The Words Behind the Curtain

"I beg of you, do not let my daughter know about this. I still struggle with the messages she sends."

I was behind the curtain while holding my laptop, where I wanted to print some documents from.

The voice belongs to a woman I know.

I was at a mini printing shop in Kano, waiting for her to finish with the copies of some documents she was doing. The shop was so small that it could barely contain the three of us inside comfortably. The wall fan was blowing slowly at the corner it was placed, blowing but pushing warm air around, while the printing machine was making its usual noise. Beside the shop, a woman selling roasted plantain and yam called out to passing customers.

The woman whose voice I know was speaking to the man in charge of the printing shop. At first, I assumed she was telling him to help her photocopy something. Then I heard their discussion again.

"Sometimes, she always sends me long messages. But I do not want her to figure out that I cannot read what she has been sending sometimes. Just help me understand this one."

I looked at the curtain dividing the printing space from the front counter. I had not meant to listen, but suddenly I could not move.

This woman had never allowed me to know she has a struggling reading even though we do talk most times and I sometimes spend my evening in her shop. She attended nursery school, but due to financial difficulties, she was unable to further her education. Only what she can read are the simple things; she writes down her names, and she knows her way around familiar words. I know some of these things, but what I have not considered is what it might feel like for her when the world turns out to be increasingly dependent on written messages.

The young man asked her to bring out her phone.

"This is the one," she told the man. "I received it from my daughter yesterday. Seems she was talking about something at the appointment, but I do not want to give her the wrong answer."

I recognized the message she was talking about immediately because she had shown it to me earlier, but we haven't had time to discuss. The message was discussing the date and time for a family gathering. It had some extra details; maybe her daughter thought she would appreciate knowing everything beforehand.

That young man took her time to read it to her slowly.

The woman paid attention and listened very carefully, then she asked her to say the date again. She said it again like two times, almost under her breath, as though like a primary school student who doesn't want to forget easily.

At some point, I felt something uncomfortable and warm settling in my chest.

I should have taken my time to respond to her earlier because she was closer to me than that stranger. Instead, I stood behind the curtain. The way she asked for help looks private. It reminded me of a lot of things I have seen her do anytime I was around her in her shop.

And when she was finally done, I was already standing near the counter where she saw me.

“You are still here?” she asked.

"Yes ooo, I am still here."

She told me to hold her document while we walk down the street together because we stay almost close to each other. I nodded and collected it.
While she was on her way out, I discovered that the way she was holding her phone was different, like she still attached more value to the message.

On our way, I never told her like I heard what had been said, but I asked her to show me the message from earlier. She was a bit surprised; she unlocked her phone and then gave it to me.

"When you are sending a message next time, let it be a voice note," she said. "Reading all these long messages always feels like an essay to me."

I smiled as I saw that.
While we walked down the street, we kept talking about some random things. She complained about the prices of some goods she recently bought and asked me if I could come check it out the next day. She also stopped at intervals to greet some of her colleagues.

Before we got to our junction, her daughter sent her a voice note instead of a long message.

She knew how to record, so she also replied to her with a voice note. Her voice note was only a few seconds long. We got to the front of her house, and we exchanged greetings while I continued walking down to my house.

The voice note she sent played twice on my head as I thought about what I heard behind the curtain.

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Thank you for reading.

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