The Misadventures of Khadijah: The White Volkswagen
Little Khadijah always has a knack of finding trouble...or trouble finding her.
The sky was a dull gray, thick with the promise of rain, as Khadijah shuffled along the dusty road of her border town. Each step stirred up puffs of reddish-brown dust, which lingered in the heavy air. Balanced on her head was a ceramic platter piled high with oranges, their bright color striking against the gloomy backdrop. She took pride in her oranges, carefully polished to the shine that Farid preferred.
She had heard the news—Farid had returned. Her heart quickened at the thought of seeing him again, her loyal customer, who had always been kind to her. Nearly a year had passed since he left with his family for Lebanon, seeking treatment after that terrible night.
Khadijah vividly recalled the chaos and fear of that night. She felt the weight of guilt settle on her shoulders when she had learned days later it was her own family, chiefly her father, who had sheltered the troubled old man believed to be behind it all—the same old man who had brought violence to Farid’s doorstep and others.
As Khadijah made her way through the bustling market, the vendors were packing up their goods in anticipation of the approaching storm. She barely noticed them, her mind filled with the memory of when she first learned about the extent of Farid’s injuries. The whispered conversations amongst the townsfolk about the horror his wife and three children had endured, watching helplessly as their loved one sustained a dislocated shoulder, fractured ribs, and multiple bruises as well as lacerations on his face that left him nearly unrecognizable. No doubt Farid was lucky to be alive, as agreed by all in town.
She had wanted to apologize, to offer some comfort, no matter how small. But when she finally gathered the courage to visit his home, empty rooms and silence greeted her. The housekeeper informed that Farid and his family had left for Lebanon weeks earlier, just a few days after their ordeal.
Now that Farid was back in town, Khadijah felt the burden of the past year beginning to lift. She hoped he had found some peace and healing in his homeland and that her gift of bright, sweet oranges would express what she couldn’t put into words, ultimately bringing a sense of normalcy to him and his family. She intended to offer the oranges for free, but she knew Farid would never accept such generosity. He would insist on paying full price and then a little extra for them from his favorite street vendor.
A sudden crack of thunder shattered the air, jolting Khadijah from her thoughts. The loud sound echoed throughout the market, sending a flock of birds soaring from nearby trees. Startled, Khadijah quickly picked up her pace, the platter of oranges wobbling precariously atop her head. She needed to reach Farid’s house before the storm broke.
The thought of seeing Farid excited her, so much so that she hadn’t noticed the ominous clouds gathering overhead before she set out. Now, as the sky darkened and the first drops of rain fell, Khadijah realized how much she had underestimated the storm’s timing.
Had she heard the rumble of thunder before leaving home, she would have reconsidered attempting the trip. The sound of thunder terrified her, and the fear of being struck by lightning was always at the forefront of her mind. As a younger child, she had listened attentively to family elders and Auntie Amina’s stories about lightning strikes—tales of lightning chasing relatives, striking the unlucky ones in broad daylight.
Khadijah’s sandals slapped against the dusty, dampening ground as she hurried through the market, now almost deserted as vendors rushed past her, carrying their goods. The air was thick with a metallic smell, heightening her sense of urgency. The once-familiar market road now felt overwhelming, each corner a reminder of the distance she still had to cover.
Another flash of lightning briefly illuminated the path ahead. Khadijah’s grip on the platter tightened, her fingers brushing against the smooth, cool skin of the oranges.
As she hurried out of the marketplace and onto the main town road, the rain began to fall in earnest, each drop sending a shiver through her as it soaked into her lapa dress. Despite the rain, she kept the platter steady, her thoughts focused solely on reaching Farid’s house before the storm unleashed its full fury.
Cars sped by, splashing through puddles and sending sprays of water into the air, but Khadijah paid no mind. The rumble of engines and the hiss of tires on the wet road faded into the background as rain soaked into her sandals, turning each step into a slippery struggle. With each step, she struggled for traction, the sandals’ soles slipping against the wet ground. She reminded herself repeatedly to stay steady: her gaze fixed firmly on the road ahead. Dropping the oranges now would be disastrous.
The storm intensified, rain falling in heavy sheets that clung to her skin and blurred her vision. She stumbled once, her right foot nearly sliding off her sandal, but she caught herself, refusing to let the storm slow her down. Determined to reach her destination, she hardly regarded the white car tailing alongside her.
