Chapter 9
Broken Not a halal love story Complete · about 46 min read
une came, and it was suddenly Summer. Winter jackets and parkas gave
way to cropped tops and shorts. As winter boots became sandals, lattes
and cappuccinos became iced teas and slushies, you could smell a barbeque
around every other block. Studying for my final exams was keeping me
really busy, and I was still spending all my free time with Ahmad. He was
teaching me to drive a manual, even though I knew I would never own one.
Why would I ever get a car with a manual transmission when automatic
cars were easier to drive and their safety features got better every year? I
had gone on a few more bike rides, poetry slams and picnics with Ahmad,
although I was very disappointed one evening as we drove back from
Niagara Falls when he told me that he would not be traveling to Milan for
Kaltume’s wedding.
“Have you gotten your ticket?” Umma asked me on the phone one day.
There was so much background chatter around her, with all the preparation
for Kaltume’s wedding.
“Yes, I got it,” I replied. My dad’s secretary had sent me an email earlier
that day with the Milan itinerary for the weekend. Kaltume’s mom and the
ambassador were cousins, so I was going to be on the same flight with
Aunty Mami and Afreen. Some years back, Kaltume’s father was accused
of embezzlement, and it was so bad that he was wanted by the Economic
and Financial Crimes Commission (EFCC) in Nigeria. So, he exiled with
his family, moving between Milan and Paris. In short, he can’t be in Nigeria
without leaving the airport in handcuffs, but we’re all pretending it’s a
destination wedding because nobody really talks about that.
“Good. Your asoebi arrived from the tailor this morning,” she said,
referring to my outfits for the two wedding events. “You should see the
jewelry I got you. You would love them.” Umma always picked out the
most exquisite pieces for me. She believed I was an extension of her, and
my appearance at events such as this one mattered to her a great deal. “Be
careful with this one, handle it with care. It’s for the bride,” Her voice had
turned into the curt tone reserved for the domestic workers at home. “Can
you imagine?” she was saying to me now. “They are mishandling a Deola
Sagoe dress!” Weddings were such a big deal back home. Families on both
sides were always competing to outdo the other in style, extravagance and
elegance, even though the prophet advised that everything should be done
in moderation. We always seem to conveniently forget that during
weddings.
I had no lecture, as it was exam week. I had study sessions with Ada
and Sara in the mornings, and after those sessions, Ahmad would usually
come to hang out with me. Sometimes, we ended up back at his place. His
study had become my sanctuary, and he never disturbed me while I was in
there; he was always working in the next room. Most evenings ended with
us on the couch, watching TV before I returned to the residence. The day I
wrote my last exam, as Ada and I walked out, we found him waiting for me
in the parking lot. He was wearing a white shirt over well-tailored grey
dress pants, and he had sunglasses on.
“This is my friend Ada,” I introduced them and she extended her hand
toward him. “Ada, this is Ahmad.”
“Hi, Ada,” he said as he shook her hand, “how was your exam?” he
asked, looking at me now. Next to him, Ada widened her eyes at me, her
mouth quietly forming the word wow.
I shook my head at her, laughing as I answered him. “It was fine. I can’t
believe we are done – Finally!” It felt good to say that out loud.
“For real!” Ada said, looking at her phone and announcing her ride had
arrived. She gave me a quick hug, and as she walked off, she turned around
and added: “It was nice meeting you, Ahmad.”
“Same here,” he said with a smile, removing his sunglasses as we
started walking towards the residence.
“So, I was hoping we could spend time together before you leave
tomorrow,” he said as I adjusted my tote on my shoulder.
“Sure, but you have to drop me at home before Isha,” I said to him. I
was spending the night at his parent’s place because our flight was at 10 am
the following day.
He glanced at his wristwatch, then slipped his hands into his pocket like
he normally did. “I can work with that.” The past few weeks had been great.
Ahmad did anything to make me uncomfortable. There were times when his
hands would almost reach for me, and then he would remember and stop
himself.
“I can’t believe you’re not coming. Aren’t you guys cousins?” I asked
for the fourth time that week.
“You can’t choose your family,” he said.
“What does that even mean?” I got the feeling that he didn’t want to talk
about it, but I wanted to know, so I kept going at it.
“Just principle,” he said.
“What principle?” my phone vibrated. I ignored it.
We were almost at the residence now. There were so many cars parked
out in front of the building as people loaded trunks with their luggage,
excited chatter filling the air.
“Let’s just say that out of all my uncles, her dad is my least favorite.”
He opened the door for me as we walked into the lobby. “Do you need help
with your luggage?”
I answered yes, and he followed me into the elevators filled with other
students chatting and exchanging numbers. The luggage I’d spent the last
two days packing was definitely too heavy for me to haul down the hallway
and into the elevators by myself. In the elevator, we were quiet; he stood
against the wall, and I stood in front of him. This is going to be his first time
in my room, I thought, trying to remember the state I’d left my room this
morning before running out for my exam.
The elevator stopped, people got off, and more people got on. As it got
fuller, I moved closer toward him, my back leaning into his chest. When we
got to my floor, I moved slowly in front of him as we moved toward my
front door. When we finally got in, there was a note in Claire’s handwriting
on the table: ‘Have a fantastic summer. See you in the fall.’ She must have
left for Saskatchewan, where her mom and stepdad lived, while I was at my
exam. The door to her room was wide open, her bed stripped of its cover.
Her study table, which was usually cluttered, was now bare, devoid of all
her colorful Post-it notes. I walked into my room, quickly scanning to make
sure I had no underwear sticking out of my laundry basket. I laughed at how
foolish I felt while Ahmad quietly inspected the Simpson magnets on our
fridge in the kitchenette. I was disconnecting my chargers and folding my
praying mat when he walked into my room and threw himself on my bed.
I closed my luggage and walked over to the window to pull the blinds,
then turned to face him: “Ready?”
“I ordered us some food. Should be delivered by the time we get to my
place,” he said, wheeling my purple Rimowa suitcase. “Please don’t tell me
you’re taking books with you to Milan?”
“Of course, I am! What am I going to do with all my free time since
you’re not coming? "
* * *
The seatbelt light came on almost at the same time as the pilot’s
announcement, interrupting the in-flight movie I was just beginning to get
into. “Ladies and gentlemen, we are now crossing a zone of turbulence.
Please return your seats and keep your seat belts fastened. Thank you.” I
removed my headphones and to my right, Afreen closed the book she was
reading. I looked at the trip tracker on my screen; we were halfway to our
destination. The first wave of turbulence hit the cabin a little harder than I
had anticipated, and I felt my hands grab the glossy polished wood of the
armrest.
“This is the longest flight ever. We should have taken a night flight,”
she complained, rolling her eyes as she fastened her seatbelt. If we had
taken a night flight from Canada, we would have arrived at Milan in the
evening and missed the first event of the wedding, but I didn’t say anything
because I knew that she knew this. “I’m excited about getting my face beat
by Mamza!”
“Who?” I didn’t hear the end of her sentence over the rumble of the
cabin.
“Fati Mamza,” she answered, applying lip balm. “She’s flying in
tomorrow and will be doing the bride’s and the bridesmaids’ makeup. She’s
–” She was interrupted by another wave of turbulence, her lip balm falling
on the brown carpeted floor.
I silently muttered a prayer in my mind as I felt my seat shake slightly.
The wedding had not officially started, but it was already gaining some
traction on the internet. There was a hashtag, #SGKS, with the couple’s
initials that wedding vendors were tagging guest outfits with. The posts
were getting a lot of likes. I tried to recall who’d tagged me on an Instagram
post that had my name on it. With all the comments, it was hard to filter
through. “I like Fati Mamza. She doesn’t go crazy with the nose contour,” I
said when the plane finally seemed to have won its battle with the clouds.
“I know, right? It’s like everyone steps out with a new nose at these
events,” she picked up her book and started flipping through the pages,
trying to find her page.
After touchdown, we grabbed our hand luggage and went to Aunt
Mami’s seat. She was reading a message on her iPad, looking stately in her
black Abaya. “The chauffeur, Matteo will be waiting for us at gate 6,” she
said as she looked up from her itinerary. She adjusted her glasses, picked up
her handbag, and we got off the plane after her, making our way quickly
through Milano Malpensa Airport Security and Immigration.
After we got our luggage, we walked towards the exit and saw a man in
a white uniform holding a white placard with the wedding hashtag and
Toronto in block letters. “Welcome to Milan,” he said as he helped with one
trolley of luggage. He spoke English with a heavy Italian accent. “My name
is Matteo. I will be your chauffeur for the day; or in this case, night.”
“Thank you, Matteo,” Aunty Mami answered, glancing at his nametag
to confirm. “How far are we from the hotel?”
“About 30 minutes. No traffic at this time,” he said as he put our
luggage in the trunk of the Maserati that served as the hotel’s
complimentary airport shuttle, whistling as he did. It was dark outside, but
the streets were brightly lit.
“We’re staying at the Gallia,” Aunty Mami was reading to us off her
iPad as the car began to move. “Dinner at the Terrazza – oh, I’m glad the
venue for the event is at the same hotel,” she added to herself.
I offered Afreen and Aunty Mami mints. I always carried mints when I
traveled. Same reason I don’t talk to people after long flights without
brushing.
“Na gode Fa’iza am,” Aunty smiled, as she popped the white circle in
her mouth and continued reading, “Kamu is tomorrow evening, Nikkah on
Monday morning and the reception in the evening,” she pulled her rimless
glasses down the bridge of her nose as she observed the buildings in the
distance through the window.
“Shi kenan? Is that all?” Afreen asked. “That’s fantastic. Lucky
Kaltume – she doesn’t have to sit through multiple events for one whole
week.”
“Or nine days,” I added.
“Right?” Afreen concurred. We clearly felt the same about dragged-out
wedding activities.
“That’s the thing with destination weddings – with most people flying in
for just a few days, we’re working with a limited time frame,” Aunty Mami
was reading another email as she answered.
“Must be nice to pick and select what part of your culture to display,”
Afreen’s voice had a hint of sarcasm to it.
If Aunty Mami heard her, she didn’t dignify her daughter’s statement
with an answer. Instead, she looked at me and said, “Fa’iza am, Umma will
be arriving in three hours.”
I looked at my wristwatch, which was unhelpful as it still displayed
Toronto time. I made a mental note to adjust it when we got to the hotel.
“Yes, I tracked her flight while we were in the line for immigration,” I
answered. Her flight was arriving as scheduled. No delays, Alhamdulillah.
The car finally pulled up to an iconic stonewalled building, and while
our luggage was wheeled in, we went to the lobby to check in. The historic-
looking exterior and the contrast to its sleek modern interior captivated me
as we walked through the revolving doors; the marbled architecture
wrapped around my senses in hues of gold, black and white.
“Welcome to the Excelsior Hotel Gallia. My name is Monica. How can
I assist you today?” a woman at the front desk beamed as we approached
her.
“Checking in for three,” Aunty Mami replied, and we all brought out
our passports as identification.
“Oh great, you’re with the SG Wedding party,” she said as she looked
up our names on the computer. “How was your flight in?”
“It was uneventful. Thank God,” Aunt Mami answered as Monica made
the keys and handed us hotel brochures.
“Uneventful is always good. The entire wedding party is on the fifth
floor. The brochure has details about your dinner tonight at the Terrazza
Gallia on the seventh floor.” Monica summoned the porter who helped
Matteo wheel our luggage towards the elevator with a slight nod. “Alfonzo
will be helping you up to your rooms. If you have any inquiries, please dial
0 on your room phone to be connected to the concierge.”
We followed the bellhop into the elevator, listening as he told us the
floors that led to the gym, spa, golf course and all the available eateries in
and around the hotel.
“Go and rest,” Aunt Mami said as we got to the fifth floor, “Bayan
sallan asuba sai ku zo. Come to my room after the morning prayer.”
* * *
Afreen and I walked into our tastefully furnished room. The twin queen
beds had flowers and chocolates with a note welcoming us to Milan. Your
presence is truly a gift – Kaltume.
