Behind the veil

Mr. Ezekiel Oppong took a deep breath and lay panting like someone who had lapped up a hundred-meter race. That Sunday morning was the second time he had reached the peak of that indescribable ecstasy, and his fourteenth since he smuggled Aisha to this conference on Friday. Beads of sweat dotted his flabby body, especially his forehead and chest, as he lay beside her. Aisha, a young, attractive woman whose body felt like gold to him, was one of the three national service personnel who had been posted to his department a month earlier

“I hope you enjoyed it,” he asked.

Aisha nodded without looking at him. She reached for the sheets, covered herself and stared at the ceiling as if she was reading an encrypted code about life and death.

“What are you thinking about?” Mr. Oppong said

“Nothing,” she said, fighting hard to conceal the sudden onset of a mixture of emotions—anxiety, regret, sadness.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” She nodded and quickly asked, “When are we getting to Accra?”

“We should be in Accra by midday,” Mr. Oppong said. “Do you have an appointment with someone?”

“No. I have to run some errands for my mother,” she lied.

Today was her boyfriend’s birthday, and she had promised to take him out. It was a quarter past nine and she hadn’t called to wish him a happy birthday. She’d spent the whole morning in bed with Mr. Oppong, except when she had to move to the bathroom when the waitress brought breakfast.

Since they checked into the hotel on Friday, she had spent the entire period in the room. She only saw Mr. Oppong in the evenings, and sometimes during coffee breaks, when he would sneak in for a bout or two. The conference ended late Saturday night and departure was Sunday morning, but Mr. Oppong said they should have a little more fun before they left.

Aisha desperately wanted to get back to Accra. Her phone had been off all morning because Mr. Oppong was present and she could not speak with Abu, her boyfriend. If she did, Abu would notice the uneasiness in her voice and probe further. So, she lay there, thinking of a good excuse to give to him.

“We should be home by 1:00 p.m. I have a disciplinary committee’s meeting at church at 2:00 p.m.,” Mr. Oppong said.

“Disciplinary committee? Have some young people had sex?”

“How did you know?”

“I have friends who are Christians and when they talk about discipline in the church, it is almost always the case that some unmarried people have had sex,” she said.

Mr. Oppong was the senior presbyter of his church, the head of the elders of the church, and chairperson of the disciplinary committee. The case his committee was handling involved the youth president who had impregnated the Praises Team leader. They had admitted the offence, but it became contentious when Gideon, for that was the youth president’s name, threatened to leave the church. He’d proposed to marry the previous year, but the church stopped the wedding, saying he needed to save enough to have a decent wedding instead of the court marriage and simple blessing he and his girlfriend wanted to have. The church had set a minimum standard for weddings and anyone who fell short of the requirements was asked to wait. Elizabeth and Gideon, however, could not wait to meet that requirement before they got themselves into trouble.

“But, in this case, should the church not take the blame?” Aisha asked.

“You are right,” Mr. Oppong agreed. “We could have prevented this if the church had relaxed its standard for weddings, but, as it stands, they must take the punishment.”

“What’s their punishment?” Aisha asked, turning to face him for the first time.

“They will be called in front of the congregation on Sunday and their offence will be announced to the church. Their roles in the church will be taken from them and they will be made to sit on a separate bench behind the congregation. They are not to partake in any activity during church service for at least two months. If the elders of the church are convinced that they have repented, they will be taken through counseling and helped to get back on their feet before they are re-admitted to the congregation.”

“So, within this period, where will you sit in church?” Aisha asked, stroking his potbelly gently.

“Of course, in front of the church, where the elders sit. Because I am the senior presbyter, I sit next to the pastor. Why do you ask?”

“I thought there was a special seat for married church elders who spend their Sunday morning in between the thighs of girls young enough to be their daughters.”

“Who says you are young?” Mr. Oppong asked, fighting hard to divert the topic. “My wife does not know a tenth of what you know,” he said and laughed.

“Are you sure?”

“Of course! But, on a more serious note, you have surprised me.”

“In what way?”

“I didn’t know a devout Muslim girl like you could rock me like that. I was expecting to have a difficult time tearing through some hymen and soiling sheets, but you nearly floored me,” he said.

Aisha was quiet for some time, not sure whether to take the praise for her sexual expertise as a compliment or an insult. After some time, she asked thoughtfully, “What makes you think I am a devout Muslim?”

“Everything: the way you dress, how you carry yourself, your veil,” said Mr. Oppong. “Not many Muslim girls wear the veil these days, but I have never seen you without it.”