The rain-lashed window descended, and a middle-aged man with a bushy mustache craned his neck out. “You, girl!” he hollered, his voice a blunt instrument against the rain’s roar. Beside him, another man punctuated the shout with a sharp whistle, its pitch cutting through the downpour. They waved insistently, trying to get her attention.
But Khadijah remained oblivious. Her world had narrowed to the distance between her and Farid’s house, every step a battle against the storm. The car continued to pace her, the men’s shouts mingling with the rain and distant thunder. “Girl!” the driver called again, but Khadijah pressed on, her eyes locked on the faint outline of Farid’s neighborhood emerging through the mist.
Her heart leaped at the sight, a flicker of joy warming through the exhaustion and wetness. She was almost there.
The white car suddenly sped up, tires splashing through a puddle as it surged ahead of Khadijah. With a sharp swerve, it cut in front of her, blocking her path. Startled, Khadijah came to a sudden stop, her heart pounding in her chest. The rain beat down relentlessly, but now her attention was fully on the car.
The passenger window rolled down, and a man with a weathered face leaned out, whistling sharply to get her attention. His skin was rough, deeply etched with lines, and his bloodshot eyes stared ahead, unfocused, as if sleep had evaded him for years. Beads of sweat, mixing with the rain, traced paths down his bare scalp and dripped from his brow.
As Khadijah approached, the stale stench of cigarettes and alcohol hit her. The man rubbed his upper lip against his nose, avoiding eye contact despite having flagged her down. His gaze remained fixed on the road, uninterested in her presence.
It was the driver who finally leaned over, chuckling. “You, girl, you’re hard to get attention from,” he said. “What are you doing in this rain?”
In contrast to his disheveled companion, the driver exhibited impeccable grooming. His dark brown skin was smooth and unmarked by age, and a precisely trimmed mustache arched above his upper lip, ending just before the corners of his mouth. Well-trimmed sideburns framed his jawline, meeting the crisp edges of his jet-black Afro. He wore a neatly pressed red turtleneck beneath an unbuttoned black leather jacket, both untouched by the elements, as if he had stepped out of a fashion magazine. His smile flashed, bright and composed.
Khadijah stood there, dripping wet and clutching her platter of oranges. Her eyes flicked between the two men, wary and impatient. She had no time for idle chatter or questions.
“How much for all the oranges?” the driver asked, sensing her impatience.
“No selling,” Khadijah said firmly.
The disheveled passenger blinked in disbelief. “No selling? You get a plate of orange on ya head, eh. How come no selling? Just walking in the street, o?”
His bloodshot eyes bore into her, but Khadijah did not look into them. She was too focused on suppressing the wave of nausea brought on by the reek of alcohol and cigarettes on the man’s breath.
“Shut up, you damn fool,” the driver said, dismissing his companion with a wave of hand. “This is the only food we will find in this storm. No one is selling.”
Turning back to Khadijah, the driver flashed his signature bright smile, trying a different approach. “Sweetheart, please. We’re just passing through and have a long drive in front of us. We need something to eat. Can you sell us the oranges? For God’s sake?”
Just as Khadijah opened her mouth to respond to the driver, her tone softer but her words still firm, a sudden gust of wind roared through the road. It nearly knocked her off her feet, and the platter of oranges wobbled precariously on her head. She instinctively extended her arms out for balance, her fingers tightening around the edges of the platter as the wind threatened to send her precious cargo crashing to the ground.
Around her, the storm began to unleash its full fury. The wind howled, whipping through the town with a ferocity that rattled the houses, empty market stalls, and sent loose debris flying. Nearby trees bent under the force, their branches creaking and snapping, some of them crashing down onto the road. The rain fell in a relentless curtain, blurring the world around her. Thunder boomed overhead, seemingly shaking the sky.
Khadijah managed to steady herself, regaining her balance with the effort, but her heart was pounding even harder now. She looked toward Farid’s house, just a short distance away. It was so close—just a few steps more, and she would be there. But even she had to admit that reaching it now, amid this violent storm, was nearly impossible. The wind would push against her with every step as the road ahead seemed treacherous, littered with fallen branches and drenched in water.
She let out a heavy breath, shoulders sagging with the weight of dilemma, and finally turning back to her only customers for the day. The driver, sensing an opportunity, looked at her with pleading eyes. “Sweetheart, please,” he said, his voice almost drowned out by the storm. He reached inside his leather jacket and pulled out a couple of crisp bills, holding them out through the passenger’s window. “I’ll pay you two times what you selling.”