“I’m going to take a shower,” I announced unnecessarily to Afreen, who
had walked out to the terrace overlooking the city. When I came back out
from the bathroom, she was removing outfits from her box, hanging them in
the closet, then she went to the washroom. After praying the sallah I
missed, I picked up my phone, connected to the hotel wifi, and messages
came rushing through. I opened the first one. It was from Ahmad.
Safe flight?
I typed back: We arrived about an hour ago.
Almost immediately, he started calling.
“Hello,” I said, as I felt a smile slowly creep up my face, “were you just
sitting around waiting for my reply?” I teased.
“You would love that, wouldn’t you?” his voice filled my ear, and I
found myself reminiscing the previous evening – the quiet drive to his
parent’s house and sitting in the car for a while as he showed me some
pictures he took of the sunrise that morning before we finally went indoors.
“So, how was your day?” I asked.
“Boring as heck. What time is it?”
I propped my head on the pillows as I looked at the digital alarm clock
on the bedside table between the beds “4:56 am.”
“Oh haba? You should get some rest, then.”
“No, it’s okay. I wanna talk to you,” I answered. My wristwatch said it
was 9:56 pm in Toronto. This time yesterday, all three of us were playing
cards and watching TV at the ambassador’s residence. Afreen had no idea
what was going on between us. She assumed Ahmad brought me home
because his mom asked him to; she didn’t know he was going to even if she
hadn’t asked.
“Do you wanna know something?” his voice brought me back to earth.
“You can’t laugh, though.”
“Tell me,” I was already laughing.
“I almost came by the airport this morning, so that I could see you
before you got on your flight.”
I’m sure he could hear the sound of my breathing at the end of the line. I
remembered how much he lingered around the house yesterday evening –
so much that Aunty Mami asked if he was going to sleep over because of
how late it had gotten.
“I wish you had come.”
The bathroom door opened, and Afreen came out wearing a white robe
and a toothbrush in her hand, “Fa’ee before we leave, let’s try out the
Shiseido spa” She turned around and exclaimed, “oh sorry! I didn’t know
you were on the phone.”
“I guess I’ll leave you ladies to it,” he said.
“Talk to you later,” I said and I hung up the phone, kind of disappointed
that our phone call had come to an abrupt end.
As we made our way to Aunty Mami’s after Fajr, Afreen’s phone rang.
“Zafar’s calling,” she announced. “Go ahead. I’ll join you in a bit.”
I nodded and knocked on the door as I watched Afreen go back into our
room, closing the door quietly. The door opened and Aunty Mami was
wearing a long light blue hijab and holding a tasbeeh, rosary, in her hand. I
hadn’t realized how much luggage she’d brought until I saw all five boxes
open in her suite, which was bigger than ours, with a great view of the city.
“What can I help you with, Aunty?” I asked as she removed her hijab.
“So much to do, so little time,” she murmured. “Where’s Afreen?”
“She’s coming,” was all I could say as I knew Zafar was not yet
common knowledge to the family.
“Help me with the souvenirs,” she gestured toward a box filled with
perfume boxes. We worked together silently until we heard a knock on the
door. By the time Afreen came in, half of the souvenirs were packed in
brightly colored paper bags. The bags lined the hallway in the hotel suite.
Meanwhile, I kept glancing at my phone to check if the message I sent to
Umma had been delivered.
“They’re probably going through immigration now,” Aunty Mami said.
Like me, she was also checking her phone for a message or call from my
mom.
As I helped my aunt unpack, Afreen steamed the creases out of the
dress her mother was wearing that evening. After a couple of hours – with
all the souvenirs in bags, outfits hanging in the closet, shoes and bags for
each outfit placed neatly on the carpet in the closet, presents for the couple
wrapped and displayed on the center table, jewelry locked in the safe – we
returned to our room.
Afreen was already asleep when the phone in our room rang. I reached
over and picked up. “Good morning, Ms. Fa’iza. A guest who just checked
in has requested to be connected with you,” the lady announced.
“Go ahead,” I said. I could barely contain my excitement.
“One moment,” the voice said again, and within a minute, I heard the
unmistakable voice of my mother. “Hello.”
“Umma!!” I screamed into the phone. “What’s your room number?”
“510.”
As soon as I hung up, I grabbed my key and walked briskly down to the
hallway and knocked on her door. Almost immediately, the door flung
open, and I fell into my mother’s arms, giving her the biggest hug I could.
“I kept waiting for my message to be delivered so that I could call you; I
would’ve been in the lobby to receive you,” I said without stopping to
breathe.
“Oh, what nonsense,” she said, stepping back to look at me. “You just
got off a flight yourself.”
I looked at my mum, and she looked just as beautiful as always; it was
hard to believe that she’d just traveled across continents over the last 12
hours. I hadn’t finished admiring her when her finger flew to my cheeks. I
hadn’t realized there were tears in my eyes.
Her suite was identical to Aunty Mami’s, and multiple boxes filled the
room, making it hard to navigate to the king-sized bed.
She saw me looking at all the boxes. “Muna da aiki. We have work to
do,” she said with a laugh. But before she could go on, there was a knock
on her door, and she opened it. I heard Aunty Mami’s voice: “As salamu
Alaikum.” They both started laughing.
“Wa Alaikumus salam.” More laughter, then, “You got my text.”
“It just came in.” They hugged and laughed with the ease of a friendship
that spanned over decades. Aunty Mami smiled when she saw me in the
room, “Fa’iza, go and rest.” Then she turned to my mum: “She’s been
helping me unpack my own boxes.”
I opened my mouth to object, but Aunty Mami cut me off. “I’m here
now. We can handle this without you.”
“Let’s start with the bride’s accessories,” Umma said, then turned
towards me: “The box over there is for you and Afreen – your asoebi is in
there. You can take it to your room.” She pointed at a brown Louis Vuitton
box as she spoke.
“I can help, so that we can finish faster,” I offered.
“Don’t worry. We’ll have enough time to rest before tonight’s event.
Go.”
“Okay,” I gave her another quick hug before wheeling the box out of the
room. This was going to be an interesting wedding. I was sure the fifth floor
of the Gallia had never housed such a diverse bunch of people from
different parts of the world. The bride and her family alone took up half the
suites on the floor. Then there was the groom’s family and then their friends
who were also invited guests. Early breakfast was organized by the catering
team at the hotel in the morning; there was so much chatter in the breakfast
hall designated to the SG Wedding party filled with conversation in Hausa,
English and some French.
When Afreen and I woke up from the much-needed morning rest later
that morning, we went to Umma’s room to help with the remaining
souvenirs and gifts. After brunch, Umma and Aunty Mami took a nap
before dinner, and we went to meet their bride in her suite. As soon as we
entered the white-walled suite, the scent of turaren wuta took me back to
many wedding events back in Nigeria. The room was bustling with all her
female friends and cousins – trying on dresses, taking pictures, and at least
three people were getting their hair braided.
“Assalamu alaikum,” we entered the room. I felt at least a dozen eyes on
me immediately, and I was sure Afreen did too.
“Afreen Babangida!” someone said, ever so lightly between a gasp and
a whisper. It was the bride, Kaltume. She was wearing a black sleeveless
tunic, sitting on pillows with her hands stretched out in an attempt to dry the
beautiful henna drawings quicker. Her dark, short hair with brown
highlights was in a cute bob and tucked behind her ears. “Fai’za
Mohammad, I can not believe this!”
Kaltume Sherriff. How do I describe her? There was something elegant
about her – her big dark almond-shaped eyes, the way her ebony skin shone
in the morning light or the graceful manner in which she spoke? She had
this beautiful way of making you feel like you mattered, like you were
always welcomed into her space.
“Congratulations, couz,” Afreen said in a sing-song manner as she gave
Kaltume a quick hug, taking care not to get stained by henna.
“You look radiant,” I added as I leaned in for a hug after Afreen. It was
true. She looked like a princess with elaborate golden jewellery she wore on
her earlobes and around her neck.
“I’m delighted you both made it here,” she managed to say, before her
attention got drawn elsewhere. Afreen and I took the opportunity to
exchange pleasantries with her friends; she introduced me to the ones she
knew, and the room was soon filled with chatter and laughter.
Time flew by really quickly, punctuated by visits from Aunties who
dropped by to see the bride and room service who brought our various
lunch orders. By the time we left her suite, she had started getting ready for
dinner.
The whole floor was buzzing with photographers and their lighting
assistants, videographers, mounted tripods, make-up artists, hairdressers
and stylists. Doors to the many suites were opening and closing as people
went from room to room, all following a schedule. Everything was planned
to the most minute detail.
Afreen and I both got our hair and makeup done. I couldn’t recall a time
I had this amount of makeup on; the mink false lashes felt so heavy and it
took a minute for me to get used to them. Afreen was already in her dress –
an ink feather-embellished dress with a cinched waist that fell straight to her
legs. She opted to leave her straightened hair out without a scarf and she
looked spectacular with nude lips and smokey eyes. When she was done,
she helped me zip up the tight, semi-sheer bodice on my navy-blue dress
which gently flared towards my ankles with its illusion long sleeves
stopping at my wrists. As I watched the silk scarf getting wrapped around
my head in such an intricate style, I saw a younger version of Umma staring
back at me in the mirror, from the widow’s peak on the top of my head
down to the cupid’s bow on my upper lip.
“I daresay we look amazing tonight, Fa’ee,” Afreen said, admiring
herself in the mirrored elevator and smoothening her glossy hair as we
made our way to the 7th floor. Before I could answer, my phone beeped,
and I looked down to see two messages from Ahmad: I hope Milan is
treating you right? and then The days are longer without you here…
Before I could reply, the elevators reached the 7th floor with a ding, and
we were immediately ushered to a rose-walled wedding backdrop for
pictures. As my eyes adjusted to all the lights flashing around, Afreen and I
posed for pictures – both separately and together – knowing fully well the
pictures would be posted on Instagram, with or without our explicit consent.
The Terrazza Gallia on the rooftop was breathtakingly decorated for this
private event. Fairy lights glistened through mirrored panels that reflected
the night sky. Pictures of the couple were printed on huge placards in the
dinner area, flanked by blush-toned dahlias. We had the most beautiful
panoramic view of the city, including the central railway station.
“I’m going to the bathroom. I promised Zafar a video call,” Afreen
whispered in my ear before disappearing.
I looked around at the room – a different white rose backdrop and at the
faces of unfamiliar guests. My eyes found Umma, Aunty Mami, and their
friends who were just arriving and posing for pictures. They all brought
Nigerian high fashion to this event, with expensive laces, silks, and
cashmere. It was gratifying to watch. I walked over to say hello to them as
they took their seats. Aunty Mami squealed with delight when she saw me:
“I can’t wait for your wedding, Fa’iza am! We’ll have the time of our
lives,” and everyone chorused, “Ameen.”
I found it amazing how during weddings, mothers prayed for more
weddings. I saw the quick pride that passed my mother’s eyes when she saw
all the aunties take in my subtle but classy and expensive jewelry, dress, and
respectful gait as I greeted them around the table. It was a matter of utmost
importance to her that they knew that her daughter of marriageable age was
not only beautiful and well-spoken but also well-brought up.
I stood up and beckoned Afreen over as she came out of the bathroom,
her eyes scanning the floor, looking for me. She came over and hugged
Umma. “Aunty, you look great!” she said. They exchanged compliments,
then Afreen went around the table, greeting everyone just as I had seconds
earlier. She was just circling back to Umma when the DJ turned up the
music, and the bride and her mother came in, dancing slowly toward the
guests. The bride was dressed in a stunning champagne-colored V-neck
mermaid dress with sequins beaded up all through its removable train. The
videographers and camera crew were all over them. When they found their
seats, we made montages of speeches describing the bride and wishing her
well in her marital home.
The great food was secondary to the fun we were having. Later in the
evening, as the mothers were on the dancefloor and we had all been
properly acquainted with Kaltume’s school friends and relatives, chatter
flowed seamlessly across the bridesmaids’ table.
“I was disappointed when I heard Ya Ahmad couldn’t make it,” a distant
relative of the bride suddenly said.
“Oh yeah,” Afreen said. “He’s so busy. You know he shuttles between
the States and Canada often.”
“I read about him in the Forbes Under 30 article. I was so proud!”
Kaltume said. “He called me when he heard about the wedding. Oh, he’s
the sweetest,” she added, putting her hand to her heart.
