Love, Dance and Sujud (A Short Story) by Safa Alhassan

Ize and I grew up in a home where love was as abundant as the sunlight that poured in through the windows. It was the kind of home where the laughter echoed down the halls, and our parents made sure we had everything we ever wanted. We had more than we needed. Yet for as long as I can remember, i always felt like my sister had the most beautiful of everything. Our parents pampered us beyond what was necessary, showering us with everything our hearts desired. It wasn’t that she was given more than me. Our parents got us the same shoes, clothes, bags, and even made sure our tailors crafted the same styles for us. But somehow, she always found a way to make what she had look more beautiful, more desirable, and sometimes even more functional. "I want Ize’s own" I would say to our mother.

As a baby, my sister didn’t hesitate to sink her teeth into anyone who upset her or even those who hadn't done anything at all. The biting wasn’t always out of anger; sometimes, it seemed to be just because she could. She was quite fiery. I, of course, was a frequent victim. The first thing you’ll notice about Ize is her beauty. Her eyes are large, strikingly white, and incredibly expressive, always revealing exactly what she's thinking without her saying a word. They don’t just look at you; they pull you in, urging you to linger a little longer, and search. Our papa used to tease her about those eyes. He’d say, "This your eyes," and then mimic her wide, exaggerated gaze with a playful grin. Sometimes he’d ask, “Between the two of us, whose eyes are bigger?” and laugh before she could even respond. Their resemblance is undeniable. She is the female version of him, a mirror image in every sense. She took his eyes, that same deep, knowing gaze, along with his love for beauty, his wisdom, his patience, and his humor. And just like him, she knows when to be kind. But from our mother, she inherited her sass and fierce motherly instinct.  Ize's nose is perfectly crafted, small, slightly pointed, but just right for her face. Her complexion is a rich brown, and every time I look at her, I can't help but think of chocolate. Smooth, warm, and delicious. I love chocolate but for some reason she doesn't. She's weird.

Her brows are bushy, naturally thick, framing her face in a way that somehow makes her look both fierce and delicate. Then there’s her mouth, the perfect shape. Ize’s face is oval, with every feature in harmony, the very definition of beauty. I haven't known anyone more beautiful than my sister. Our papa used to tell us that when he was away from home during our childhood, he would sleep with her picture tucked under his pillow. He said that each time he glanced at it, an irresistible pull would wash over him, urging him to come back home just to see her in person. And he did every single time.

Her hair is what truly crowns her. It's long, reaching down in thick waves like that of a white woman's. Her hair is full, impossibly full. It covers her head like a queen’s crown, voluminous, dark, rich and thick, often commanding attention. I think she got it from our paternal grandmother. Even in old age, our grandmother had really nice hair that she plaited into two thick corn rows. There was this one time when our mother dropped us off at the salon, the regular one we always went to for our hair as kids. Ize’s hair, as usual, was a topic of conversation, as the stylists struggled to contain its sheer volume. One of them, clearly frustrated, turned to her and asked, "Why is your hair just too much abeg?"

I remember it clearly, the way the question hung in the air, tinged with something unkind. And before I even realized it, I had snapped back, my voice stronger than I expected, “So what do you want her to do about it?"

I surprised myself in that moment. Normally, I am the quiet and reserved one who doesn’t speak unless spoken to. Yet, i wouldn’t let anyone bully her or try to make her feel small. Not my sister. I still remember the look on Ize's face. She was clueless, soft, delicate. Maybe I was the fierce one after all, the rebel.

Growing up, I would often wonder why her dress seemed prettier than mine, even though they were identical. Why did her shoes shine just a little bit brighter? How come Abdullahi, our tailor, made her dress look better than mine? One day, frustrated, I asked him "Why is my fabric not the same as Ize’s own?" "It's the same" he said looking closely at both clothes, a little confused. Was i the only one seeing that Ize wore hers better? I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was some secret everyone was in on but me.

Ize is mischievous. Once she told me, “Give me your dresses, and I’ll style them so well, you’ll be begging me to give them back.” Oh, the nerve! I thought to myself. "Don't give her your cloth ooooh.." my mother would say from the other room, all this time listening to our conversation. "Don't tell me you want your dress back after giving it to her" she added. My sister, now standing in the middle of the room, looking at me and grinning mischievously would leave me to make up my mind on what I want to do with my ugly dress. Either way, she always wins. 

