Chapter 10
Broken Not a halal love story Complete · about 22 min read
hen are you going to take your driving test?” he asked as I drove
us back from his football game. It was mid-summer in ‘the 6ix’.
That’s what everyone called Toronto, and I was beginning to catch on.
Apparently, it was given the nickname because six different boroughs came
together to make the city. Looking back, my first summer here was one of
the best moments of my life, like nothing I had ever experienced – my bike
rides with Ahmad continued, we went to carnivals, concerts, loud music
festivals with food trucks blocking the whole street, and bringing flavorful
cuisines from different parts of the world, frozen popsicles at water parks
numbing my lips, watching the fireworks on Canada day and most
importantly, the Reviving the Islamic Spirit (RIS) convention where I
watched Mufti Menk and Imam Zaid Shakir speak in person for the first
time – it was all an experience.
“I think I’m nervous about taking it,” I answered as I made a right turn
into the underground parkade, the gold Chanel bracelet he’d bought me in
Milan slipping further down my arm.
“Why? You aren’t bad at all,” he was in the passenger seat, watching
me.
“What if I fail?” I asked, putting the car to a halt next to his power bike.
“Then you retake it. A lot of people flunk their first driving test,
anyway.”
I failed my first driving test, and the second one with just a few points
to the passing grade. I was doing well at the University though, my summer
classes started at noon. After classes, Ahmad would usually come to get me
and we would go downtown to check out whatever festival was taking place
that week. When we got back to his apartment, I went straight to the couch
to get my laptop, which I’d left to charge when I picked him up. I opened it
to reply to the class discussion on the topic of the week for my class in an
attempt to earn more marks.
“I am going to take a shower. What are we watching today?” he asked
as he went towards his room.
I was too distracted by the one single downvote to an earlier comment I
made. “Your turn to choose,” I answered as I typed away on the laptop,
making sure to attach links to cases supporting my argument.
“Have you watched Sinister?” the scent of his aftershave announced his
return about five minutes later; he sat next to me, he had changed into a
sleeveless white shirt and black shorts.
I shook my head, preoccupied with the immediate reply to the comment
I’d just posted. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Ahmad scrolling through
Netflix, and a few seconds later, a movie started playing. After I posted
what I decided would be my last comment of the day, I closed my laptop
and paid attention to the TV screen, to an eerie opening tune and a foggy
forest. “Is this a scary movie?” I asked, even though I could already tell –
because it didn’t start with a happy family moving into a new house.
He leaned into the cushions as he nodded; a smile tugged the corners of
his lips.
“You know I hate scary movies,” I reminded him. As a child, I’d
watched Child’s Play and Bride of Chucky with my brothers and had been
scarred ever since.
“So, let me get this straight,” he looked down at my hands and back at
my eyes, “You’re afraid of moving figures in a small rectangular box and
fake sounds?” he teased, trying hard not to laugh.
I tried to give him the meanest look, but my scrunched-up face must
have seemed comedic instead because he burst out laughing. I took the
brown cashmere blanket he always had out for me to cover my legs as I was
beginning to get cold, and that was when I noticed black lines below his
collarbone. “Wait, what’s that?” I asked, pointing.
“This?” he asked as he pulled down the neckline of his shirt, revealing
the Roman numerals on his skin: XII.XXIX
“A tattoo?” I asked, dazed.
“Yeah,” he answered slowly, watching my expression.
I nodded slowly and looked back at the television, where a young girl
and her brother were crouching behind a door, hiding from an unknown
entity.
“Are you going to say something?”
“I just didn’t know you had a tattoo. As a Muslim –” I left my sentence
incomplete. I didn’t have to say it; he knew that tattoos were haram. The
body was a vessel, a loan from the Creator, and Muslims were supposed to
return that vessel in the same state it was given to them – unmarked,
unbotched.
“Oh, you wanna go there. Alright then, let’s have this conversation.”
“I’m not judging you,” I said quietly.
