From its very first line “SEASON OF CRIMSON BLOSSOMS” (SOCB) establishes its determination to be an unusual story. This first line goes: “Hajiya Binta Zubairu was finally born at fifty-five when a dark-lipped rogue with short, spiky hair, like a field of minuscule anthills, scaled her fence and landed, boots and all, in the puddle that was her heart”
Naturally, the question, begotten by this beginning in the mind of the reader, is: “How can one be born at fifty-five?”
And having wasted no time in introducing the protagonist, (from then on mostly referred to as Binta), the story sets about explaining the riddles buried deep in its opening.
We get to know that Binta is a respectable middle-aged widow, of the Muslim faith, living with her niece and granddaughter in Abuja, the Federal Capital Territory of Nigeria.
Having lost her husband to religious crisis that erupted in Jos, Plateau State, Nigeria some ten years back, she had had to relocate to Abuja to save her from subsequent clashes between Christians and Muslims after the first one to which her husband had fallen victim.
It is while living her quiet life as a widow that fate crossed her path with that of Reza, an alias for Hassan Babale, (the second major protagonist). Reza is an underworld kingpin who, driven by desperation to raise urgent cash, had scaled the fence of Binta’s house, in her absence, to pick some valuables only to be surprised by her sudden return.
From that first meeting between a middle aged respectable widow and a twenty-six-year-old “dan iska” (vernacular that roughly approximates to scoundrel), the lives of the two are hurtled out of their normal trajectory. This happens because of the unlikely very strong physical attraction between the two that quickly develops into a sizzling unrestrained affair.
The age difference between the two unorthodox lovers is not accidental but forms a crucial ingredient of the narrative. For Binta always had a strong reminder of her first son, (whom she harbored a deep sense of guilt and responsibility for his death) whenever she was with or thought about Reza. On the other hand, Reza, who never felt the love of his mother saw in Binta’s affection a compensation for what he was deprived of by his biological mother. So into this mix is thrown the seasoning of Oedipus Complex!
Of course because of its abominable nature, the trysts between a respectable educated Binta and a ganja-smoking uneducated criminal element Reza has to be carefully concealed from the public gaze but as the cliché goes, nothing remains hidden under the sun.
The affair is soon discovered, in degrees. From Binta’s suitor, Mallam Haruna (who was prepared to sacrifice his love for his transistor radio in favor of Binta) to the “Short Ones” (the two fashion crazy female friends of Faiza, Binta’s granddaughter) to the women who attended the same madrasa classes with Binta…and finally to Munkaila, Binta’s well-to-do second son, news of this abominable affair spreads.
In the weaving of his narrative, Abubakar Adam Ibrahim also interspaces lively commentaries on the social and political milieu within which the story is set. One sees society torn by religious crises mostly of a senseless nature pitting old neighbours and friends against one another. The reader is shown the portrait of the politician who sends his child to school in London (and vacation in Spain) whilst sending out Reza and his ilk to perpetrate thuggery and allied crimes to advance his political ambition. The issue is raised about cultural and religious practices/taboos that repress the female for instance the tradition that restricts a woman from displaying affection for her first born which tradition had left Binta traumatised and eventually into the affair with Reza.
Finally, how does the affair end? Of course badly. Binta’s second son Munkaila, outraged upon hearing the scandal rushed to his mother’s house only to find the “dan iska” just about leaving. He attacks Reza who after attempting to evade him is eventually forced to hit him from which unintended blow he dies. To worsen matters for Reza, the Senator whose faithful thug he had always been decides he had become a liability and sells him to the local police who had never been his friend.
And so at the end, Binta loses her lover and her son in addition to her other losses.
In a sense, Binta’s losses represent the losses, the continuing defeats of the weak and helpless in an unjust society. Binta was forced into a marriage in which she had no say. In obedience to what society expected of her, she lived with and bore children for a man for whom she had no affection. In the marriage, still submissive to social expectations, she refrained from the simplest demonstration of affection for her first born: she couldn’t even call him by his first name. Eventually she lost the boy partly as a result of the estrangement enjoined upon their relationship by society. But this loss left her deeply scarred.
In trying to heal this loss in the unorthodox relationship she had with Reza, society came down hard upon her and not only condemned her attempt at self-therapy but punished her by taking away her remaining son and her young lover.
In contradistinction to the fate of the powerless, the symbols of power in the narrative all end on fortunate notes: the corrupt police officer, the Senator-procurer behind the violence and brigandage of Reza and his boys, even the kidnapped niece of a politician: all finally emerge unscathed.
In the final analysis, unorthodoxy as emblematized by the struggles to make meaning of life by the weak and powerless suffers a crushing defeat at the hands of orthodoxy, the powerful who have natural entitlement, it appears, to the good things of life.
This surely is a subtle indictment of society.
Abubakar Adam Ibrahim’s SOCB is a narrative delivered in measured captivating degrees, a story masterfully told.
It is therefore no marvel that it emerged the 2016 winner of the NLNG prize for Literature.