It was a day like any other, when I decided to go on a quest to be bougie, just to prove to Ize that I understood style, fashion, and all that, I had this brilliant idea. Our mother was about to discard this massive mirror, and I thought, why not put it in our room? So, I cleared some space for my new prized possession and started to admire myself more often, walking, twisting, turning. One day, as I was doing my little runway show, Ize was quietly watching me from behind. Then, out of nowhere, she said, “Karashika.” I burst out laughing, but in that moment, I realized maybe my idea wasn’t as Paris-bougie as I thought.

We were still so young then, young enough to still pray behind our father during our daily prayers. Even as we grew older, all the way until we got into university, we never stopped. Our Taraweeh (night prayers) in Ramadan, was our thing. We’d all line up behind our father and brothers. Growing up, Ize and I always had this silent competition during prayers, a game of who could sujud (prostrate) first. Sujud was a position we would later learn that it is not just an act of worship, but one of intimacy with God. It is a peaceful surrender of everything worldly, where you were closest to your Maker. I didn’t realize how deep it was as a child, but as an adult, I’ve come to treasure those moments.

“Allahu Akbar,” our father would say, and like a flash, Ize would rush into sujud before me. Every single time. It became our game, and I hated losing. How was she always faster? At some point, I figured it out. Ah! It was because she was shorter! She was closer to the ground, and I, with my tall frame, had further to fall. Once I thought about holding her hijab to stop her from going first.

One day, I made up my mind. I would win, even if it meant diving headfirst into sujud. I didn’t care if my knees hit the ground with a thud or if my palms slapped the mat hard enough to leave a mark. I just wanted to win. And for the first time, I did. My knees hit the ground loudly, my palms slapped the mat, and my forehead grazed the rough texture of the rug just in time. I had beaten her, and though it stung a little (literally), it felt so satisfying. But that victory was short-lived. She won every other round after that, and I don’t think our father or anyone ever noticed the competition we had. It was just between the two of us; our little secret rivalry during prayer time.

Then there was the time Ize got me good in front of Mallam Ibrahim, our Islamic teacher and one of those uncles that wasn't particularly related to any of our parents but we just refered to him as "Borda". This was one of those moments that would follow me for years. So we had just finished Zuhr, the mid-afternoon prayer, and like always, we were sitting on our prayer mats, waiting for Asr. I was feeling particularly smart that day, having learned a new word in school that I was dying to show off. As we sat there, I noticed some strange plants growing around the masquerade trees in our compound.

"That is weed," I said, my chest puffed out with pride, waiting for everyone to marvel at my brilliance. Ize, of course, had to ruin the moment. "What is weed?" she asked, her big eyes blinking at me in mock innocence.

I was ready to launch into a full explanation. "Weed is an unwanted..." Before I could finish, the most unexpected and embarrassing thing happened—poooh. 

The silence that followed was shattered by laughter. Mallam Ibrahim, my baby brother, and of course, Ize, who laughed the loudest. Her's was the kind of laughter that comes from deep within, the type that starts as a chuckle, then builds, getting louder with each passing second. I could feel the heat rising to my face as they all laughed, and Ize never let it go. From that day on, she started calling me “Unwanted Pooh,” taunting me every chance she got. Sometimes, I’d try to say something serious, and she’d burst out laughing, “Unwanted Pooh, we’ve heard you!” I swear, I just wanted to reach over and pull her ears sometimes. Why was she always making a mockery of me?

Ize knew how to dance in a way that I could never quite manage. It was almost unfair how naturally it came to her, how effortlessly she moved. Her favorite local musician was my mother's favorite too, and growing up, their bond over that music was something I could only admire from the sidelines. Every time my mother would carefully insert the VHS into the cassette player after rewinding it with that old rewinder we used to have, Ize would appear out of nowhere, transformed. She’d have changed from whatever she wore that day into something completely different, like a little performer preparing for her grand entrance.

She’d tie her wrapper like she was born knowing how, and God knows how she learned to tie those headwraps so perfectly at such a young age. She’d hold a fan with the grace of a queen, her fingers curled around it like it was an extension of her. Then, with all the majesty of a royal, she’d climb onto the table and start to dance. Her movements were so subtle, so elegant, that it was impossible not to watch her. Every step, every sway of her hips, matched the rhythm of the music as though she and the melody were one.

Me and my mother would be utterly starstruck. The television, which had once held our attention, was now forgotten. Ize was the only thing that mattered in the room. Her queenly gestures, the soft glint in her eyes, the way her feet barely seemed to touch the table as she danced. It was mesmerizing. We’d watch her in silence, captivated by the beauty and confidence she exuded, even as a child. She wasn’t just performing for us; she was embodying something larger, something divine, something that I would always find hard to explain.