“Afreen, is he single?” one of the bridesmaids asked, and they all
laughed.
“Is he still dating that Turkish girl?” Kaltume asked, wide-eyed.
“Remember when we used to stalk her on Instagram whenever she posted
their pictures?”
Afreen nodded frantically as they both giggled like teenage schoolgirls.
“No, they broke up a while ago, but I think he’s dating someone else now.”
“Wace ce? Who’s she? Do we know her? Please tell me she’s Nigerian
this time,” Kaltume asked.
Afreen shrugged. “You know how he hates me being all up in his
business, so I really don’t know. But he’s always on the phone with
someone. Somto, or something like that. Can’t remember her name, but she
sounds like a Calabar babe.Or was it Insomto? I don’t really –”
I choked on my drink. So she knows about Insom! I was startled, but
luckily, nobody noticed; they were all consoling each other after hearing the
news that their shared crush was taken – and by a Nigerian girl this time,
who had a more probable chance of marrying him than his foreign exes.
The look of disappointment on their faces as they heard the girl’s name was
hard to miss, even if I wanted to.
* * *
The next event, Kamu, which means ‘catch the bride,’ an event where the
groom’s family pay to see the bride’s face, it was a staggering display of
opulence – from the decor that brought the heritage and observance of regal
Arewa from the days of yore, to the traditional music played on local
instruments by a cultural musical troupe, to how modestly everyone was
dressed as was expected of northern Nigerian events that our parents
attended. Stepping into the decadent hall draped all around in multiple rows
of curtains, carpeted in northern textile and piles of textured animal skin
cushions, it was hard to believe we were miles away from home. One was
immediately transported into northern royalty. The room had a cloud of its
own from the incense that was burning from various burners. At the centre
of it all – seated on a throne made of pillows and leather cushions, in white
and gold al-kebba draped over her slim body and covering her hair – was
Kaltume. In all her glory. All her friends were seated on the steps that led to
her seat, chatting excitedly and taking pictures in their asoebi.
That was the first time I saw her husband-to-be. He was followed by
male and female members of his family. The men were dressed in
traditional Hausa attire, kaftan and matching trousers, with some of them
wearing babban riga on top. The festivities were dragged out, but
thoroughly enjoyable. By the end of the evening, we were all exhausted.
Later that evening, back in our room on the fifth floor, I was on another
call with Ahmad. “Ms. Mohammed, you looked dazzling today,” his voice
was sensual in my ear.
“Why thank you, Mr. Babangida,” I answered with a laugh. I was in a
white hotel robe in the bathroom, taking off my makeup in front of the
mirror.
“No, I mean it. Afreen sent me pictures and…” he paused. “When’s
your flight back?”
“About that…” I started, turning on my Clarisonic facial brush, running
it across my cheeks, “We’re going to stay for a few days after the wedding.”
Umma and Aunty Mami had decided to extend our stay to explore Italy and
enjoy the weather. Afreen and I didn’t need convincing; we couldn’t wait to
shop elsewhere.
“Wait a minute,” he said and hung up. A second later, his video call
came in. I rinsed my face and patted it dry with a towel before I answered.
He was wearing a white sleeveless shirt, and his head was buried in white
pillows. “You’re joking right?” he did not sound impressed, even though he
was smiling as he looked at my face. “Babe, you’re supposed to be back in
two days.”
“Two days, six days – what’s the difference?” I liked teasing him.
“I haven’t seen you in a week,” his voice was low.
“Four days, you mean,” I corrected.
“Well it feels longer than that.”
* * *
The following day was the Nikkah, and Quranic recitations filled the bride’s
room. I was sitting with Kaltume when she got a call from an uncle who
informed her of the proceedings at the Mosque – how much was paid as
dowry: the gold coins and two properties, one in Abuja and the other, a
Parisian apartment in the sixth arrondisement included in her mahr. A few
minutes later, she got a call from her husband, Sani Garba.
The whole room erupted in congratulations. I watched her toy coyly
with the thin belt on her brown abaya as she talked to her husband for the
first time since becoming his wife. It was something special – how much
new brides relished all the firsts; like the first phone call after the Nikkah,
which, in our culture, women didn’t attend, or the first hug, the first prayer
as husband and wife, or their first meal alone together.
“Where’s our Amarya?” Umma came into the room asking for the bride.
She was followed by Aunty Mami, two of their friends and their own cloud
of turaren wuta.
In the midst of all the sounds and distractions, Aunty Mami pulled
Afreen to the side. “Senator Fatima is here and she wants you to meet her
son, Babagana,” her voice was low enough that no one else could hear her,
but they were still within hearing distance that I could still hear them even
without meaning to. “I don’t want your usual excuses. You’ll do the right
thing and be polite.” She left Afreen’s side and went back to the big swarm
of Aunties as more of them came into the room.
When we finished our make-up in the bride’s suite, Afreen and I headed
to our room to change into our outfits. This was the first time we would see
the couple together as husband and wife, and all the guests from the bride
and groom will be present; it was undoubtedly the biggest event of this
wedding. Afreen and I wore our second coordinated outfit for this event – a
pink beaded and sequined lace for all her friends. Mine was a Hudayya-
crafted off-shoulder dress with sleeves that reached past my elbow. The lace
material accentuated my tiny waist and flared at the hips, with stilettos
making me appear taller. There was something about looking at my
reflection that made me feel very confident.
My phone beeped as I was getting my fuscia pink headgear tied: Hello,
gorgeous.
Hey, boo. I typed back.
I love the sound of that. What are you up to?
Getting ready for the reception. I looked at my wristwatch. I think we’re
going to be late.
Through the mirror, I glanced at Afreen in her peplum blouse and skirt.
She looked beautiful, even though her demeanor had changed since the not-
so-discreet conversation with her mother.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
She looked at me with a smile on her face. “I’ll be fine,” she shrugged.
“You make that dress look great.”
I looked back at my reflection. My dress was figure-hugging, but it was
so easy to move in. With all the adrenaline pumping in my system due to all
the excitement, I had forgotten about the discomfort from my heels. I
squeezed her hand as we got into the elevators, and she sighed.
The reception was taking place in one of the banquet halls on the main
floor, and as the elevator doors opened, I heard Afreen squeal, “you made
it!” she rushed to hug a gentleman wearing a white kaftan and a dark brown
and grey embroidered Zanna Bukar cap. There was something about the
way the kaftan looked on him – the crisp embroidery etched across his
chest, the color of the material against his skin and the well-balanced cap on
that perfect head of his. As he hugged her, I saw a familiar smile on his face
as his eyes slowly went over my body. I could not believe my eyes. It was
Ahmad. My Ahmad.
As Afreen chippered soundlessly to her brother, I walked out of the
elevator behind her. I stood still, watching them, until I realized the distance
between us had become smaller. He was walking towards me with slow,
deliberate steps, his eyes never leaving mine.
“I couldn’t stay away,” he said softly, and he chuckled at my expression.
Lord, this man is fine.
Here I was – overly dressed under the yellow glow of the ceiling lights,
trying unsuccessfully to hide the shy smile that was fast becoming a
permanent feature. I couldn’t believe he got on a plane to come to Milan!
We spoke a few hours ago, and he didn’t say anything about coming.
Afreen’s voice broke the silence, telling us that this was the best
possible surprise Aunty Mami could get. “I have to record this,” she said as
she fished for her phone from her pale pink sequined clutch, “Mum’s face
when she sees you – I can’t miss it. I have to be there,” she said, laughing.
“What’s her room number?” he asked her, his eyes lingering on the
henna pattern on my hands.
“It’s okay, I’ll lead the way, I have her keycard,” she said as she got into
the elevator and started recording. “Aren’t you coming?” she asked me.
I shook my head reluctantly, taking my eyes away from his. “Just send
me the video, I’ll go save us seats.” Aunty Mami and Umma were getting
ready together. My mum would see through my expression or mannerisms
around Ahmad and start asking questions I honestly didn’t have answers to.
Ahmad got into the elevator with his sister, and she leaned across to
push a button. As the doors closed, I watched as he winked at me, and my
heart skipped a beat. God help me! The butterflies again.
I walked down the hall and into the banquet hall. Still dazed with
excitement, I tried to keep my composure as I walked past aunts and uncles.
It was easy to find where to sit, as the hall was divided into four asoebi
colors. There were several tables assigned to the bridesmaids wearing the
pink lace I was wearing, and they were all surrounded by Kaltume’s friends.
I rushed to the most sparse table and got Afreen and I seats with a good
view of the bride. From there, I watched people come in and out of the hall
while trying to look distracted when the camera crew began recording them.
There was a rule to it – when the camera was recording you, you needed to
make sure you were not drinking or eating anything; you wanted to seem
unaware of the crew, but not in a way seems rehearsed; and you always
avoided waving at the camera or making faces. That never aged well in
wedding videos. A slight smile to someone across the room or a glance at
the menu should be picturesque.
“Hello, beautiful,” I felt someone’s hands at the back of my chair. The
familiar scent of oud wrapped my senses, and I knew it was Ahmad even
before I turned to look at him. He took the chair next to me around the
circular table.
“What happened to –” I paused as I struggled to come up with the best
British accent. “Out of all my uncles, her dad is my least favorite?” I
couldn’t keep the smile off my face.
“I missed you,” he simply said, his eyes dropping to the rest of my
outfit and then back to my eyes. Some glances were being thrown in our
direction – mostly at him. “I wasn’t gonna wait another week.”
Umma, Aunty Mami and their friends were now dancing in with the
bride’s mum. Afreen was behind them, and as soon as they walked in, she
started making her way toward us.
“Are you okay with me being here?” Ahmad asked, leaning close to my
ear so I could hear him over the music.
“Of course. I can’t believe you’re here. I almost hugged you!”
“So why didn’t you?” he asked, still leaning towards me.
“You know why,” I smiled, looking away.
“You know you can’t sit here, right?” Afreen was here now. She
plopped herself next to me and gave me her phone, pressing the play tab as
she did.
“No?” he was feigning ignorance. “I’m representing you at this event.
You can go sleep.”
I increased the volume on the phone so I could hear the video above the
music playing through the speakers. When Aunty Mami’s door opened,
Ahmad’s back came into view as he walked into the suite. I liked the way
he walked – tall and proud. Aunty Mami, who was fully dressed in her
purple lace, was putting on her golden bangles when she turned and saw
him. You could see the look of surprise on her face when she realized who
it was, then a giant beam that rivaled that of the sun settled on her face as
she stretched her arms towards him and gave him a hug, his face turning to
give her a peck on her right cheek. I could hear Afreen giggling in the
background as the mother hugged her son.
“I’m glad you changed your mind,” she dusted something off his kaftan.
The camera shook and turned around as Afreen captured someone coming
out of the inner room. It was my mum. She was wearing the same purple
lace covered in a raisin-colored laffaya. Ahmad couched down to greet her.
“Umma, good evening,” he greeted her in Hausa.
“Ahmad! We were just talking about you! How was –” The video came
to an end, and I turned to see Afreen and Ahmad in the middle of an intense
discussion.
“…really don’t want to,” Afreen was saying.
He nodded as he listened intently. “So why didn’t you just tell mum
that?”
“I can’t. Not everyone can get away with things when it comes to mum.
We can’t all be you.”
“Listen, if you don’t want to meet him, you don’t have to.”
“It’s not that simple,” she sighed and looked at me for support, urging
me to say something. “I just can’t back out. How would that make mum
look? How would Aunty Fatima feel? She asked for her son and me to get
acquainted and it would be a slap in the face if I refused – especially
without meeting him.”
I nodded. She was right. Pride and expectations were deeply ingrained
in the atomic fibres of an unwritten culture in Arewa. This was particularly
evident when it came to the rules of interaction and what someone could
take offense to.
“And why should people’s opinions matter so much?” Ahmad shook his
head and looked from Afreen to me, then back to her. “It’s your life we’re
talking about here, Afreen.”
I looked up as the bride and groom made their way into the hall. They
looked so happy, and while he was older than the bride by at least a decade,
they complemented each other so well. I wondered what their story was – if
they had met on their own or if they were introduced by someone in the
family. It didn’t matter because, at this moment, they looked like they were
made for each other.
