part of it.

After dessert, the conversation turned to a topic I had no interest in or
input on – American politics. They all looked like they had known each
other for years, and I preferred watching them from a distance, so I walked
to the garden in the backyard, sat on the swing by the fire pit with a slice of
cake on a plate. As I looked at the stars in the sky, I kicked my shoes off
and tucked my feet in the grass underneath the swing.
I thought about how handsome he looked that evening – the way his
fingers went around the gold-plated cutlery, the luminescent gleam around
the face of his Patek Philippe wristwatch every time his hands went to his
mouth, the way his smile lit up the room whenever Aunty Mami spoke. I
noticed the way everyone in the room looked toward him when they told a
story or cracked a joke. It mattered to them that he was listening and that he

found their stories amusing. I didn’t think anybody noticed me stealing
glances at him. Our eyes met a few times and every time they did, I looked
away.
“Running away from the party?”
I turned my head to see Ahmad walking down the few patio stairs that
led into the backyard. He’d rolled up his sleeves and unbuttoned a few
buttons. In the moonlight, I could see his muscles ripple under his shirt. I
swallowed as I looked away.
“Or just from me?” he asked as he sat next to me on the swing. He was
not looking at me.
I opened my mouth to deny it, but closed it back.
“I like to think that I’m pretty discerning,” he turned and our eyes met.
“I’m sure I can tell when someone is avoiding me.”
“No, I’m not actually,” I lied. When I use ‘actually’ at the end of a
sentence, there’s a high chance I’m lying, but he didn’t know that yet. “I’ve
just had a busy week.” At least that part is true.
He nodded. “How did your debate go?” he finally asked, remembering
what I was studying for earlier in the week.
“It went well,” I answered. “We lost marks on argumentative points, but
our citations were solid.”
“That’s good,” he said. “Maybe one day I can hear you argue a case.”
I couldn’t help but smile as I finished my cake. I sighed. I had
misjudged him. I can say that now. Maybe the hug was a reflex, and maybe
it was just a one-time thing.
“I finished season one,” I said about Game of Thrones, unsure of what
to say.
“Really?” the light was back in his eyes. “And, what’s the verdict?”

“Ai, I am done with that show,” I said, and he started laughing. “How
can Ned Stark die? And then Khal Drago too? I prefer shows where the
main characters don’t die.”
“Oh, c’mon. What’s the fun in that?”
“No, seriously. I was shocked, and angry,” I said, recalling how much I
screamed at my laptop while watching that episode.
“Wait till you see the red wedding,” he muttered under his breath.
“The what?” I asked.
“Never mind. Aren’t you curious about the dragon eggs, at least?”
“I don’t care much for the dragons, or the girl with white hair.”
“Oh, that’s a first,” he said, leaning back and looking at the stars with
me as we swayed gently. We were quiet for a few minutes, swaying in the
cool night breeze with the sounds of laughter and chatter from the party in
the far background. This is nice, I thought to myself. Every time I’m with
him, I feel content. Safe and content.
“You look lovely tonight, Fa’iza,” he said very quietly. “I’m glad you
came.”

* * *
I got Ahmad a birthday gift. It was Dreams from my Father by Barack
Obama. I noticed it was missing in his library. He said he loved it, and he
finished it really quickly; I even saw the notes he wrote on some pages. The
frequency of our phone calls had increased. It felt like we spoke all day. My
phone was constantly cradled between my neck and ear up until the late
hours of the night.

I found myself in a football stadium on a Sunday afternoon two weeks
later. Did I care for football? No, I did not, but Ahmad invited me to watch
him play, so there I was. He called it soccer; I called it football.
I was seated on a bench in the sparsely-filled stadium where his team
was playing a friendly match against another team from Vancouver. It was
easy to spot him on the field because he had bright red soccer cleats on. As
we drove there, he told me that he was a striker – whatever that meant. He
tried explaining the different positions to me so that I could follow the
game, but it was only when I was watching the game that I realized I
understood one or two things. Before then, the only words that stuck with
me while watching my brothers scream at the television were ‘Offside’ and
‘Own goal.’
My attention shifted back to the game as I watched someone pass the
ball to him and someone else fell down trying to get the ball from him. The
stadium’s momentum was getting louder as he got closer and closer to the
other team’s goalkeeper, and then the ball was suddenly in the net. He
scored. The whole place erupted. I hadn’t even realized that I’d stood up to
clap until his head turned toward my direction. He’d picked out this seat for
me, and knew where I was seated. Our eyes met, and I flashed him a smile,
doing a little celebratory dance with my hands around my head when he
formed a heart with his fingers and put his hands on his lips, without taking
his eyes off mine even for a moment. His teammates suddenly bombarded
him, and he was out of my sight.
I was also aware of the few glances I got; people had seen his gesture
toward me. I raised my straw to my mouth to hide my embarrassment and
finished my iced cappuccino from Tim Hortons in seconds. It was new to
me, but I loved the attention. SubhanAllah, I loved the attention he gave me,