“Well, that’s how we get it wrong with religion. We care more about being religious than being godly so we spend time emphasizing what is easy to fake while ignoring the core values of purity and integrity, which our religions teach. Any woman can wear the veil if only she is prepared to endure the blistering heat that sometimes burns the face and shoulders,” she said.

Aisha’s voice was getting steady. She was now speaking to Mr. Oppong like a colleague of hers. When Mr. Oppong had picked her up for the conference, one of the first things he told her was to stop addressing him as “Sir.” He had been nice to her since she started her national service. Every Friday, he gave her some money, and, on two occasions when she worked late, he had offered her a ride home. When he first told her to prepare a workshop outside Accra that weekend, she thought it was an official assignment. He’d told her not to tell any of her office colleagues because they might feel jealous about it. “Not many people get that opportunity, especially national service personnel,” he’d said. She felt really special.

Aisha only realised the full import of what she was getting herself into when he asked her to wait alone at a particular spot to be picked up as well as the instructions that followed when she sat in the car. She knew he was married, but she was prepared to do whatever he asked of her. He had assured her of full-time employment after her national service. In a country where getting a job after school was more difficult than swimming across the Atlantic Ocean with a 50-kilogramme rock tied around one’s neck, offering to retain a fresh graduate in a ministry was enticing enough to break any resistance.

It had taken them very little time to break the ice, and for the past two nights, they had got on very well. The only thing she couldn’t do was to call his name without preceding it with “Mr”. Now, she spoke about religious hypocrisy, passionately and forcefully. That was her way of making a point when she believed in something. Back in the university, she was one of the most outspoken students in the philosophy and political science classes.

“I think we are an extremely religious but godless nation,” she went on. “Religion is just a veil we use to cover our wrongdoing in this country.”

“You are right, Aisha,” Mr. Oppong agreed with her. “For instance, corruption is sinking our country, but Christians and Muslims together form over ninety percent of our population. I am yet to see or hear any private or public officer holder in Ghana who swears by a deity while taking office.”

“I always say those corrupt politicians and civil servants are a reflection of us,” Aisha said.

Besides his weakness with women, Mr. Ezekiel Oppong had been implicated in audit reports, one of which Aisha had discovered on the internet while she researched the ministry she was posted for her national service. He was the finance director of the finance ministry and would delay the issuance of cheques to contractors unless there was a kickback for him. When Aisha spoke about corruption among politicians and civil servants, he felt attacked but he did not think the young woman had been in the ministry long enough to know anything about his deals.

“Why do you people always leave out the private sector? Politicians and civil servants are not the only devils in this country. I can tell you the most corrupt person in Ghana today is neither a politician nor a civil servant,” he said.

“What is he?”

“He is a businessman.”

“But how can a businessman dip his hands into the public purse? How is that possible?”

“Of course, he has accomplices who are politicians and civil servants. But what I want you to understand is that the blame must not stop with politicians and public servants. This crook I am talking about is able to bribe his way through any deal. He is able to buy ministers, parliamentarians, presidents, journalists, civil society, and, of course, poor civil servants. Whoever attempts to stand in his way will be fired. So, let’s stop blaming only politicians and civil servants,” he said.

“I see,” Aisha said. “And I’m sure he is either a Muslim or Christian.”

“He is a Christian who is regarded highly by his church. Such ill-gotten wealth cannot be explained so they often say it is the blessing of God. And as long as they pay fat tithes and take good care of their pastors, they will always get a front seat in the church.”

“May Allah have mercy on us because we are all guilty,” Aisha said. She was in her blunt elements. “The young woman who sleeps with a married man is as guilty as the married man who sleeps with other women.”

“You have to learn to respect. The fact that I have done this with you doesn’t mean you can talk with me anyhow,” Mr. Oppong said, his voice faltering.

“I’m sorry, but what I have said is a fact.” She paused for a brief moment and continued, “Sir, I want to tell you that this is the last time I have done this thing with you. I have a boyfriend, whom I intend to marry in three months. Besides, I think it is not good to be sleeping with someone’s husband. I am sorry it happened, but it won’t happen again.”

Mr. Oppong had wanted another bout before checking out of the hotel, but that was not going to be. Aisha’s words had filled him with shame, which in turn dispossessed him of his manly prowess.

“I’ve heard you, but I hope whatever has happened here will stay here,” he said. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“I’m not threatening you. I’m reminding you to be careful in case you are one of those girls who think they have nothing to lose,” he said.

“I surely have a lot to lose. You don’t have to fear because I have a sense of shame. I will surely overcome the circumstances that led me into this someday.”

“What circumstances led you into this?”

“It’s a long and personal story, but it is not about money as you may think,” she said.