“I’ll be right back,” he said to me as Afreen took pictures of the couple
after they had sat down. I nodded and watched as he walked towards the
couple, stopping at a few tables to shake hands with other men he knew.
Afreen cleared her throat. I turned around, and she had a smile on her
face as she looked at me teasingly.
“Um, Afreen,” I started, “Ahmad and I –”
“Aha! I was wondering when you were going to tell me.”
“You knew?”
“Well, today confirmed it. I noticed how quickly he followed you out to
the garden after his birthday dinner, and you also looked uncomfortable
when I was talking about him with Kaltume.”
We looked up as Kaltume – wide-eyed and well-surprised – introduced
him to her husband, and they chatted for a little while.
“Oh,” I smiled, my voice shaking as I looked at the henna on my left
hand. “I really like him, Afreen.”
“And he has to be in love with you to come all the way here – because
he really really hates Uncle Sheriff,” she said, taking a sip of water. “I think
I like you two together.”
I laughed. I was glad I told her about it, but it did nothing to remove the
uneasiness I felt at the bottom of my stomach. I was new to all this, still
figuring it out, but most of all, I was uneasy about how very attracted I was
to him.
“Our mothers must feel like they won a jackpot. They wouldn’t have
made a better match if they tried,” Afreen said. I couldn’t help but think of
her and Zafar and how she was holding onto a glimmer of hope that
someday they would accept him.
Hours later, when everybody was on the dancefloor, I found my way to
the dessert bar to get a tiny cup of ice cream.
“Why aren’t you dancing?” Afreen asked, bobbing her head to the
music. I hadn’t realized she was by my side.
“My feet are killing me!” I replied honestly, glancing at the white
sneakers she had changed into before going to the dance floor.
“Doesn’t that bother you?” she gestured towards the girls attempting to
flirt with Ahmad, who was being pulled into a photo session by Kaltume’s
siblings.
“Is it supposed to?” I asked. “Aren’t they your cousins?” The girls all
had the same button nose that characterized their household. Or Kaltume’s
mom’s side of the family, at least.
“Yeah, they are. But I remember how it was when Zafar and I first
started dating. I was so possessive; I would freak out if any girl did as much
as look at him,” she said as she sighed and reclined in the chair. “It’s so
different now.”
I didn’t feel that possessive toward Ahmad. But to be fair, we hadn’t
really spent a lot of time around other people. As I finished my frozen
yogurt, a man who looked in his mid-thirties approached us. He was chubby
and dark, wearing a navy blue babban riga and a black cap. “Assalamu
alaikum,” he said to us both and then, “Afreen?”
“Wa alaikumus salam,” I answered.
“Babagana,” Afreen said with a mouthful of gelato. “Yadai? What’s
up?”
I did a double-take at the man in front of us; so this was the Babagana?
“I am going to…” I scrambled for an excuse as a scowl formed between
Afreen’s brows like she was warning me not to leave her with him. “…I
have to throw this away,” I held up my empty cup as I left them together.
I tossed the cup in a recycle bin by the exit, made my way out of the
banquet hall and made a left to the empty restroom. After the bride and
groom left for the airport for their honeymoon, most of the older wedding
guests did the same. The only people left in the hall still partying were
younger family members and friends who were catching up before
everyone checked out the following morning. I looked at my reflection in
the mirror, ignored the incessant beeping on my phone and fixed my turban.
When I got out, Ahmad was outside waiting for me, leaning on the wall,
hands in his pockets. “I called when I saw you leaving the hall,” he said,
biting down on his lower lip like he was distracted.
I remembered the night he kissed me. I shook my head to dispel the
thoughts. This wasn’t the time to be thinking about that kiss. It was a one-
time thing, a mistake.
“What’s wrong?” his eyes had that look in them again – the one I’d seen
a few times, but I still couldn’t place it.
“I’m exhausted. It’s been a really long week.”
“Fair enough. I –” he was interrupted by three girls making their way to
the elevators. “Ya Ahmad, goodnight,” they said in unison, giggling to
themselves as they saw us standing shoulder-to-shoulder.
“Goodnight. Have a safe flight, Anisa,” he called after them, and I
started making my way back into the hall, looking for Afreen.
“Is this gonna be a problem?”
“What is?”
“Something’s off with you, and you are not talking about it.” he looked
past me into the hall and then back at me,
I sighed. It was not his fault that I barely knew anyone at this wedding
and that he was flocked by so much attention from all angles all evening. I
hadn’t even realized that I was feeling some way. It was a new emotion for
me, one I couldn’t name. “There are things I don’t know about you. Like
your ex – the Turkish one.” A frown settled on his face as he wondered
where that came from. I explained: “I heard someone talking about her.”
He nodded slowly. “Well, that’s why we’re in a relationship – to learn
about each other. I’m not keeping anything away from you. It just never
came up and you never asked.”
“Fa’ee, I can’t believe that you abandoned me in my time of need,”
Afreen was walking out of the banquet hall, heels in hand. “Oh, am I
interrupting?”
I shook my head.
“Let me walk you guys to your floor,” Ahmad said, and the three of us
walked toward the elevator.
“What floor are you on?” Afreen asked as she pressed the elevator
button to the fifth floor.
“I’m staying at the Armani,” he said. “I never RSVP’d, so I made my
own reservations.”
“Kaltume was happy you made it – even if it was for just one event,”
Afreen said with a yawn.
“Yeah,” he said as the elevator dinged to a stop.
Afreen swiped her key on the pad and pushed the door, saying
goodnight as she entered the room. He acknowledged it with a nod, “You
should get some sleep, but we have to talk about this tomorrow.” I nodded
and pushed the door open as he walked away.
The next morning, I woke up a few minutes to ten. The black-out
curtains kept our room dark, but I could still hear the wheels of
housekeeping carts as they made their way down the hallway to clean the
now-vacant rooms. As I moved my legs, I felt a familiar cramp in my
tummy and stickiness between my legs. I groaned as I climbed out of bed
and went into the bathroom, making a mental note to call the concierge for
some pain relief medication. My menstrual cramps were bad on the first
two days.
I stood in the shower, and as the water flowed down my back to my
legs, I thought about how this explained my sudden mood swing last night
during my conversation with Ahmad.
“Uhh… what time is it?” Afreen yawned as she looked around,
disoriented. I must have closed the door a bit too loudly on my way out of
the bathroom that I woke her up.
“Eleven-ish,” I answered, sitting on my bed.
She covered her head with the white duvet and went back to sleep. My
stomach cramps tightened, and I winced as I got back into bed. Umma also
had a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign outside her door to keep housekeeping out of
her suite for most of the day. Aunty Mami didn’t come out of her room
either. We all slept in, our empty trays of food lining the hallway outside
our doors.
The next morning, Afreen and I went to the Shiseido spa and, later in
the day, met Ahmad at a café not too far from the hotel for brunch, easily
recognizable by its colorful awning and elegant outdoor sitting area. I was
wearing high-waisted black jeans, a graphic top, wedges and a scarf around
my neck, and we found him sitting on a crowded patio under a canopy of
lush greenery, decorated with potted plants and flowers, wearing a blue T-
shirt, dark jeans, black Hermés slippers and sunglasses. He looked casual,
yet, he always stood out in the crowd.
“Good morning,” I said as I sat next to him on one of the comfortable
chairs in front of the table with crisp white tablecloths, surrounded by the
gentle hum of conversation and laughter in the background.
“Buongiorno,” Afreen said with glee. “Wait, hope this isn’t one of those
places we have to order in Italian,” she asked as she picked up the menu.
“I don’t think so,” he removed his sunglasses and turned towards my
direction before dropping a red rose in front of me. “How did you sleep?”
“I slept okay,” I smiled.
“I slept okay too, if anyone’s interested,” Afreen said, her eyes on the
menu. “Can I order from the lunch menu?”
“Let’s ask,” Ahmad flagged down a waiter, who was promptly by our
side.
“I don’t want anything from the breakfast menu, but it says here that
your lunch starts at two” Afreen looked at her wristwatch. “It’s twelve-
thirty. What can I do?”
The waiter looked at her blankly until Ahmad translated her request. He
nodded and replied.
“Grazie,” Ahmad said.
“I heard si so I guess I can,” she said with a triumphant smile.
I flipped through the menu. It was filled with a variety of drinks:
espresso, cappuccino, iced coffees, cocktails and wines. I flipped over
another page and saw that they offered light bites and pastries, all
beautifully presented, but there were many non-halal meat options on the
breakfast menu that I was having a tough time deciding what to eat. “The
gnocchi sounds good,” I thought out loud.
A different waiter came to our table when we were ready to place our
orders. He spoke English and nodded his head, and said bene bene when we
pointed out our orders on the menu.
“What do you wanna do after lunch?” Ahmad asked.
“I wanted to go sightseeing, see Milan a bit,” I said.
“We can go to the Galleria Vittorio and Duomo di Milano; they are less
than a minute apart.”
“Mum said we’re going shopping tomorrow,” Afreen said as the waiter
placed her red-sauced pasta in front of her.
“Yeah, I’m driving us there, " Ahmad said as the waiter placed my
creamy-sauced gnocchi in front of me and Ahmad’s meat and cheese
stuffed rigatoni before him. We ate in silence as we observed more people
who came on the patio.
Afreen and I ate off each other’s plates out of habit. “Oh, that’s so good.
I should have ordered that!” she said as she took another bite.
“Right? I love it. I have to recreate it back home.”
“It can’t be that hard; it’s pasta,” she said, grabbing the menu to look at
the description of the meal.
“Afreen and santi,” I teased. Santi was Hausa for that moment when
someone is enjoying a meal so much that they say things that they normally
wouldn’t.
“A sa ma ta weji; put a wedge behind her,” Ahmad completed the
saying, and we laughed.
Afreen’s face turned into a frown as she handed Ahmad her menu. He
glanced at my plate as he squinted at the menu. looking at the food I
ordered and reading the Italian description. “Um, Fa’iza?”
I stopped eating. He only called me by my name when he was about to
get serious.
“Bianco is white, right? So vino bianco – that’s white wine, Formaggio
is cheese,” Afreen spoke, almost to herself. “It’’s a wine-based sauce.”
Ahmad looked at me as I dropped my fork, “But alcohol evaporates
when you cook with it, doesn’t it?” he asked.
“Yeah, but alcohol is alcohol,” Afreen looked at me as I gulped the
water down like it would do anything to wash the wine off the tasty creamy
sauce.
“Afreen!” he was beginning to get visibly irritated.
“What?”
“Don’t go on about it. It’s not like she drank alcohol.”
“It matters to her,” Afreen argued. “I eat out with her a lot. I know how
much she checks these things. She doesn’t even eat burgers with me when
she’s not sure the meat halal.”
I felt like I was going to throw up. It had to be all in my mind. If I
concentrate on something else, I’ll be fine. I would be fine if they stopped
talking about me like I wasn’t there.
“I know that,” Ahmad’s voice interrupted my thoughts. “But what’s
done is done, so stop going on about it. We’re judged by our intentions, and
this wasn’t intentional. That’s it.”
“I’m fine,” I said as I pushed the almost empty plate away from me.
“Do you want something else?” Ahmad asked.
“No, I’m good. Thanks.”
After lunch, we got into the car Ahmad had rented and made our way
into town since we were only expected back to the hotel to have dinner with
Umma and Aunty Mami. My mother’s flight back to Abuja through
Frankfurt was the following evening, so I spent time with her after dinner.
The following day, we spent hours shopping. I helped her pack her bags,
and by 9 pm, we had checked out and were making our way back to the
Airport. I was emotional when my mum boarded the plane to Frankfurt, so
much so I couldn’t stop the tears as we said our goodbyes. Afterwards, we
checked in our luggage, sat in the lounge and waited for our boarding call to
Toronto.
“Ahmad, when is your flight?” Aunty Mami asked in the middle of their
conversation.
He looked at his wristwatch, “We start boarding an hour after yours
leaves,” he said. He’d told me the day before that he was going to
Washington from Milan. His firm had secured a new project, and he was
going to be there for a couple of days. That was right before he gave me a
small Chanel box with a black ribbon tied around it. That box lay unopened
in my handbag, along with the single red rose from the Café.