and I loved the tiny little butterflies I felt when he did that. I felt the same
way when he gave me a red jersey with his name on the back to wear over
my top when he came to pick me up today. I was falling for him despite
myself and didn’t know how to stop it.
The rest of the match was a blur. When the final whistle was blown, the
claps brought me back to reality. His team won. I adjusted my scarf around
my head, suddenly aware of how hot it was. The air was hot and dusty and I
stood up, brushing off as much dust as possible from my blue denim
trousers. Then I saw him walking towards me and I went down the stairs to
meet him halfway.
“Did you enjoy the game?” The sweat on his skin glistened, but I was
carried away by his smile and the slight crinkle around his eyes as I looked
up at him.
“It was a good game,” I answered as I tossed the cup in the recycle bin.
My mind kept replaying the goal he scored in the second half and
everything else that followed. Thank God I was not lighter in complexion; I
would have been blushing furiously.
“I want you to meet Edet,” he gestured to the person next to him. I
hadn’t even noticed there was someone beside him. Edet was as tall as I
remembered. Today, he had on the same-colored sweaty jersey as Ahmad,
his cleats strung around his neck, and he was wearing flip-flops with his
socks.
“Hi. I think we met at dinner,” I said, embarrassed that I hadn’t noticed
a whole human being by Ahmad’s side. Everyone seemed invisible when he
was there.
“Yes, we did,” he replied enthusiastically. “We didn’t get a chance to
chat, though. You kinda took off right after dessert that day.” He was a

good-looking guy. Now that we were having a conversation, I could tell that
his accent was the same as Ahmad’s, and I recalled that Ahmad told me
they had schooled together in the UK.
“She was hiding from me, man,” Ahmad said with a laugh, “can you
believe it?” He made it sound like a joke.
“Not exactly,” I interjected.
“I can’t blame you, even I hide from him sometimes,” Edet said with a
big smile.
“Hey, don’t you have somewhere to be?” Ahmad asked his friend. Edet
winced and grabbed his arm as Ahmad threw him a light punch.
“Nice to finally meet you, Fa’iza, properly.” he said to me as he shook
hands with his friend as we said goodbye.
“Same here,” I said, wondering if he knew about the Calabar banter I
had with Ahmad. As we watched him leave, I realized we were the only
ones left in the stadium. It was hard not to notice Ahmad’s muscles because
I was standing so close to him. It didn’t help that he flexed his biceps as he
pulled up the bottom edge of his shirt to wipe his face. My gaze fell upon
his abs and the exposed band of his boxers under his shorts. I looked away
immediately. I need to train my eyes to follow sunnah, the teachings of our
prophet – to always lower my gaze around him.
“Come kick some with me,” he said, nodding towards the football field.
“Huh?”
“Let’s go,” he said, grabbing my hand and pulling me towards the field
like he knew I was going to protest.
“I can’t play football,” I said, but we were already on the field.
“That’s okay. All you have to do is kick it.” He was watching me as I
rolled my eyes. This is child’s play, I thought to myself. Why would he

think I want to kick a ball? I had never been interested in football. We
played badminton a lot at home, and I liked it. I didn’t mind table tennis
too. But football? Never even attempted.
He stared at me until I kicked it and in no time, we were running and
trying to get the ball from each other. He dribbled me a few times until I
had to bump into him to try and get the ball from between his legs. That
happened a couple of times and I finally got the ball and started kicking it
toward the goalpost until he got it from me and kicked it straight in. The
only sounds that could be heard in the stadium were our laughter, and the
lights had not come on yet, so it was a bit dark but I could see the rapid
heaving of his chest as he looked at me. My chest was rising and falling
rapidly, and I realized that my scarf had fallen off my head, no doubt
revealing my messy bun. The mental alarms in my head went off as he
closed the distance between us, and I felt his hand reach for mine, and his
other hand came to my face. He cradled my chin between his thumb and
finger.
“Ahmad –” I never got to finish my sentence before I felt his lips cover
mine, and my mind went blank. I felt his hand making its way around my
neck slowly. It felt warm against my cold, sweaty skin. His hard chest
against the softness of mine, and underneath, my heart was thumping
wildly. It felt like my chest would burst. When I placed my hands on his
chest as I pulled away, his hands slowly fell to his side.
“Babe?”
Babe. He called me babe. I used to think that was corny as hell, but
there was something about the way he said it – how his voice sounded –
that made it sound like music to my ears. I swallowed. This was wrong.