I may have had more material things than she did growing up, especially after our parents realized just how much of a bookworm I was. They bought me more books, which meant more stories to fuel my imagination. I still remember when they got me The Three Musketeers, a special edition that came with its own audio cassette. Back then, that was the ultimate treasure. It was what you all refer to as an "audiobook" these days. Ah! to me, it was magic.

I would sit for hours, flipping through the pages, listening to the voices from the cassette narrating the adventures of Athos, Porthos, and Aramis. In those moments, I felt like I was in a different world. A world far away from the real one where Ize's laughter rang out through the house.

Books were my escape. Ize, on the other hand, didn’t need an escape. She was the world. She was the adventure. While I am busy  with my stories, she created her own, dancing across the living room with all the grace and elegance of a queen. And even though I had more books, it often felt like I was the one trying to catch up to her. While I read about heroes, she became one. While I listened to stories, she created them.

I remember one time when she locked me in the bathroom. Our bathroom door was notorious for getting stuck, and somehow, no one ever got around to fixing it. We had this unspoken competition of who would get to the bathroom first, and on this occasion, I won. But Ize wasn’t about to let that slide. As soon as I was inside, she locked me in. “Izeeeeeee!” I screamed, banging on the door. “I swear, if I catch you... Open the door!” " Hehehe you will sleep there today." She'll say.

All I could hear was her laughter, that hearty, mischievous laugh that came in waves, each one louder and more taunting than the last. “Ize, one... Ize, two... Izeeeee, three, I’m counting! Open the door!” I threatened, but it only made her laugh harder. She finally opened it, and just as I lunged for her, she bolted down the hall, locking herself in our mother’s room.

Her laughter is something you can’t forget once you hear it. It starts off soft, almost innocent, but as it grows, it becomes louder, filled with joy, mischief, and something uniquely Ize. There’s always a hint of teasing in it, a kind of playfulness that draws you in but also makes you want to chase after her and get her to stop. "Shunyawu kwoze huzen!" Leave here this instance with your laughter, our mother would say, her voice sharp, but her eyes betraying the hint of a smile. Ize would mock-pout, still laughing under her breath, and reluctantly leave the room, her laughter echoing down the hallway, refusing to be contained.

And it wasn’t just the bathroom. She had this way of standing too close when I was washing dishes, invading my personal space and looking me dead in the eye for no reason. It made me so uncomfortable, but she didn’t care. One day, while I was washing up, she stood there, slowly reaching for a knife I had just cleaned, her eyes locked on mine, a mischievous smile on her face.

“Ize!!” I said, trying to keep my voice steady, but she didn’t stop. She kept moving her hand toward the knife, smiling even wider. “Ize!!” I said again, louder this time. Still, she didn’t stop.

“Mummy!” I yelled, finally breaking the tension as I ran to our mother. “Ize anyi saa me wu ahe?” my mother called out in Ebira. Ize, is something wrong with you? “Huzo boro ani,” she added, telling Ize to leave the kitchen. I could still hear her laughter echoing behind me as she darted out of the room.

Every day with Ize was an unpredictable adventure. I could never guess what she would do next. Her mischief was boundless, like the wind, impossible to catch or control. If she is not doing something funny, then she is deeply invested in herself and in her world. I feel like she takes these breaks every now and then just so we get to experience her. My favorite thing about her became her selfishness. When our last brother, Imam, came into our lives much later, it was as though Ize’s notorious streak had evolved into something more audacious and territorial. She didn't hesitate to boss him around, and in her typical fashion, she even shamelessly asked our mother to caution him when he annoyed her. "Warn Imam for being a nuisance!" she’d say, her voice filled with mock indignation, as though she were the head of the household.

Imam, poor thing, grew up believing that Ize’s wild ways weren’t quite human. He was convinced she might be something else entirely. A witch sent to torment him, perhaps. After all, she spared no one, not even him. Once he was old enough to realize the force of nature his sister was, she made it her mission to bully him relentlessly. She’d pin him down, sit on him, and tickle him mercilessly, her fingers darting over his ribs like a piano player, eliciting uncontrollable laughter. Imam would laugh with reckless abandon, the sound of his giggles filling the room, and despite the torture, he never asked her to stop. It was as though her very presence, her chaotic energy, had cast a spell on him too.