“
W
way to cropped tops and shorts. As winter boots became sandals, lattes
and cappuccinos became iced teas and slushies, you could smell a barbeque
around every other block. Studying for my final exams was keeping me
really busy, and I was still spending all my free time with Ahmad. He was
teaching me to drive a manual, even though I knew I would never own one.
Why would I ever get a car with a manual transmission when automatic
cars were easier to drive and their safety features got better every year? I
had gone on a few more bike rides, poetry slams and picnics with Ahmad,
although I was very disappointed one evening as we drove back from
Niagara Falls when he told me that he would not be traveling to Milan for
Kaltume’s wedding.
“Have you gotten your ticket?” Umma asked me on the phone one day.
There was so much background chatter around her, with all the preparation
for Kaltume’s wedding.
“Yes, I got it,” I replied. My dad’s secretary had sent me an email earlier
that day with the Milan itinerary for the weekend. Kaltume’s mom and the
ambassador were cousins, so I was going to be on the same flight with
Aunty Mami and Afreen. Some years back, Kaltume’s father was accused
of embezzlement, and it was so bad that he was wanted by the Economic
and Financial Crimes Commission (EFCC) in Nigeria. So, he exiled with
his family, moving between Milan and Paris. In short, he can’t be in Nigeria
without leaving the airport in handcuffs, but we’re all pretending it’s a
destination wedding because nobody really talks about that.
“Good. Your asoebi arrived from the tailor this morning,” she said,
referring to my outfits for the two wedding events. “You should see the
jewelry I got you. You would love them.” Umma always picked out the
most exquisite pieces for me. She believed I was an extension of her, and
my appearance at events such as this one mattered to her a great deal. “Be
careful with this one, handle it with care. It’s for the bride,” Her voice had
turned into the curt tone reserved for the domestic workers at home. “Can
you imagine?” she was saying to me now. “They are mishandling a Deola
Sagoe dress!” Weddings were such a big deal back home. Families on both
sides were always competing to outdo the other in style, extravagance and
elegance, even though the prophet advised that everything should be done
in moderation. We always seem to conveniently forget that during
weddings.
I had no lecture, as it was exam week. I had study sessions with Ada
and Sara in the mornings, and after those sessions, Ahmad would usually
come to hang out with me. Sometimes, we ended up back at his place. His
study had become my sanctuary, and he never disturbed me while I was in
there; he was always working in the next room. Most evenings ended with
us on the couch, watching TV before I returned to the residence. The day I
wrote my last exam, as Ada and I walked out, we found him waiting for me
in the parking lot. He was wearing a white shirt over well-tailored grey
dress pants, and he had sunglasses on.
“This is my friend Ada,” I introduced them and she extended her hand
toward him. “Ada, this is Ahmad.”
“Hi, Ada,” he said as he shook her hand, “how was your exam?” he
asked, looking at me now. Next to him, Ada widened her eyes at me, her
mouth quietly forming the word wow.
I shook my head at her, laughing as I answered him. “It was fine. I can’t
believe we are done – Finally!” It felt good to say that out loud.
“For real!” Ada said, looking at her phone and announcing her ride had
arrived. She gave me a quick hug, and as she walked off, she turned around
and added: “It was nice meeting you, Ahmad.”
“Same here,” he said with a smile, removing his sunglasses as we
started walking towards the residence.
“So, I was hoping we could spend time together before you leave
tomorrow,” he said as I adjusted my tote on my shoulder.
“Sure, but you have to drop me at home before Isha,” I said to him. I
was spending the night at his parent’s place because our flight was at 10 am
the following day.
He glanced at his wristwatch, then slipped his hands into his pocket like
he normally did. “I can work with that.” The past few weeks had been great.
Ahmad did anything to make me uncomfortable. There were times when his
hands would almost reach for me, and then he would remember and stop
himself.
“I can’t believe you’re not coming. Aren’t you guys cousins?” I asked
for the fourth time that week.
“You can’t choose your family,” he said.
“What does that even mean?” I got the feeling that he didn’t want to talk
about it, but I wanted to know, so I kept going at it.
“Just principle,” he said.
“What principle?” my phone vibrated. I ignored it.
We were almost at the residence now. There were so many cars parked
out in front of the building as people loaded trunks with their luggage,
excited chatter filling the air.
“Let’s just say that out of all my uncles, her dad is my least favorite.”
He opened the door for me as we walked into the lobby. “Do you need help
with your luggage?”
I answered yes, and he followed me into the elevators filled with other
students chatting and exchanging numbers. The luggage I’d spent the last
two days packing was definitely too heavy for me to haul down the hallway
and into the elevators by myself. In the elevator, we were quiet; he stood
against the wall, and I stood in front of him. This is going to be his first time
in my room, I thought, trying to remember the state I’d left my room this
morning before running out for my exam.
The elevator stopped, people got off, and more people got on. As it got
fuller, I moved closer toward him, my back leaning into his chest. When we
got to my floor, I moved slowly in front of him as we moved toward my
front door. When we finally got in, there was a note in Claire’s handwriting
on the table: ‘Have a fantastic summer. See you in the fall.’ She must have
left for Saskatchewan, where her mom and stepdad lived, while I was at my
exam. The door to her room was wide open, her bed stripped of its cover.
Her study table, which was usually cluttered, was now bare, devoid of all
her colorful Post-it notes. I walked into my room, quickly scanning to make
sure I had no underwear sticking out of my laundry basket. I laughed at how
foolish I felt while Ahmad quietly inspected the Simpson magnets on our
fridge in the kitchenette. I was disconnecting my chargers and folding my
praying mat when he walked into my room and threw himself on my bed.
I closed my luggage and walked over to the window to pull the blinds,
then turned to face him: “Ready?”
“I ordered us some food. Should be delivered by the time we get to my
place,” he said, wheeling my purple Rimowa suitcase. “Please don’t tell me
you’re taking books with you to Milan?”
“Of course, I am! What am I going to do with all my free time since
you’re not coming? "
* * *
The seatbelt light came on almost at the same time as the pilot’s
announcement, interrupting the in-flight movie I was just beginning to get
into. “Ladies and gentlemen, we are now crossing a zone of turbulence.
Please return your seats and keep your seat belts fastened. Thank you.” I
removed my headphones and to my right, Afreen closed the book she was
reading. I looked at the trip tracker on my screen; we were halfway to our
destination. The first wave of turbulence hit the cabin a little harder than I
had anticipated, and I felt my hands grab the glossy polished wood of the
armrest.
“This is the longest flight ever. We should have taken a night flight,”
she complained, rolling her eyes as she fastened her seatbelt. If we had
taken a night flight from Canada, we would have arrived at Milan in the
evening and missed the first event of the wedding, but I didn’t say anything
because I knew that she knew this. “I’m excited about getting my face beat
by Mamza!”
“Who?” I didn’t hear the end of her sentence over the rumble of the
cabin.
“Fati Mamza,” she answered, applying lip balm. “She’s flying in
tomorrow and will be doing the bride’s and the bridesmaids’ makeup. She’s
–” She was interrupted by another wave of turbulence, her lip balm falling
on the brown carpeted floor.
I silently muttered a prayer in my mind as I felt my seat shake slightly.
The wedding had not officially started, but it was already gaining some
traction on the internet. There was a hashtag, #SGKS, with the couple’s
initials that wedding vendors were tagging guest outfits with. The posts
were getting a lot of likes. I tried to recall who’d tagged me on an Instagram
post that had my name on it. With all the comments, it was hard to filter
through. “I like Fati Mamza. She doesn’t go crazy with the nose contour,” I
said when the plane finally seemed to have won its battle with the clouds.
“I know, right? It’s like everyone steps out with a new nose at these
events,” she picked up her book and started flipping through the pages,
trying to find her page.
After touchdown, we grabbed our hand luggage and went to Aunt
Mami’s seat. She was reading a message on her iPad, looking stately in her
black Abaya. “The chauffeur, Matteo will be waiting for us at gate 6,” she
said as she looked up from her itinerary. She adjusted her glasses, picked up
her handbag, and we got off the plane after her, making our way quickly
through Milano Malpensa Airport Security and Immigration.
After we got our luggage, we walked towards the exit and saw a man in
a white uniform holding a white placard with the wedding hashtag and
Toronto in block letters. “Welcome to Milan,” he said as he helped with one
trolley of luggage. He spoke English with a heavy Italian accent. “My name
is Matteo. I will be your chauffeur for the day; or in this case, night.”
“Thank you, Matteo,” Aunty Mami answered, glancing at his nametag
to confirm. “How far are we from the hotel?”
“About 30 minutes. No traffic at this time,” he said as he put our
luggage in the trunk of the Maserati that served as the hotel’s
complimentary airport shuttle, whistling as he did. It was dark outside, but
the streets were brightly lit.
“We’re staying at the Gallia,” Aunty Mami was reading to us off her
iPad as the car began to move. “Dinner at the Terrazza – oh, I’m glad the
venue for the event is at the same hotel,” she added to herself.
I offered Afreen and Aunty Mami mints. I always carried mints when I
traveled. Same reason I don’t talk to people after long flights without
brushing.
“Na gode Fa’iza am,” Aunty smiled, as she popped the white circle in
her mouth and continued reading, “Kamu is tomorrow evening, Nikkah on
Monday morning and the reception in the evening,” she pulled her rimless
glasses down the bridge of her nose as she observed the buildings in the
distance through the window.
“Shi kenan? Is that all?” Afreen asked. “That’s fantastic. Lucky
Kaltume – she doesn’t have to sit through multiple events for one whole
week.”
“Or nine days,” I added.
“Right?” Afreen concurred. We clearly felt the same about dragged-out
wedding activities.
“That’s the thing with destination weddings – with most people flying in
for just a few days, we’re working with a limited time frame,” Aunty Mami
was reading another email as she answered.
“Must be nice to pick and select what part of your culture to display,”
Afreen’s voice had a hint of sarcasm to it.
If Aunty Mami heard her, she didn’t dignify her daughter’s statement
with an answer. Instead, she looked at me and said, “Fa’iza am, Umma will
be arriving in three hours.”
I looked at my wristwatch, which was unhelpful as it still displayed
Toronto time. I made a mental note to adjust it when we got to the hotel.
“Yes, I tracked her flight while we were in the line for immigration,” I
answered. Her flight was arriving as scheduled. No delays, Alhamdulillah.
The car finally pulled up to an iconic stonewalled building, and while
our luggage was wheeled in, we went to the lobby to check in. The historic-
looking exterior and the contrast to its sleek modern interior captivated me
as we walked through the revolving doors; the marbled architecture
wrapped around my senses in hues of gold, black and white.
“Welcome to the Excelsior Hotel Gallia. My name is Monica. How can
I assist you today?” a woman at the front desk beamed as we approached
her.
“Checking in for three,” Aunty Mami replied, and we all brought out
our passports as identification.
“Oh great, you’re with the SG Wedding party,” she said as she looked
up our names on the computer. “How was your flight in?”
“It was uneventful. Thank God,” Aunt Mami answered as Monica made
the keys and handed us hotel brochures.
“Uneventful is always good. The entire wedding party is on the fifth
floor. The brochure has details about your dinner tonight at the Terrazza
Gallia on the seventh floor.” Monica summoned the porter who helped
Matteo wheel our luggage towards the elevator with a slight nod. “Alfonzo
will be helping you up to your rooms. If you have any inquiries, please dial
0 on your room phone to be connected to the concierge.”
We followed the bellhop into the elevator, listening as he told us the
floors that led to the gym, spa, golf course and all the available eateries in
and around the hotel.
“Go and rest,” Aunt Mami said as we got to the fifth floor, “Bayan
sallan asuba sai ku zo. Come to my room after the morning prayer.”
* * *
Afreen and I walked into our tastefully furnished room. The twin queen
beds had flowers and chocolates with a note welcoming us to Milan. Your
presence is truly a gift – Kaltume.
“I’m going to take a shower,” I announced unnecessarily to Afreen, who
had walked out to the terrace overlooking the city. When I came back out
from the bathroom, she was removing outfits from her box, hanging them in
the closet, then she went to the washroom. After praying the sallah I
missed, I picked up my phone, connected to the hotel wifi, and messages
came rushing through. I opened the first one. It was from Ahmad.