Aisha had finished zipping her dress and placed her veil on her shoulder, too ashamed to wear it in the presence of Mr. Oppong. She would do that when she was near home.

***

The journey back to Accra was mostly undertaken in silence, each one lost in their respective thoughts. Mr. Oppong had sensed rebellion in Aisha and thought the warning he issued was a wrong step. He had slept with every young woman who worked in his secretariat, except Senam, who resisted his every move. She did not celebrate her first anniversary in that department. She was fired for insubordination.

To placate Aisha and open the door for a possible future affair, Mr. Oppong doubled the amount he had intended to give her. It was the last thing he did before they parted ways, but Aisha didn’t show any hint of excitement.

When she got to Accra, she quickly called some of their mutual friends and arranged the party at the Golden Tulip Hotel with some of the money before calling Abu, her boyfriend. His anger disappeared when he stepped into the far end of the restaurant and found his friends welcoming him with a song and shots from their smartphones, which would later fill their Facebook and Instagram pages. After the party, Abu took Aisha to his single-room apartment in Accra New Town for a “nice time” before she went home.

Scenes from that day stayed in her head for a long time, especially the drama that unfolded the moment she arrived from Koforidua with Mr. Oppong. He had put her at safe distance and had asked her to hail a taxi home. The taxi couldn’t get to her home because the houses in the slum-like Mammobi township were so tightly packed that some vehicle owners had to park hundreds of metres away from their homes.

To get to her house, Aisha had to pass by the mosque she often went for Quran recitals until she broke her virginity. At the shed by the mosque, she saw Mallam Aminu accosting her friend, Rabiatu, for not wearing a veil. He called Aisha and, when she got there, he pointed at her and turned to Rabiatu: “Look at her. She is a university graduate like you, but see how she’s well-covered. Look at her, and look at yourself. You are a disgrace to the religion—”

“Rabi, don’t you have anything to do with your time?” Aisha snapped. “Why do you allow this hypocrite to waste your time?”

Rabiatu was shocked. No one, especially a woman, dared speak to the spiritual leader like that. But Aisha was not done. She turned to Mallam Aminu with more venom.

“Do you know where I am coming from? And who are you to say someone is a disgrace to Islam, you stinking he-goat!” Aisha spat the words in Hausa and turned to go.

“Walahi, you will pay for this,” he swore. “Your father will know about what you have done. We will see if any family will allow their son to marry a disrespectful girl like you.”

That statement stung Aisha like a scorpion and threw her back.

“If you misbehave, all of Nima, Mammobi and New Town will know how I lost my virginity. You idiot! All the young girls you have defiled will come out and we will see who is really disgracing Islam.”

Rabiatu stood gazing with her hand over her mouth. She was even more shocked that Mallam Aminu could not react. He was about to move over and hit Aisha, but when she dropped the bombshell about how she broke her virginity, he stood there, shivering. Aisha was walking away and Rabiatu taught she would hear denial from Mallam Aminu, but he was rather looking to see if there was anybody around. When he recovered from the shock, he went into the mosque.

Rabiatu caught up with Aisha and asked what the matter was.

“When I was growing up, I told myself that I would not sleep with any man until I got married. That’s what they taught us,” she told Rabiatu in tears.

“That’s what I also told myself, too,” Rabiatu said. “It has not been easy, but I’m almost there. Alhassan and I are planning to get married when he returns from Spain next Eid.”

“Unfortunately, I could not keep my vow,” Aisha said, still weeping. “Just this morning, I slept with someone’s husband.”

“Allah forbid!” Rabiatu screamed.

Still in tears, Aisha told her friend how Mallam Aminu was one of the reasons she became a “spoiled” girl. When she completed junior high school, her father encouraged her to master Quran recitals, and Mallam Aminu volunteered to help her. When she went to the Mallam’s house one afternoon, he defiled her. She was 15. Her father accused her of being a bad girl when she reported at home. She was given a sound beating and warned never to mention it to anyone. Since that day, whenever her father spoke to her sisters and her against pre-marital sex, she rebelled and vowed in her mind to do the exact opposite. Abu was the seventh man she was dating.

In bed, she was more than a porn star.

“They care more about the hijab than the purity and welfare of the girl behind it,” she said.

“I’m sorry, my sister,” Rabiatu said, fighting hard to control the tears that had blurred her vision. “Unfortunately, these are the same demons who sit in judgment of the rest of us. May Allah have mercy on us all!”

NOTE: This piece was written in January 2017, when the wife of Ghana’s vice-president, Mrs. Samira Bawumia, was widely criticised by the Muslim community for attending the inauguration of President Akufo-Addo and Vice-President Dr. Mahamudu Bawumia without wearing a veil.