Khadijah hesitated, only for a moment, before taking the money from his outstretched hand. The bills clung to her fingers as she quickly tucked them away from the ongoing downpour.
“Are we okay now?” the driver asked.
She nodded, albeit reluctantly. Her reunion with Farid, along with the gift of bright, sweet oranges, would have to wait for another day. She knew it was the safer choice, but it still felt like a letdown.
Carefully, she handed her platter of oranges to the driver’s companion. The disheveled man greedily scooped up the oranges, gathering them into his shirt, which he had pulled up to form a makeshift basket. He clutched them close, as if afraid the storm might snatch them away.
With her platter now empty, Khadijah took a deep breath, casting one last glance at Farid’s house through the curtain of rain. Then, with her head hung low, she turned and began to trudge home.
Just as she was about to take her second step, a shout came from the car. “You want a lift home, sweetheart?”
“No!” the driver’s companion shrieked before Khadijah could answer. He was nearly finished devouring an orange and almost choked trying to get the words out. “Don’t bring that dirty girl in our car. Dirty country children, they all disease!”
“Shut up, fool,” the driver said. He pointed around the empty road, deserted in the raging storm. “Have a heart, for God’s sake. You’re going to let this poor little girl walk home by herself?”
“I don’t care. That’s not my child. We need to get out of this damn town.”
“Heartless bastard,” the driver muttered under his breath. He turned back to Khadijah, his voice softening. “Sweetheart, do you live far from here?”
Khadijah shook her head.
“Where you live?”
Khadijah began to describe her home, particularly its location down a small hill with a nearby dusty red road and a large convenience store standing out among the cluster of houses. She provided specific details, hoping to give them a good idea of the location, but as she spoke, the driver and his companion exchanged confused glances.
“That’s every country house in every town,” the driver’s companion said through gritted teeth.
“Sweetheart,” the driver said with a patient smile. “Can you show us the way?”
Khadijah nodded.
“Good,” the driver replied, reaching over his companion to open the door. “Come in.”
As Khadijah climbed into the backseat, sliding in with her empty platter on her lap, she could hear the driver’s companion grumbling under his breath. “Dirty girl. We all going to get sick. Look at her eyes—she sick like a dog. We lucky if we get fresh cold.”
“My man!” the driver snapped, his voice shattering his companion’s grumbling. Khadijah noticed the muttering continued, but now in hushed tones, barely more than a whisper. The driver shot his companion a stern, unyielding glare, and the man finally fell silent, turning his attention back to devouring the oranges.
The driver’s expression relaxed as he turned to Khadijah, offering a reassuring smile along with an orange. “N’mind him, sweetheart. Which way is your house?”
Khadijah accepted the orange and pointed behind her, indicating the direction she had come from. The driver nodded and started the engine. With a smooth turn, he guided the car around, heading in the direction Khadijah had shown.
They hadn’t driven far—just a few yards—when the skies unleashed a torrential deluge, as if the heavens themselves had split open. The rain hammered down on the car, smashing against the roof and windows with an implacable force. The windshield wipers flailed desperately, swiping back and forth at top speed, but the sheets of water pouring down made it nearly impossible to see the road ahead.
“Shit, I can’t see a damn thing,” the driver said, leaning forward, squinting through the watery haze. His knuckles tightened as he gripped the steering wheel. Despite his efforts, the rain only grew heavier, turning the world outside into a swirling, indistinct mass of gray.
Finally, with a frustrated sigh, the driver eased off the gas and guided the car to the side of the road. The tires crunched against the muddy gravel, and the car came to a stop: the rain continuing to pummel it from all sides. Inside, the saturated smell of dampness and the sour scent of oranges filled up the remaining space.
Khadijah peeled the orange, her fingers fumbling with the thick skin as her body trembled uncontrollably. Her teeth chattered so hard she could barely hold on to the fruit. The cold from the downpour had seeped into her bones, making her movements shaky. As she struggled to peel the orange, a loud sneeze burst from her lips despite her efforts to suppress it. “AA AAchoo!”
She braced herself, expecting the driver’s companion to erupt in a hysterical fit. “You see, I told you she diseease!” But to her surprise, he remained silent, not even flinching her way. He continued greedily chomping on the oranges. The sound of his teeth tearing into the flesh of the oranges filled the small space, but otherwise, he was oblivious to her.