Safe flight?
I typed back: We arrived about an hour ago.
Almost immediately, he started calling.
“Hello,” I said, as I felt a smile slowly creep up my face, “were you just
sitting around waiting for my reply?” I teased.
“You would love that, wouldn’t you?” his voice filled my ear, and I
found myself reminiscing the previous evening – the quiet drive to his
parent’s house and sitting in the car for a while as he showed me some
pictures he took of the sunrise that morning before we finally went indoors.
“So, how was your day?” I asked.
“Boring as heck. What time is it?”
I propped my head on the pillows as I looked at the digital alarm clock
on the bedside table between the beds “4:56 am.”
“Oh haba? You should get some rest, then.”
“No, it’s okay. I wanna talk to you,” I answered. My wristwatch said it
was 9:56 pm in Toronto. This time yesterday, all three of us were playing
cards and watching TV at the ambassador’s residence. Afreen had no idea
what was going on between us. She assumed Ahmad brought me home
because his mom asked him to; she didn’t know he was going to even if she
hadn’t asked.
“Do you wanna know something?” his voice brought me back to earth.
“You can’t laugh, though.”
“Tell me,” I was already laughing.
“I almost came by the airport this morning, so that I could see you
before you got on your flight.”
I’m sure he could hear the sound of my breathing at the end of the line. I
remembered how much he lingered around the house yesterday evening –
so much that Aunty Mami asked if he was going to sleep over because of
how late it had gotten.
“I wish you had come.”
The bathroom door opened, and Afreen came out wearing a white robe
and a toothbrush in her hand, “Fa’ee before we leave, let’s try out the
Shiseido spa” She turned around and exclaimed, “oh sorry! I didn’t know
you were on the phone.”
“I guess I’ll leave you ladies to it,” he said.
“Talk to you later,” I said and I hung up the phone, kind of disappointed
that our phone call had come to an abrupt end.
As we made our way to Aunty Mami’s after Fajr, Afreen’s phone rang.
“Zafar’s calling,” she announced. “Go ahead. I’ll join you in a bit.”
I nodded and knocked on the door as I watched Afreen go back into our
room, closing the door quietly. The door opened and Aunty Mami was
wearing a long light blue hijab and holding a tasbeeh, rosary, in her hand. I
hadn’t realized how much luggage she’d brought until I saw all five boxes
open in her suite, which was bigger than ours, with a great view of the city.
“What can I help you with, Aunty?” I asked as she removed her hijab.
“So much to do, so little time,” she murmured. “Where’s Afreen?”
“She’s coming,” was all I could say as I knew Zafar was not yet
common knowledge to the family.
“Help me with the souvenirs,” she gestured toward a box filled with
perfume boxes. We worked together silently until we heard a knock on the
door. By the time Afreen came in, half of the souvenirs were packed in
brightly colored paper bags. The bags lined the hallway in the hotel suite.
Meanwhile, I kept glancing at my phone to check if the message I sent to
Umma had been delivered.
“They’re probably going through immigration now,” Aunty Mami said.
Like me, she was also checking her phone for a message or call from my
mom.
As I helped my aunt unpack, Afreen steamed the creases out of the
dress her mother was wearing that evening. After a couple of hours – with
all the souvenirs in bags, outfits hanging in the closet, shoes and bags for
each outfit placed neatly on the carpet in the closet, presents for the couple
wrapped and displayed on the center table, jewelry locked in the safe – we
returned to our room.
Afreen was already asleep when the phone in our room rang. I reached
over and picked up. “Good morning, Ms. Fa’iza. A guest who just checked
in has requested to be connected with you,” the lady announced.
“Go ahead,” I said. I could barely contain my excitement.
“One moment,” the voice said again, and within a minute, I heard the
unmistakable voice of my mother. “Hello.”
“Umma!!” I screamed into the phone. “What’s your room number?”
“510.”
As soon as I hung up, I grabbed my key and walked briskly down to the
hallway and knocked on her door. Almost immediately, the door flung
open, and I fell into my mother’s arms, giving her the biggest hug I could.
“I kept waiting for my message to be delivered so that I could call you; I
would’ve been in the lobby to receive you,” I said without stopping to
breathe.
“Oh, what nonsense,” she said, stepping back to look at me. “You just
got off a flight yourself.”
I looked at my mum, and she looked just as beautiful as always; it was
hard to believe that she’d just traveled across continents over the last 12
hours. I hadn’t finished admiring her when her finger flew to my cheeks. I
hadn’t realized there were tears in my eyes.
Her suite was identical to Aunty Mami’s, and multiple boxes filled the
room, making it hard to navigate to the king-sized bed.
She saw me looking at all the boxes. “Muna da aiki. We have work to
do,” she said with a laugh. But before she could go on, there was a knock
on her door, and she opened it. I heard Aunty Mami’s voice: “As salamu
Alaikum.” They both started laughing.
“Wa Alaikumus salam.” More laughter, then, “You got my text.”
“It just came in.” They hugged and laughed with the ease of a friendship
that spanned over decades. Aunty Mami smiled when she saw me in the
room, “Fa’iza, go and rest.” Then she turned to my mum: “She’s been
helping me unpack my own boxes.”
I opened my mouth to object, but Aunty Mami cut me off. “I’m here
now. We can handle this without you.”
“Let’s start with the bride’s accessories,” Umma said, then turned
towards me: “The box over there is for you and Afreen – your asoebi is in
there. You can take it to your room.” She pointed at a brown Louis Vuitton
box as she spoke.
“I can help, so that we can finish faster,” I offered.
“Don’t worry. We’ll have enough time to rest before tonight’s event.
Go.”
“Okay,” I gave her another quick hug before wheeling the box out of the
room. This was going to be an interesting wedding. I was sure the fifth floor
of the Gallia had never housed such a diverse bunch of people from
different parts of the world. The bride and her family alone took up half the
suites on the floor. Then there was the groom’s family and then their friends
who were also invited guests. Early breakfast was organized by the catering
team at the hotel in the morning; there was so much chatter in the breakfast
hall designated to the SG Wedding party filled with conversation in Hausa,
English and some French.
When Afreen and I woke up from the much-needed morning rest later
that morning, we went to Umma’s room to help with the remaining
souvenirs and gifts. After brunch, Umma and Aunty Mami took a nap
before dinner, and we went to meet their bride in her suite. As soon as we
entered the white-walled suite, the scent of turaren wuta took me back to
many wedding events back in Nigeria. The room was bustling with all her
female friends and cousins – trying on dresses, taking pictures, and at least
three people were getting their hair braided.
“Assalamu alaikum,” we entered the room. I felt at least a dozen eyes on
me immediately, and I was sure Afreen did too.
“Afreen Babangida!” someone said, ever so lightly between a gasp and
a whisper. It was the bride, Kaltume. She was wearing a black sleeveless
tunic, sitting on pillows with her hands stretched out in an attempt to dry the
beautiful henna drawings quicker. Her dark, short hair with brown
highlights was in a cute bob and tucked behind her ears. “Fai’za
Mohammad, I can not believe this!”
Kaltume Sherriff. How do I describe her? There was something elegant
about her – her big dark almond-shaped eyes, the way her ebony skin shone
in the morning light or the graceful manner in which she spoke? She had
this beautiful way of making you feel like you mattered, like you were
always welcomed into her space.
“Congratulations, couz,” Afreen said in a sing-song manner as she gave
Kaltume a quick hug, taking care not to get stained by henna.
“You look radiant,” I added as I leaned in for a hug after Afreen. It was
true. She looked like a princess with elaborate golden jewellery she wore on
her earlobes and around her neck.
“I’m delighted you both made it here,” she managed to say, before her
attention got drawn elsewhere. Afreen and I took the opportunity to
exchange pleasantries with her friends; she introduced me to the ones she
knew, and the room was soon filled with chatter and laughter.
Time flew by really quickly, punctuated by visits from Aunties who
dropped by to see the bride and room service who brought our various
lunch orders. By the time we left her suite, she had started getting ready for
dinner.
The whole floor was buzzing with photographers and their lighting
assistants, videographers, mounted tripods, make-up artists, hairdressers
and stylists. Doors to the many suites were opening and closing as people
went from room to room, all following a schedule. Everything was planned
to the most minute detail.
Afreen and I both got our hair and makeup done. I couldn’t recall a time
I had this amount of makeup on; the mink false lashes felt so heavy and it
took a minute for me to get used to them. Afreen was already in her dress –
an ink feather-embellished dress with a cinched waist that fell straight to her
legs. She opted to leave her straightened hair out without a scarf and she
looked spectacular with nude lips and smokey eyes. When she was done,
she helped me zip up the tight, semi-sheer bodice on my navy-blue dress
which gently flared towards my ankles with its illusion long sleeves
stopping at my wrists. As I watched the silk scarf getting wrapped around
my head in such an intricate style, I saw a younger version of Umma staring
back at me in the mirror, from the widow’s peak on the top of my head
down to the cupid’s bow on my upper lip.
“I daresay we look amazing tonight, Fa’ee,” Afreen said, admiring
herself in the mirrored elevator and smoothening her glossy hair as we
made our way to the 7th floor. Before I could answer, my phone beeped,
and I looked down to see two messages from Ahmad: I hope Milan is
treating you right? and then The days are longer without you here…
Before I could reply, the elevators reached the 7th floor with a ding, and
we were immediately ushered to a rose-walled wedding backdrop for
pictures. As my eyes adjusted to all the lights flashing around, Afreen and I
posed for pictures – both separately and together – knowing fully well the
pictures would be posted on Instagram, with or without our explicit consent.
The Terrazza Gallia on the rooftop was breathtakingly decorated for this
private event. Fairy lights glistened through mirrored panels that reflected
the night sky. Pictures of the couple were printed on huge placards in the
dinner area, flanked by blush-toned dahlias. We had the most beautiful
panoramic view of the city, including the central railway station.
“I’m going to the bathroom. I promised Zafar a video call,” Afreen
whispered in my ear before disappearing.
I looked around at the room – a different white rose backdrop and at the
faces of unfamiliar guests. My eyes found Umma, Aunty Mami, and their
friends who were just arriving and posing for pictures. They all brought
Nigerian high fashion to this event, with expensive laces, silks, and
cashmere. It was gratifying to watch. I walked over to say hello to them as
they took their seats. Aunty Mami squealed with delight when she saw me:
“I can’t wait for your wedding, Fa’iza am! We’ll have the time of our
lives,” and everyone chorused, “Ameen.”
I found it amazing how during weddings, mothers prayed for more
weddings. I saw the quick pride that passed my mother’s eyes when she saw
all the aunties take in my subtle but classy and expensive jewelry, dress, and
respectful gait as I greeted them around the table. It was a matter of utmost
importance to her that they knew that her daughter of marriageable age was
not only beautiful and well-spoken but also well-brought up.
I stood up and beckoned Afreen over as she came out of the bathroom,
her eyes scanning the floor, looking for me. She came over and hugged
Umma. “Aunty, you look great!” she said. They exchanged compliments,
then Afreen went around the table, greeting everyone just as I had seconds
earlier. She was just circling back to Umma when the DJ turned up the
music, and the bride and her mother came in, dancing slowly toward the
guests. The bride was dressed in a stunning champagne-colored V-neck
mermaid dress with sequins beaded up all through its removable train. The
videographers and camera crew were all over them. When they found their
seats, we made montages of speeches describing the bride and wishing her
well in her marital home.
The great food was secondary to the fun we were having. Later in the
evening, as the mothers were on the dancefloor and we had all been
properly acquainted with Kaltume’s school friends and relatives, chatter
flowed seamlessly across the bridesmaids’ table.
“I was disappointed when I heard Ya Ahmad couldn’t make it,” a distant
relative of the bride suddenly said.
“Oh yeah,” Afreen said. “He’s so busy. You know he shuttles between
the States and Canada often.”
“I read about him in the Forbes Under 30 article. I was so proud!”
Kaltume said. “He called me when he heard about the wedding. Oh, he’s
the sweetest,” she added, putting her hand to her heart.