“But you are, though.” He didn’t sound spiteful, just like he was stating
facts. “Me having a tattoo makes me a lesser Muslim?”
“I never said that.”
“You implied it,” he stood up. “I’m going to make some tea. Would you
like some?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“So, our grandparents, or great-grandparents who had tribal marks on
their face – are they condemned to hell, too?”
“Nobody said you were going to hell for a tattoo,” I followed him into
the kitchen.
“So, what is it then? Why can’t a Muslim have a tattoo? How is that
different from traditional body scarring and tribal marks?” He measured
some rooibos loose-leaf tea, dumped it in the tea maker and poured hot
water over it.
“I don’t make the rules, I just know what I’ve been told,” I rubbed my
forehead, then turned around to get the mugs.
“It’s never enough to just be told. You should never be afraid to
question things,” he said as we waited for the tea to steep.
“Question things? Ahmad there are rules we shouldn’t question.” As
Muslims, there are things that we might not understand, but we still have to
abide by them because they are tests of our iman, our faith.
“I disagree,” he said, shaking his head slowly as he added honey to my
tea; he knew exactly how I liked it. “why can’t you question things you do
not understand?”
“Because that’s how it has always been.” Our parents abided by these
rules from the scriptures, and so did their parents and their parents before
them.
“That is a very lazy approach to life, except if you are scared that
something you believe in might crumble under scrutiny—”
“—of course not,” we seem to be digressing from the matter at hand,
“wait, why would you even say that? Are we still talking about your tattoo.”
“Aren’t we?” He never took his eyes off mine as he passed me my tea,
and our fingers grazed lightly as I took the mug from him. “This tattoo
means something very important to me. To the best of my knowledge, the
ink isn’t harmful to me.”
“You don’t have to explain all this to me.”
He chuckled to himself and shrugged, “okay then.”
I remained quiet, mulling the whole conversation in my head. When we
went back to the couch, we’d missed one-third of the movie, so we restarted
it. As much as I hated scary movies, I enjoyed trying to guess who was
behind all the chaos. I tried to get invested in this movie even though I was
watching it with one eye closed. The scariest thing about horror movies, for
me, was the jarring theme music, and the loud unexpected sounds made
them worse. If I were by myself, I would watch it muted. Halfway into the
movie – with our argument about tattoos forgotten – our mugs were on the
center table, empty. There I was flinching at everything that came on screen
– my chin on my knees as I folded myself to take up as little space as I
could out of unnecessary fear. My hands were on high alert to cover my
eyes every time I felt something scary coming on the screen. But Ahmad
was enjoying the movie – a little bit too much, I thought; laughing at my
reactions made it an even better experience for him. At one particularly
graphic scene that was totally unexpected and visceral, I screamed, and
before I could stop myself, I buried my face in his shoulder. Sauvage by
Dior.
I raised my head slowly and stared into his brown eyes. He held my
gaze, not saying a word. My heart was beating fast at the feel of my arms
against his skin and my cold feet by his warm legs. He bit his lower lip as
his gaze fell to mine and slowly back to my eyes. I felt a flutter in my chest,
then pulled away, cleared my throat and sat back to face the TV. I had just
broken the “no touching” rule I’d imposed on the relationship months prior.
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see frown lines on his forehead as he
concentrated on the movie attentively till it finished. But he didn’t say a
word. I saw the movie, but I didn’t watch it. All I knew was that I was
deeply, madly and undeniably attracted to the human being next to me.
The athan went off just as the end credits rolled on the dark screen.
“Gonna go pray,” I muttered as I grabbed my phone and headed toward the
restroom.
I need something to scream into, I thought to myself as I paced back and
forth the cool marble floors in the restroom. Why did I act like I had no
home training? I turned the tap on and off again and continued pacing the
floor. I didn’t even know how to navigate my feelings for him without
changing a fundamental part of who I am – a Muslim. ‘Why are you
disappointed that he didn’t hold you, when you put your head on him?’ a
voice in my head said. I shook off the thought as I began my ablution. ‘If he
had held onto you, you would’ve told him not to.’