Fast forward to adulthood, and Ize has only become a thousand times better at all those things she did while we were growing up. Watching her now, as an adult, I realize just how extraordinary she always was. Who taught her how to dance like that? Who showed her how to tie those headwraps, or to carry herself with such confidence? I still don’t know, and I suspect I never will. But what I do know is that she is brilliant at everything she sets her mind to, as if she holds some secret knowledge about life that the rest of us are still struggling to grasp. She is the most level headed person I know. She has an old soul, always giving the most beneficial advice. Always having a way of being at service to the people who are important to her and even to those that has nothing to give her. She’s the prom queen who would be your cheerleader at every instance of your life and cheer more when you're obviously lagging behind.

As we grew older, I felt an intense need to protect her. Even though she was the mischievous one, the one who always had the upper hand in our little games, there was a part of me that saw her as fragile and very innocent. I became her defender, her big sister, the one who would stand up for her no matter what. I knew she still had the finest things, still made everything she touched look more beautiful. It was just who she was. Even now, when we’d go out, our brothers would shower her with compliments. “Queen Ize of the planet earth, first of her name,” they’d say, and I’d smile. I think, over time, I became her biggest fan. I felt the need to shield her from everything that wasn't pure because she was. I always felt like Ize should be sitting on a throne, encased in a see-through glass, where people could simply walk by, admire her from a distance, and then move on. There’s something about her that demands admiration, but at the same time, she’s untouchable, almost too perfect to belong to the same world the rest of us live in. It wasn’t just her talents, though she was astonishingly gifted at everything she tried. It wasn’t even just her striking beauty, though anyone could see that she was breathtaking. It was something deeper, something that radiated from her in a way that words can barely capture. Ize had this aura. An undeniable presence that made people gravitate toward her without even realizing it. It was her essence, her spirit. She moved through life with a grace that made you want to be in her orbit. Her laughter is soft but rings clear, like wind chimes on a calm day, and her eyes always sparkled with an openness that made you feel like she saw right through you, past the masks and the pretense, straight into your soul. But beyond all the admiration she stirred, what really set Ize apart is her purity. She is genuine. Honest. And honesty is the rarest of qualities anybody can have. Her heart is open, and there isn’t a single manipulative or cruel bone in her body. In a world that often felt heavy and complicated, she is light. She is  representation of simplicity, sophistication and truth. You now see why I always felt like she should be displayed in that glass throne, where people could appreciate her for everything she is but never tarnish her with the weight of the world?

She was, and still is, pure in a way that is rare. There’s no pretense, no hidden agendas, just Ize, in all her beauty, talent, and unshakeable sincerity.

Ize is the most fascinating of all my siblings. Even now, as adults, I find myself wondering what goes on in her head. She is a force of nature; impossible to fully understand, yet utterly captivating. We've all grown up, but she hasn't changed one bit. Well, maybe she has in small ways. Like how she’s transformed that same playful spirit into something more profound. Now, she channels it into her art, painting larger-than-life canvases in colors so vibrant they seem to pulse with her energy. I still marvel at her, trying to figure out the workings of her mind. How does someone manage to turn her nuances, her quirks, into something so beautiful? She still has that mischievous streak, still finds ways to make everything around her more beautiful, more her. 

But it’s not just in her art. She’s become an incredible mother, her playful nature translating into how she nurtures and teaches my little niece, who I would buy the world for, without a second thought. Ize is her first teacher, and watching her parent with that same lightheartedness makes me smile. She hasn’t lost the essence of who she is. If anything, she’s magnified it, shaping her daughter’s world with that same boundless spirit.

When I look back now, I think if I could relive our childhood, I’d let her win. I’d let her be the first to sujud without trying to beat her at it. I wouldn’t even take credit for that one time I actually won, the one time I hit the ground first with my knees smarting. I’d let her have it and I would linger in that memory a little longer and stay in that bubble of our childhood a little longer. A childhood where we never had to think about anything, where everything was simple, and life was filled with endless play, laughter, and competition that never really mattered. In that world, winning wasn’t important, but being together was. We didn’t know it then, but those moments were fleeting. They were everything, and I wonder if we could’ve stayed there a bit longer, if I could’ve let her have all the victories, would that have somehow held time in place, just for a while?

I think about it sometimes, the way we used to chase small triumphs, the laughter that filled every corner of our house, and how all we really needed was each other. 

There was this time someone said to me, with a snide undertone, “Your sister this, your sister that, all the time.” It didn't actually bother me because I never really understood what she meant. But as I grew older, I came to understand something. What that person said wasn’t an insult to me; it was a reflection of what they didn’t have. They didn’t have an Ize in their life, someone who could make the world brighter just by being in it. They didn’t have my sister, the one who was always first to sujud as a child and who, even now, keeps winning at all of life's games.