This was so wrong – religiously, culturally, everything-ly. “We can’t do
this,” I answered, looking up at him.
His lips were slightly apart, and his eyes looked puzzled. “Okay,” he
finally said, stepping back. “I’m sorry, I thought –”
The lights came on. I looked around the empty stadium before
announcing: “We should probably get going.”
“Yeah,” he said. We walked out of the stadium to the car parking lot.
When we got to his car, he put his sports duffel bag into the trunk while I
got in and put on my seatbelt. “Are you okay?” he asked when he got into
the car and pressed the ignition key.
I nodded, and we drove silently. When we got to the residence, which
was about a four-minute ride away, I opened the door, and he did too. We
walked silently until we got to the lobby. I forced a smile and mumbled
goodnight, so many thoughts racing through my mind.
“Fa’iza?” I stopped. He looked around us, hands in his pocket, and then
his eyes came back to mine. “What did you mean by we can’t?” His voice
was almost a whisper.
I paused, looked at the doors behind him, and back at his face. He
looked genuinely puzzled, which confused me because he had to know why
we couldn’t kiss. I raised my eyebrow at him, and he shook his head.
“Because it’s – it’s haram. It’s against our religion,” I said, annoyed that I
had to explain.
“Oh,” he let out a breath before he started to chuckle. I frowned, and he
stopped immediately. “Yes, of course. Of course,” he said.
I immediately knew there was a disconnect. Was Ahmad one of those
Muslim guys that touch women who were not their mahram, or family
without thinking of the consequences?

“You do know that any form of touching is haram, right?” I asked,
thinking about the few times our bodies touched – like when I was on his
bike, and my hands were on his shoulder or in the car when he held my
hand, or earlier that evening, when he pulled me by my hands to the field.
The smile was no longer on his face as he nodded in agreement. “Yeah,
yeah, I know.” We watched as someone pressed the button for the elevator
and went in, then he looked back at me. “But c’mon, you want me to
believe you’ve never kissed before?”
“No,” I said pointedly. I didn’t break eye contact with him. I had never
kissed anyone. Well, that changed about twenty minutes ago, I thought to
myself.
“Really? Never?” He seemed genuinely shocked.
I shook my head. I’d read about it and heard other girls talk about it, but
I just had never done it before. I bit my bottom lip, remembering the feel of
his lips against mine.
“Fa’iza, I –” he exhaled. “I like you a lot, and I love spending time with
you.” He stopped, watching the expression on my face. There it was –
finally! Someone I liked telling me that he felt the same way. All my life,
when guys told me they liked me, I almost felt sorry for them because I
never felt the same way, and I always told them so. They all considered me
to be some sort of prude. This was different. I liked Ahmad. I liked him a
lot. Hearing him say this to me made me feel all fuzzy inside. I realized that
he was still talking, and I looked up at him again. “…do you feel the
same?”
I opened my mouth to respond, but I didn’t trust my voice to speak. I
was unsure of how things would go after admitting my feelings to him, but I
didn’t want to keep him wondering about how I felt. I nodded yes.

He nodded with me, the smile coming back to his face. He started
leaning in for a hug, but I stopped him.
“But,” I said with my hands against his chest for the second time that
evening. “We can’t be doing all these haram things.”
“Not even a hug?” He asked, and I shook my head no.
He thought about it for a moment, then agreed with an okay. He stepped
back, hands still in his pocket, and looked at me as he bit his lower lip. Just
then, my athan went off. Great timing, I thought. Saved by the bell.
“Maghrib,” he said, and I nodded. “I’ll call you when I get home.” With
that, he pressed the elevator button for me, flashed me a smile as I got in
and turned around and left.
My hands went to my lips as soon as the doors closed, and I had the
biggest smile on my face. So, are we boyfriend and girlfriend now? How
does this work?

J