Just then, Khadijah felt a wave of warm air wrap around her like the plush blanket from her parents’ room: a comforting warmth that eased the trembling in her limbs and quieted the chattering of her teeth. She blinked, momentarily disoriented by the sudden change.
“Better, sweetheart?” the driver asked, his eyes meeting hers in the rearview mirror.
Khadijah nodded, still unsure what he had done to cause the warmth that now surrounded her. She sank back into the seat, feeling the tension drain from her body. Slowly, she resumed peeling the orange, this time with steadier hands. The moment she took a bite, the sweet, familiar taste flooded her mouth. It was as if she had forgotten how good her oranges tasted, and before she knew it, she was eating greedily, just like the driver’s companion. The sweetness made her feet jiggle up and down.
With the orange finished, Khadijah reclined further into the backseat, closing her eyes for a moment and smiling to herself: the warmth and the comfort lulling her into a brief, contented peace.
“You like the car, eh?” A voice interrupted, pulling her back to the present. She opened her eyes to see the driver watching her through the rearview mirror.
“You sitting in a Volkswagen, sweetheart. This is a big shot’s car,” he said with a hint of pride in his voice.
But Khadijah didn’t need the driver to tell her. She had known the moment the white 1970 Volkswagen Beetle cut in front of her, long before the driver’s companion whistled for her attention. That car was a familiar sight in town, gliding through in various colors, always with someone important at the wheel or in the backseat. The driver was right—it was a “big shot’s car.” Only the town’s elites own cars like this, or the sleek Mercedes W108s. Khadijah had seen these cars chauffeuring successful businessmen, the kind of men whose names everyone knew, the kind who made deals that shaped the town.
The white Volkswagen had always been the car of her dreams. Whenever Khadijah spotted one on the road, her mind would drift. She imagined herself behind the wheel, wearing a flowing white dress, her hair loose and wild in the wind as she cruised around. In her daydreams, heads turned wherever she went, fingers pointed, and whispers followed her every move. She was no longer the poor girl selling oranges to get by; she was the talk of the town, a rich and successful businesswoman. The girl who had once lived in a cramped shack with a family of 9 was now the one to watch—a true big shot.
“Damn, this rain, like Noah’s flood,” the driver grumbled, turning on again and cranking the windshield wipers to top speed. It was no use, as the wipers fought like a tiny boat against a tidal wave, their frantic sweeps barely making a dent in the wall of water. Visibility was completely nonexistent, the road ahead dissolving into a smear of dark shapes. Gritting his teeth in irritation, the driver finally turned off the windshield wipers, putting them out of their misery. “Gimme some more orange, Stephen. Will be here long.”
Khadijah, however, didn’t mind the delay. She was in another world as she settled into the backseat, stretching her arms out and letting her feet dangle. The space and comfort were a far cry from her usual reality. This must be what it meant to be a rich big shot. Normally, when she rode in a car, it was some crowded sedan or truck posing as a taxi, packed with far too many passengers. West African taxis in the countryside weren’t for the faint of heart or the claustrophobic. But here, in this Volkswagen, she felt a luxurious freedom she had only dreamed of.
As she imagined the car pulling into her neighborhood, a smile spread across her face. She pictured the white Volkswagen gliding to a stop, drawing the attention of everyone—neighbors pausing mid-conversation, children stopping their games, all eyes on the big shot’s car. But it was the thought of her brother, Aliyu, that brought the widest smile. Aliyu, who always teased her about her dreams of driving a Volkswagen, would be speechless. She could already see his eyes and mouth widening as he saw her being chauffeured home by these two men. His usual jests would vanish, replaced by a grudging respect. This moment would be like a glimpse into the future—a preview of the success she was sure would come. She could almost hear him now, stammering as he realized that his little sister’s dreams weren’t so far-fetched after all.
Khadijah closed her eyes, the palpable scene playing out like a movie in her mind. She could feel the car’s soft vinyl seats beneath her and see the surprise on her neighbors and family’s faces. The thought further warmed her entire body. As the car hummed and the rain drummed, her eyelids grew heavier. The daydream blurred, her mind drifting until she finally slipped into a deep slumber, the image of her triumphant return still lingering in her thoughts.
To Be Continued…
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