“Afreen, is he single?” one of the bridesmaids asked, and they all
laughed.
“Is he still dating that Turkish girl?” Kaltume asked, wide-eyed.
“Remember when we used to stalk her on Instagram whenever she posted
their pictures?”
Afreen nodded frantically as they both giggled like teenage schoolgirls.
“No, they broke up a while ago, but I think he’s dating someone else now.”
“Wace ce? Who’s she? Do we know her? Please tell me she’s Nigerian
this time,” Kaltume asked.
Afreen shrugged. “You know how he hates me being all up in his
business, so I really don’t know. But he’s always on the phone with
someone. Somto, or something like that. Can’t remember her name, but she
sounds like a Calabar babe.Or was it Insomto? I don’t really –”
I choked on my drink. So she knows about Insom! I was startled, but
luckily, nobody noticed; they were all consoling each other after hearing the
news that their shared crush was taken – and by a Nigerian girl this time,
who had a more probable chance of marrying him than his foreign exes.
The look of disappointment on their faces as they heard the girl’s name was
hard to miss, even if I wanted to.
* * *
The next event, Kamu, which means ‘catch the bride,’ an event where the
groom’s family pay to see the bride’s face, it was a staggering display of
opulence – from the decor that brought the heritage and observance of regal
Arewa from the days of yore, to the traditional music played on local
instruments by a cultural musical troupe, to how modestly everyone was
dressed as was expected of northern Nigerian events that our parents
attended. Stepping into the decadent hall draped all around in multiple rows
of curtains, carpeted in northern textile and piles of textured animal skin
cushions, it was hard to believe we were miles away from home. One was
immediately transported into northern royalty. The room had a cloud of its
own from the incense that was burning from various burners. At the centre
of it all – seated on a throne made of pillows and leather cushions, in white
and gold al-kebba draped over her slim body and covering her hair – was
Kaltume. In all her glory. All her friends were seated on the steps that led to
her seat, chatting excitedly and taking pictures in their asoebi.
That was the first time I saw her husband-to-be. He was followed by
male and female members of his family. The men were dressed in
traditional Hausa attire, kaftan and matching trousers, with some of them
wearing babban riga on top. The festivities were dragged out, but
thoroughly enjoyable. By the end of the evening, we were all exhausted.
Later that evening, back in our room on the fifth floor, I was on another
call with Ahmad. “Ms. Mohammed, you looked dazzling today,” his voice
was sensual in my ear.
“Why thank you, Mr. Babangida,” I answered with a laugh. I was in a
white hotel robe in the bathroom, taking off my makeup in front of the
mirror.
“No, I mean it. Afreen sent me pictures and…” he paused. “When’s
your flight back?”
“About that…” I started, turning on my Clarisonic facial brush, running
it across my cheeks, “We’re going to stay for a few days after the wedding.”
Umma and Aunty Mami had decided to extend our stay to explore Italy and
enjoy the weather. Afreen and I didn’t need convincing; we couldn’t wait to
shop elsewhere.
“Wait a minute,” he said and hung up. A second later, his video call
came in. I rinsed my face and patted it dry with a towel before I answered.
He was wearing a white sleeveless shirt, and his head was buried in white
pillows. “You’re joking right?” he did not sound impressed, even though he
was smiling as he looked at my face. “Babe, you’re supposed to be back in
two days.”
“Two days, six days – what’s the difference?” I liked teasing him.
“I haven’t seen you in a week,” his voice was low.
“Four days, you mean,” I corrected.
“Well it feels longer than that.”
* * *
The following day was the Nikkah, and Quranic recitations filled the bride’s
room. I was sitting with Kaltume when she got a call from an uncle who
informed her of the proceedings at the Mosque – how much was paid as
dowry: the gold coins and two properties, one in Abuja and the other, a
Parisian apartment in the sixth arrondisement included in her mahr. A few
minutes later, she got a call from her husband, Sani Garba.
The whole room erupted in congratulations. I watched her toy coyly
with the thin belt on her brown abaya as she talked to her husband for the
first time since becoming his wife. It was something special – how much
new brides relished all the firsts; like the first phone call after the Nikkah,
which, in our culture, women didn’t attend, or the first hug, the first prayer
as husband and wife, or their first meal alone together.
“Where’s our Amarya?” Umma came into the room asking for the bride.
She was followed by Aunty Mami, two of their friends and their own cloud
of turaren wuta.
In the midst of all the sounds and distractions, Aunty Mami pulled
Afreen to the side. “Senator Fatima is here and she wants you to meet her
son, Babagana,” her voice was low enough that no one else could hear her,
but they were still within hearing distance that I could still hear them even
without meaning to. “I don’t want your usual excuses. You’ll do the right
thing and be polite.” She left Afreen’s side and went back to the big swarm
of Aunties as more of them came into the room.
When we finished our make-up in the bride’s suite, Afreen and I headed
to our room to change into our outfits. This was the first time we would see
the couple together as husband and wife, and all the guests from the bride
and groom will be present; it was undoubtedly the biggest event of this
wedding. Afreen and I wore our second coordinated outfit for this event – a
pink beaded and sequined lace for all her friends. Mine was a Hudayya-
crafted off-shoulder dress with sleeves that reached past my elbow. The lace
material accentuated my tiny waist and flared at the hips, with stilettos
making me appear taller. There was something about looking at my
reflection that made me feel very confident.
My phone beeped as I was getting my fuscia pink headgear tied: Hello,
gorgeous.
Hey, boo. I typed back.
I love the sound of that. What are you up to?
Getting ready for the reception. I looked at my wristwatch. I think we’re
going to be late.
Through the mirror, I glanced at Afreen in her peplum blouse and skirt.
She looked beautiful, even though her demeanor had changed since the not-
so-discreet conversation with her mother.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
She looked at me with a smile on her face. “I’ll be fine,” she shrugged.
“You make that dress look great.”
I looked back at my reflection. My dress was figure-hugging, but it was
so easy to move in. With all the adrenaline pumping in my system due to all
the excitement, I had forgotten about the discomfort from my heels. I
squeezed her hand as we got into the elevators, and she sighed.
The reception was taking place in one of the banquet halls on the main
floor, and as the elevator doors opened, I heard Afreen squeal, “you made
it!” she rushed to hug a gentleman wearing a white kaftan and a dark brown
and grey embroidered Zanna Bukar cap. There was something about the
way the kaftan looked on him – the crisp embroidery etched across his
chest, the color of the material against his skin and the well-balanced cap on
that perfect head of his. As he hugged her, I saw a familiar smile on his face
as his eyes slowly went over my body. I could not believe my eyes. It was
Ahmad. My Ahmad.
As Afreen chippered soundlessly to her brother, I walked out of the
elevator behind her. I stood still, watching them, until I realized the distance
between us had become smaller. He was walking towards me with slow,
deliberate steps, his eyes never leaving mine.
“I couldn’t stay away,” he said softly, and he chuckled at my expression.
Lord, this man is fine.
Here I was – overly dressed under the yellow glow of the ceiling lights,
trying unsuccessfully to hide the shy smile that was fast becoming a
permanent feature. I couldn’t believe he got on a plane to come to Milan!
We spoke a few hours ago, and he didn’t say anything about coming.
Afreen’s voice broke the silence, telling us that this was the best
possible surprise Aunty Mami could get. “I have to record this,” she said as
she fished for her phone from her pale pink sequined clutch, “Mum’s face
when she sees you – I can’t miss it. I have to be there,” she said, laughing.
“What’s her room number?” he asked her, his eyes lingering on the
henna pattern on my hands.
“It’s okay, I’ll lead the way, I have her keycard,” she said as she got into
the elevator and started recording. “Aren’t you coming?” she asked me.
I shook my head reluctantly, taking my eyes away from his. “Just send
me the video, I’ll go save us seats.” Aunty Mami and Umma were getting
ready together. My mum would see through my expression or mannerisms
around Ahmad and start asking questions I honestly didn’t have answers to.
Ahmad got into the elevator with his sister, and she leaned across to
push a button. As the doors closed, I watched as he winked at me, and my
heart skipped a beat. God help me! The butterflies again.
I walked down the hall and into the banquet hall. Still dazed with
excitement, I tried to keep my composure as I walked past aunts and uncles.
It was easy to find where to sit, as the hall was divided into four asoebi
colors. There were several tables assigned to the bridesmaids wearing the
pink lace I was wearing, and they were all surrounded by Kaltume’s friends.
I rushed to the most sparse table and got Afreen and I seats with a good
view of the bride. From there, I watched people come in and out of the hall
while trying to look distracted when the camera crew began recording them.
There was a rule to it – when the camera was recording you, you needed to
make sure you were not drinking or eating anything; you wanted to seem
unaware of the crew, but not in a way seems rehearsed; and you always
avoided waving at the camera or making faces. That never aged well in
wedding videos. A slight smile to someone across the room or a glance at
the menu should be picturesque.
“Hello, beautiful,” I felt someone’s hands at the back of my chair. The
familiar scent of oud wrapped my senses, and I knew it was Ahmad even
before I turned to look at him. He took the chair next to me around the
circular table.
“What happened to –” I paused as I struggled to come up with the best
British accent. “Out of all my uncles, her dad is my least favorite?” I
couldn’t keep the smile off my face.
“I missed you,” he simply said, his eyes dropping to the rest of my
outfit and then back to my eyes. Some glances were being thrown in our
direction – mostly at him. “I wasn’t gonna wait another week.”
Umma, Aunty Mami and their friends were now dancing in with the
bride’s mum. Afreen was behind them, and as soon as they walked in, she
started making her way toward us.
“Are you okay with me being here?” Ahmad asked, leaning close to my
ear so I could hear him over the music.
“Of course. I can’t believe you’re here. I almost hugged you!”
“So why didn’t you?” he asked, still leaning towards me.
“You know why,” I smiled, looking away.
“You know you can’t sit here, right?” Afreen was here now. She
plopped herself next to me and gave me her phone, pressing the play tab as
she did.
“No?” he was feigning ignorance. “I’m representing you at this event.
You can go sleep.”
I increased the volume on the phone so I could hear the video above the
music playing through the speakers. When Aunty Mami’s door opened,
Ahmad’s back came into view as he walked into the suite. I liked the way
he walked – tall and proud. Aunty Mami, who was fully dressed in her
purple lace, was putting on her golden bangles when she turned and saw
him. You could see the look of surprise on her face when she realized who
it was, then a giant beam that rivaled that of the sun settled on her face as
she stretched her arms towards him and gave him a hug, his face turning to
give her a peck on her right cheek. I could hear Afreen giggling in the
background as the mother hugged her son.
“I’m glad you changed your mind,” she dusted something off his kaftan.
The camera shook and turned around as Afreen captured someone coming
out of the inner room. It was my mum. She was wearing the same purple
lace covered in a raisin-colored laffaya. Ahmad couched down to greet her.
“Umma, good evening,” he greeted her in Hausa.
“Ahmad! We were just talking about you! How was –” The video came
to an end, and I turned to see Afreen and Ahmad in the middle of an intense
discussion.
“…really don’t want to,” Afreen was saying.
He nodded as he listened intently. “So why didn’t you just tell mum
that?”
“I can’t. Not everyone can get away with things when it comes to mum.
We can’t all be you.”
“Listen, if you don’t want to meet him, you don’t have to.”
“It’s not that simple,” she sighed and looked at me for support, urging
me to say something. “I just can’t back out. How would that make mum
look? How would Aunty Fatima feel? She asked for her son and me to get
acquainted and it would be a slap in the face if I refused – especially
without meeting him.”
I nodded. She was right. Pride and expectations were deeply ingrained
in the atomic fibres of an unwritten culture in Arewa. This was particularly
evident when it came to the rules of interaction and what someone could
take offense to.
“And why should people’s opinions matter so much?” Ahmad shook his
head and looked from Afreen to me, then back to her. “It’s your life we’re
talking about here, Afreen.”
I looked up as the bride and groom made their way into the hall. They
looked so happy, and while he was older than the bride by at least a decade,
they complemented each other so well. I wondered what their story was – if
they had met on their own or if they were introduced by someone in the
family. It didn’t matter because, at this moment, they looked like they were
made for each other.
