sanusi in all her bejeweled glory; behind her, the recently widowed Maria Ibrahim smiled thinly. 

He needn't have bothered of course. Amna had no plans to reveal the truth of her life to any of these people. None of them would have believed her anyway.

 Omar had made himself too well-loved in this community for anyone to ever believe he was anything other than what he said he was.

His previously missing cigar case—which had been in his back pocket where he’d put it the day before, and promptly forgotten about it—dug into the welts on her skin as he guided her properly into the large hall, a show of gentlemanly consideration that made all the women in the room smile. 

Ah, young love!

Omar engaged Mrs. Sanusi in conversation, moving away to further soak in the admiration of his fans, and Amna moved towards the house’s cavernous windows, drawn as she always was to the outside world and the freedom it offered. 

She sighed and shifted, trying to find a position that didn’t send flares of pain up her back.

Amna leaned against the wall as Maria approached, her skintight dress clinging to her hips for dear life. 

She was a stunning woman, and there was a time Amna had been happy about her starting an affair with Omar because she’d thought it would keep his attention off of her. 

Until Maria started wincing whenever she sat down, and Amna realized her husband had just found himself a new toy.

“Are you alright?” Amna murmured, lips barely moving. 

“No. You?”

“No.”

 They looked at each other, two unhappy women sharing the attention of a monster they could not escape, the sound of jazz music playing in the background choking the air between them and reminding them of their shared despair.

Amna glanced over to where her husband was holding court, gesticulating wildly. He paused in his conversation to instruct one of Sanusi's teenage daughters towards the bowl of cashew nuts on a side table, patting her cheek and giving her a winning smile. 

His eyes lingered on her and the girl blushed profusely at the attention, her fair skin exposing her pleasure at garnering the attention of such a handsome man. Amna cocked her head consideringly. Well then.

She walked up to the girl as she picked up the cashew nuts, and whispered.

“He prefers them mixed with peanuts actually,” gesturing at the heaping bowl nestled among the other finger foods.

The young woman’s guilt at being caught out on her crush by the wife of the object of her attraction was immediate, but Amna just nodded encouragingly at her. 

She nodded back in obvious relief and headed over to Omar with her prize balanced in her hands. He grabbed the bowl without even looking and immediately started shoving its contents in his mouth.

Maria sidled up to Amna.

 “Isn’t he severely allergic to peanuts?” She asked, nose scrunched up in confusion. 

“Yes.”

“Then why—oh." she whispered, turning to look at Amna. 

Amna looked back at her, and they both smiled.

Behind them, the sound of panicked choking filled the air.

About The Author:

Fatima Abdullahi is a Nigerian-born writer and poet, though she once hated the genre. She'd thought it was pretentious and was trying too hard.

 Then she joined Robert Frost on his road not taken, and her whole world changed. By the time she found out about Laila and Majnoon, she was in love.

 A graduate of Mass Communication with a penchant for the dramatic, she writes on heartfelt subjects including humanity, love, loss and depression. 

Her works are forthcoming in various publications, including The Shady Grove Literature, and The First Line Literary Journal. Find her on Instagram as @her_abstractions.