II
Naboro was the last of the children. She was born after the ’79 coup. He hadn’t known about her until the day Zahara, his wife, took her to the prison. Naboro was, in some ways, the most important of them all; she was the girl he had always longed for after a parade of boys.
He could have refused the pardon and stayed in prison, waiting for his time. But the empty eyes of the child in the picture haunted him in his sleep. This was the child he held in his hands only once, early in his incarceration, when Zahara brought her to prison to meet him. Naboro, a little bundle, sucked her thumb as she slept, oblivious to the world she had been brought into. He felt a pain sweep through him like a searing flame when he held her. He looked Zahara in the eyes and quietly asked her not to bring the child to him again. He didn’t want his only daughter to see her father as a condemned man—a man counting the stars each night through his prison window, thinking that if the poison did not kill him, then the executioner would summon him. Each night, he counted stars he believed would be his last. The sky has a multitude of stars if one has been counting them for 25 years.
He accepted the pardon as his only ticket to knowing his daughter. He stopped caring about the cause of being imprisoned. He thought that perhaps meeting her would atone for his sins in a past life. Many reasons could have pushed him to turn down the pardon. He had grown used to the mechanical life—waking up at 4 a.m. for the morning drill and gruelling work, all before a light breakfast of porridge, meant to last until lunch, when he ate half-cooked posho, beans, and cabbage, followed by an equally miserly supper. He lost his sense of taste. You lose many things in prison if you intend to survive. You build a mechanism around you and adapt to the new life. You try to block out those left behind and the luxuries with which you once lived. To him, morning, noon, and night lost meaning and melded into one., as though the day consisted of one long circle drawn around his eyes. He was tired of rolling his head to see the end of the circle.
He resigned to this state of being until an agitated Zahara visited him. They sat in the meeting room and chatted about general things.
“Do you still have the sore throat?” she asked quietly, keeping her gaze on the table.
“I am fine.”
“I am glad to hear you are fine . . .” she sniffed, fighting back tears.
“What’s the matter, Zahara?”
“Nothing,” she said.
“Something is wrong.”
She shook her head vehemently. He stretched his hand across the table and lifted her chin. The tears that filled her eyes sparkled like crystal. He let go of her chin.
“Tell me what’s bothering you.”
“Naboro keeps asking for her father. She cries each time she asks for you. And I don’t know what to tell her.”
He reached for her hands. “Look into my eyes,” he whispered. She lifted her head and stared at him.
He wiped the tears from her cheeks. “Do not cry,” he told her. “Tell the little girl that her daddy is not coming home. Tell her anything, but do not tell her that he is in prison.”
She nodded, taking a white handkerchief from her handbag and wiping her eyes.
“What about the boys?” she asked.
“They are old enough,” he said. “You can tell them the truth—but not the girl.”
She pulled a black-and-white picture from a brown envelope and gave it to him. “I want you to remember your daughter.”
He held the picture in his hands and studied the chubby face that smiled at him. Those glittering eyes made him forget everything. They made him realize his loss, and they eventually started haunting him. He prayed for another day to see his daughter, hoping that God would pardon him. And when his prayers were answered, he signed his pardon papers without hesitation. He knew his time in this life was winding down, and he could not afford the indulgence of saying NO to the MAN. He walked out of confinement, leaving his mates behind and trading 25 years for a few months with his only daughter.
As he sat on the bed she had suddenly left, emptiness engulfed him. He thought of his life in confinement with nostalgia. Perhaps he hoped for too much. Perhaps he should never have returned. Perhaps the charade should have continued. But he knew he couldn’t handle prison any longer. He stopped handling it when the doctor told him about the malignant cyst growing on his liver. He counted his time and wanted to make peace with everyone; mostly, he wanted to reconcile with his daughter. If he could earn her forgiveness, then he would die at peace with the world. That is why he blindly signed the pardon papers the day his lawyer waved them before him. He agreed to the conditions of his release: holding press conferences to praise the MAN and not commenting on the political scene. He signed away his voice and opinions. None of this mattered anymore. All that filled his mind was little Naboro. But was coming home the right thing to do?
Zahara entered slowly. Their eyes met. He hung his head and could not hold her gaze. She walked to him and sat beside him, resting her hand on his shoulders.
“Naboro will get ’round to having you around,” she consoled.
His shoulders drooping, he nodded slowly.”I don’t blame her. I’m just a stranger in her life,” he said dejectedly.
“That may be true,” she uttered, “but it does not change the fact that you are her father. You have to give her time.”
“Time is what eludes me, Zahara.” He looked up at his wife, with pools of water flooding his eyes.
“Nasser,” she interjected, “we have all the time in the world, and we shall use it.”
“I’m drowning,” he said.
“Forget the doctor’s diagnosis,” Zahara soothed. “He could be wrong,” she said, squeezing his shoulders. “He must be wrong.”
He lifted his hand and covered hers. He closed his eyes tightly and inhaled her scent. His Zahara, ever naive and believing in miracles.
“I wish it were true,” he sighed, “I wish it were true.”