“Stop it,” I muttered to myself in the mirror. I slowly tapped the back of
my head on the wall behind me with my eyes closed, trying to steady my
breath. Through the closed door, I heard him start his prayer. It was the first
time I was listening to his Takbir. He said Allahu Akbar in his deep baritone
voice and if I wasn’t in love with him already, this would have done the
trick. I replayed the scenario in my head – how I screamed and buried my
head in his neck, his eyes as he looked at me, the silence. I replayed it over
and over, right down to my awkward withdrawal, his hands keeping to
himself the entire time. Just admit it to yourself, the voice in my head came
again. You wanted more.
No, I did not. I turned on the tap again and rolled up my sleeves as I
rinsed my hands up to my wrists, the first step in my ablution. I rinsed my
mouth and looked at my reflection in the mirror as I continued with my
ablution.
Maybe this attraction you feel for him is one-sided.
It was the first time in my life I was aware of the voices in my head. Is
this what anxiety does to you?
I jumped as I heard a soft knock on the door. “Babe, you okay?” There
was concern in his voice.
“Yes,” was all I managed to say, my voice shrill in an attempt to sound
normal. I hadn’t realized I’d locked myself in the restroom for a while.
“Okay, just checking.”
I took a deep breath and opened the door, grabbed my hijab and
unfolded the prayer mat. I found solace in prayer, all my thoughts
evaporating as I took time to recite the verses from the Qur’an. I had always
found peace in this routine and was grateful for it. I folded my white hijab
and walked out of the room with it to put it in my tote on the dining table.
Then I walked towards the couch to disconnect my laptop and pack it up to
leave.
“I was thinking we could go for a concert before summer ends,” he said
absentmindedly as he scrolled through his phone. He was laying on his back
on the black leather couch, one hand behind his head.
“Yeah, sure.”
His phone started to ring, and he put it to his ear. I stood in front of the
mirror in the foyer and wrapped my scarf around my head.
“Yeah, hello?” pause and then: “are you serious?” another pause: “how
is this going to affect our timeline?” He stood up and walked into his study.
I could hear him typing away on his keyboard from where I stood. “That’s
expected. We had mitigations in place. It shouldn’t be a code red –” his
voice trailed off.
I wondered what the urgency in his voice was about. I knew he was
working hard on the projects he had going on. I knew the launch date of the
health app he designed was fast approaching and how important it was to
him that everything went exactly as planned. If one of his staff was calling
him at this time on the weekend, there had to be a problem.
“Well, I’m with my girl right now,” he said. “What time is Brooke
scheduled to arrive?” silence. Then: “Alright, let’s have a conference call in
twenty.”
My girl. I smiled at the thought, then quickly took it off my mind. “Is
everything okay?” I asked.
I was sitting on the ottoman by the door and wearing my shoes when he
came out and started walking towards me. He had a frown on his forehead
yet, he managed to still look good. “What’s it called when everything that
could possibly go wrong starts going wrong?”
“Murphy’s law?”
“Yeah, that’s it.”
“That sucks. I’m sorry.”
“Nothing I can’t fix,” he said as we walked out. “Although now I’m just
wondering what else I might have missed.”
“It’s gonna be fine, insha Allah,” I said as we entered the elevator.
“Insha Allah,” he agreed with a nod. “Thanks, babe.”
* * *
It was another day of shopping with Afreen because she needed new things
every time she was stressed, and since we got back from the wedding, it had
become very often.
“He just said he was going to be in Toronto and was wondering if he
could come and greet Mama!” Her whisper sounded less and less like one
after every syllable.
“Just like that? I asked as I looked for my size among rows of lacy
brassieres in the pink glow of the La Senza store.
“Just like that.” She was holding out three racerback bras. “Despite all
my attempts at acting like a spoilt brat, Babagana still wants to meet my
mother. He doesn’t take a hint,” she powered through another row of
strapless bras, and added three to her collection.
