Read Season of Crimson Blossoms for Free Online

gate disturbed? She rose and opened the door.
    Her assailant from the other day, looking less fierce, was standing at her door. ‘Hajiya, please, I’m not here to hurt you.’ His spiky hair was covered by a black beanie so that only his sleek sideburns showed.
    She threw her weight behind the door and was about to shut it when she noticed the way he fidgeted with his hands before him, the rings on his fingers gleaming in the morning sun.
    â€˜I’ll scream.’ But her strained voice was no more than a low growl above the wild rhythm of her heartbeat.
    â€˜Please, don’t.’ He stepped back and held up his hands in a gesture of surrender.
    â€˜What do you want?’
    â€˜You understand, I don’t want to hurt you. I just want to—’
    In the fraction of a second their eyes locked, he reminded her of the countless new students who had stood before her during her teaching years, shifting from one foot to the other, desperate to run to the toilet but not certain how to go about asking permission.
    â€˜I don’t want to rob you, you understand?’ When he saw she was looking into his eyes, he looked away. He took another step backward and was now at the edge of the veranda.
    Binta pushed the door a little further.
    â€˜I brought back your things: the decoder, DVD player, your gold—’
    â€˜What was left of it.’
    â€˜Yes, yes. I had already sold the others … but I’ll get them back, you understand? I’ll get them back. And your phone too.’
    When she said nothing, he went on: ‘You understand? The person who bought your phone has travelled. But I will get it back. That’s why I brought another one, in the meantime.’
    â€˜I don’t want it. Just leave me alone.’
    She saw him standing awkwardly, not sure what to do with his hands. Her eyes grew soft because he reminded her then, more than ever, of Yaro, who had first tainted her perceptions with the smell of marijuana all those years before.
    â€˜You understand? I want to apologise for what happened.’ He rubbed his hands. ‘I am sorry. I will bring back the phone … and the other jewellery too.’ He turned and left.
    When she closed the door, she discosvered that her face was wet with tears – testament to the confusing sentiments that besieged her heart.

    The assailant walked past the little police post to the next building, an uncompleted structure whose nondescript entrance was screened with roofing sheets. Someone who had stumbled into some money had thought it wise to build a multi-storey shopping complex. He obtained a piece of land big enough for several shops but had only managed to build the ground floor before the money dried up. The moss-covered bricks had seen many rains.
    San Siro, as the place became known, was special. In the feigned ignorance of the neighbouring police post, its fame blossomed. In the evenings, it teemed with young men whose motorcycles would crowd the entrance and take up most of the street. The riders, and many others besides, would be inside enjoying thick joints and lively arguments about life seen through cannabis fumes. They debated football and ganja-inspired philosophies plucked gingerly from the precipice of inebriation. Dealers, too, came for the serrated leaves. At San Siro, the weed was supreme. On the side, some of the boys dealt other things – codeine, solution, tramol and other assorted mixures, but for the rogue with spiky hair, weed was the thing.
    Walking past the young men lifting weights in what would have been the front of the building but was now effectively a compound, he slid a key into the last shop and turned it. He hissed, replaced the key with another and was rewarded with a click. He had had to change the lock after the rather unusual events of the previous week. Their next-door neighbours, the police, under the charge of the new commanding officer, had raided San Siro and bashed in all