“I’ll be right back,” he said to me as Afreen took pictures of the couple
after they had sat down. I nodded and watched as he walked towards the
couple, stopping at a few tables to shake hands with other men he knew.
Afreen cleared her throat. I turned around, and she had a smile on her
face as she looked at me teasingly.
“Um, Afreen,” I started, “Ahmad and I –”
“Aha! I was wondering when you were going to tell me.”
“You knew?”
“Well, today confirmed it. I noticed how quickly he followed you out to
the garden after his birthday dinner, and you also looked uncomfortable
when I was talking about him with Kaltume.”
We looked up as Kaltume – wide-eyed and well-surprised – introduced
him to her husband, and they chatted for a little while.
“Oh,” I smiled, my voice shaking as I looked at the henna on my left
hand. “I really like him, Afreen.”
“And he has to be in love with you to come all the way here – because
he really really hates Uncle Sheriff,” she said, taking a sip of water. “I think
I like you two together.”
I laughed. I was glad I told her about it, but it did nothing to remove the
uneasiness I felt at the bottom of my stomach. I was new to all this, still
figuring it out, but most of all, I was uneasy about how very attracted I was
to him.
“Our mothers must feel like they won a jackpot. They wouldn’t have
made a better match if they tried,” Afreen said. I couldn’t help but think of
her and Zafar and how she was holding onto a glimmer of hope that
someday they would accept him.
Hours later, when everybody was on the dancefloor, I found my way to
the dessert bar to get a tiny cup of ice cream.
“Why aren’t you dancing?” Afreen asked, bobbing her head to the
music. I hadn’t realized she was by my side.
“My feet are killing me!” I replied honestly, glancing at the white
sneakers she had changed into before going to the dance floor.
“Doesn’t that bother you?” she gestured towards the girls attempting to
flirt with Ahmad, who was being pulled into a photo session by Kaltume’s
siblings.
“Is it supposed to?” I asked. “Aren’t they your cousins?” The girls all
had the same button nose that characterized their household. Or Kaltume’s
mom’s side of the family, at least.
“Yeah, they are. But I remember how it was when Zafar and I first
started dating. I was so possessive; I would freak out if any girl did as much
as look at him,” she said as she sighed and reclined in the chair. “It’s so
different now.”
I didn’t feel that possessive toward Ahmad. But to be fair, we hadn’t
really spent a lot of time around other people. As I finished my frozen
yogurt, a man who looked in his mid-thirties approached us. He was chubby
and dark, wearing a navy blue babban riga and a black cap. “Assalamu
alaikum,” he said to us both and then, “Afreen?”
“Wa alaikumus salam,” I answered.
“Babagana,” Afreen said with a mouthful of gelato. “Yadai? What’s
up?”
I did a double-take at the man in front of us; so this was the Babagana?
“I am going to…” I scrambled for an excuse as a scowl formed between
Afreen’s brows like she was warning me not to leave her with him. “…I
have to throw this away,” I held up my empty cup as I left them together.
I tossed the cup in a recycle bin by the exit, made my way out of the
banquet hall and made a left to the empty restroom. After the bride and
groom left for the airport for their honeymoon, most of the older wedding
guests did the same. The only people left in the hall still partying were
younger family members and friends who were catching up before
everyone checked out the following morning. I looked at my reflection in
the mirror, ignored the incessant beeping on my phone and fixed my turban.
When I got out, Ahmad was outside waiting for me, leaning on the wall,
hands in his pockets. “I called when I saw you leaving the hall,” he said,
biting down on his lower lip like he was distracted.
I remembered the night he kissed me. I shook my head to dispel the
thoughts. This wasn’t the time to be thinking about that kiss. It was a one-
time thing, a mistake.
“What’s wrong?” his eyes had that look in them again – the one I’d seen
a few times, but I still couldn’t place it.
“I’m exhausted. It’s been a really long week.”
“Fair enough. I –” he was interrupted by three girls making their way to
the elevators. “Ya Ahmad, goodnight,” they said in unison, giggling to
themselves as they saw us standing shoulder-to-shoulder.
“Goodnight. Have a safe flight, Anisa,” he called after them, and I
started making my way back into the hall, looking for Afreen.
“Is this gonna be a problem?”
“What is?”
“Something’s off with you, and you are not talking about it.” he looked
past me into the hall and then back at me,
I sighed. It was not his fault that I barely knew anyone at this wedding
and that he was flocked by so much attention from all angles all evening. I
hadn’t even realized that I was feeling some way. It was a new emotion for
me, one I couldn’t name. “There are things I don’t know about you. Like
your ex – the Turkish one.” A frown settled on his face as he wondered
where that came from. I explained: “I heard someone talking about her.”
He nodded slowly. “Well, that’s why we’re in a relationship – to learn
about each other. I’m not keeping anything away from you. It just never
came up and you never asked.”
“Fa’ee, I can’t believe that you abandoned me in my time of need,”
Afreen was walking out of the banquet hall, heels in hand. “Oh, am I
interrupting?”
I shook my head.
“Let me walk you guys to your floor,” Ahmad said, and the three of us
walked toward the elevator.
“What floor are you on?” Afreen asked as she pressed the elevator
button to the fifth floor.
“I’m staying at the Armani,” he said. “I never RSVP’d, so I made my
own reservations.”
“Kaltume was happy you made it – even if it was for just one event,”
Afreen said with a yawn.
“Yeah,” he said as the elevator dinged to a stop.
Afreen swiped her key on the pad and pushed the door, saying
goodnight as she entered the room. He acknowledged it with a nod, “You
should get some sleep, but we have to talk about this tomorrow.” I nodded
and pushed the door open as he walked away.
The next morning, I woke up a few minutes to ten. The black-out
curtains kept our room dark, but I could still hear the wheels of
housekeeping carts as they made their way down the hallway to clean the
now-vacant rooms. As I moved my legs, I felt a familiar cramp in my
tummy and stickiness between my legs. I groaned as I climbed out of bed
and went into the bathroom, making a mental note to call the concierge for
some pain relief medication. My menstrual cramps were bad on the first
two days.
I stood in the shower, and as the water flowed down my back to my
legs, I thought about how this explained my sudden mood swing last night
during my conversation with Ahmad.
“Uhh… what time is it?” Afreen yawned as she looked around,
disoriented. I must have closed the door a bit too loudly on my way out of
the bathroom that I woke her up.
“Eleven-ish,” I answered, sitting on my bed.
She covered her head with the white duvet and went back to sleep. My
stomach cramps tightened, and I winced as I got back into bed. Umma also
had a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign outside her door to keep housekeeping out of
her suite for most of the day. Aunty Mami didn’t come out of her room
either. We all slept in, our empty trays of food lining the hallway outside
our doors.
The next morning, Afreen and I went to the Shiseido spa and, later in
the day, met Ahmad at a café not too far from the hotel for brunch, easily
recognizable by its colorful awning and elegant outdoor sitting area. I was
wearing high-waisted black jeans, a graphic top, wedges and a scarf around
my neck, and we found him sitting on a crowded patio under a canopy of
lush greenery, decorated with potted plants and flowers, wearing a blue T-
shirt, dark jeans, black Hermés slippers and sunglasses. He looked casual,
yet, he always stood out in the crowd.
“Good morning,” I said as I sat next to him on one of the comfortable
chairs in front of the table with crisp white tablecloths, surrounded by the
gentle hum of conversation and laughter in the background.
“Buongiorno,” Afreen said with glee. “Wait, hope this isn’t one of those
places we have to order in Italian,” she asked as she picked up the menu.
“I don’t think so,” he removed his sunglasses and turned towards my
direction before dropping a red rose in front of me. “How did you sleep?”
“I slept okay,” I smiled.
“I slept okay too, if anyone’s interested,” Afreen said, her eyes on the
menu. “Can I order from the lunch menu?”
“Let’s ask,” Ahmad flagged down a waiter, who was promptly by our
side.
“I don’t want anything from the breakfast menu, but it says here that
your lunch starts at two” Afreen looked at her wristwatch. “It’s twelve-
thirty. What can I do?”
The waiter looked at her blankly until Ahmad translated her request. He
nodded and replied.
“Grazie,” Ahmad said.
“I heard si so I guess I can,” she said with a triumphant smile.
I flipped through the menu. It was filled with a variety of drinks:
espresso, cappuccino, iced coffees, cocktails and wines. I flipped over
another page and saw that they offered light bites and pastries, all
beautifully presented, but there were many non-halal meat options on the
breakfast menu that I was having a tough time deciding what to eat. “The
gnocchi sounds good,” I thought out loud.
A different waiter came to our table when we were ready to place our
orders. He spoke English and nodded his head, and said bene bene when we
pointed out our orders on the menu.
“What do you wanna do after lunch?” Ahmad asked.
“I wanted to go sightseeing, see Milan a bit,” I said.
“We can go to the Galleria Vittorio and Duomo di Milano; they are less
than a minute apart.”
“Mum said we’re going shopping tomorrow,” Afreen said as the waiter
placed her red-sauced pasta in front of her.
“Yeah, I’m driving us there, " Ahmad said as the waiter placed my
creamy-sauced gnocchi in front of me and Ahmad’s meat and cheese
stuffed rigatoni before him. We ate in silence as we observed more people
who came on the patio.
Afreen and I ate off each other’s plates out of habit. “Oh, that’s so good.
I should have ordered that!” she said as she took another bite.
“Right? I love it. I have to recreate it back home.”
“It can’t be that hard; it’s pasta,” she said, grabbing the menu to look at
the description of the meal.
“Afreen and santi,” I teased. Santi was Hausa for that moment when
someone is enjoying a meal so much that they say things that they normally
wouldn’t.
“A sa ma ta weji; put a wedge behind her,” Ahmad completed the
saying, and we laughed.
Afreen’s face turned into a frown as she handed Ahmad her menu. He
glanced at my plate as he squinted at the menu. looking at the food I
ordered and reading the Italian description. “Um, Fa’iza?”
I stopped eating. He only called me by my name when he was about to
get serious.
“Bianco is white, right? So vino bianco – that’s white wine, Formaggio
is cheese,” Afreen spoke, almost to herself. “It’’s a wine-based sauce.”
Ahmad looked at me as I dropped my fork, “But alcohol evaporates
when you cook with it, doesn’t it?” he asked.
“Yeah, but alcohol is alcohol,” Afreen looked at me as I gulped the
water down like it would do anything to wash the wine off the tasty creamy
sauce.
“Afreen!” he was beginning to get visibly irritated.
“What?”
“Don’t go on about it. It’s not like she drank alcohol.”
“It matters to her,” Afreen argued. “I eat out with her a lot. I know how
much she checks these things. She doesn’t even eat burgers with me when
she’s not sure the meat halal.”
I felt like I was going to throw up. It had to be all in my mind. If I
concentrate on something else, I’ll be fine. I would be fine if they stopped
talking about me like I wasn’t there.
“I know that,” Ahmad’s voice interrupted my thoughts. “But what’s
done is done, so stop going on about it. We’re judged by our intentions, and
this wasn’t intentional. That’s it.”
“I’m fine,” I said as I pushed the almost empty plate away from me.
“Do you want something else?” Ahmad asked.
“No, I’m good. Thanks.”
After lunch, we got into the car Ahmad had rented and made our way
into town since we were only expected back to the hotel to have dinner with
Umma and Aunty Mami. My mother’s flight back to Abuja through
Frankfurt was the following evening, so I spent time with her after dinner.
The following day, we spent hours shopping. I helped her pack her bags,
and by 9 pm, we had checked out and were making our way back to the
Airport. I was emotional when my mum boarded the plane to Frankfurt, so
much so I couldn’t stop the tears as we said our goodbyes. Afterwards, we
checked in our luggage, sat in the lounge and waited for our boarding call to
Toronto.
“Ahmad, when is your flight?” Aunty Mami asked in the middle of their
conversation.
He looked at his wristwatch, “We start boarding an hour after yours
leaves,” he said. He’d told me the day before that he was going to
Washington from Milan. His firm had secured a new project, and he was
going to be there for a couple of days. That was right before he gave me a
small Chanel box with a black ribbon tied around it. That box lay unopened
in my handbag, along with the single red rose from the Café.
“
W