“Well, you must have left quite the impression on him that he thinks it’s
worth the trouble,” I said as we made our way to the fitting rooms.
“And mum keeps mentioning Aunty Fatima in every single
conversation these days,” she rolled her eyes, then lowered her voice as she
began imitating her mom. “Aunty Fatima said you should send her the
number of your tailor in Abuja, oh I spoke to her this morning, she asked
after you, you should call Aunty Fatima and congratulate her, she was
nominated for-whatever-it-is,” then back to her normal voice: “Aunty Fati
this, Aunty Fati that.” Afreen was waving a red bralette around in anger as
she spoke. “I have no peace in that house. They’re trying to get rid of me so
badly. It’s not even subtle anymore.”
I took the bralette out of her hand and placed it on the counter. This
would take a few more hours of shopping to resolve. “Okay, maybe we
should check out Victoria’s Secret for PJs after this.”
“Good idea.”
“We just need one changing room,” I said to the nice lady behind the
counter. “And what’s your return policy?”
“14 days with the original receipt,” she said as she led us into a
changing room with neon pink cushioned benches outside the doors.
“Great. If it doesn’t fit, I’ll be back tomorrow,” I said.
“That’s not a problem. Let me know if there’s anything else you ladies
need,” she offered.
Afreen was already trying on the bras in one of the changing rooms. I
sat outside, staring at my reflection in the mirrored hallway as she spoke.
“Zafar says maybe it’s a good thing Babagana is coming,” she said from
behind the door.
“Oh, you told him?” I asked, staring at a pimple over my left eyebrow.
“Of course,” she answered like she was confused by my question. “I tell
him everything.”
“Why does he think it’s a good thing?” I asked, resisting the great urge
to pop the pimple. My mother’s voice was in my head, disapproving of my
picking at anything on my face because it would be unladylike.
“He thinks we can come to an understanding,” she opened the door.
“Should I get this?” She was standing in front of me with her top crumpled
around her waist over her jeans. She had on a matte black plunge bra. It was
strapless and the sidebands wrapped around her like a second skin.
“It looks good,” I said, “turn around,” and she did. The back of the bra
was halfway down her back and with clothes on, it would be perfectly
invisible.
“But it’s digging into my skin. Should I get a size up?”
“Yeah, probably,” I said, and she closed the door and continued trying
on the others. “What kind of understanding is Zafar thinking about?”
“We’re just going to be honest with Babagana when he gets here,” she
said.
I couldn’t imagine a scenario in which that would end well, but they say
honesty is the best policy. So, maybe it is. I looked up and she was looking
at me, trying to gauge my reaction. I nodded and let out a prayer: “Allah ya
sa shi yafi alheri. May Allah make that the best decision.”
After two hours of more shopping and a quick lunch at the food court,
she was in a better mood. “Fa’ee am, you’re so lucky,” she paused as she
sipped her bubble tea. “To be with someone that you know your parents will
definitely approve of? That peace of mind is priceless, wallahi.”
I always knew that I could never marry someone my parents didn’t
approve of, no matter how much I cared about him. When the time came, I
knew there would be no objection from either side of the family regarding
Ahmad and me. We had been in a relationship for a few months and while
he talked about the future, he never really talked about our future. I
wondered what that meant. Did he think about us being together in the
future? Isn’t that the whole point of a relationship?
That voice in my head was back: ‘But Ahmad has had other girlfriends
before you. He didn’t marry them. Who’s to say there isn’t going to be
another girlfriend after you?’ I shook my head, desperate to get the
thoughts out of my head.
“When’s he coming?” I asked, taking the straw to my lips, even though
I could barely taste my watered-down drink because all the ice had melted
while we talked.
“Next week,” she sighed.
* * *
It’s been two weeks since Ahmad had to leave unexpectedly for the US. As
he got closer to finishing off his project, more issues kept popping up that
he had to go be there in person. I was at my guardian’s home for the long
weekend. I always went to Aunty Mami’s place when there was a public
holiday. But I made sure to go to my room a little early, so I could work on
assignments and talk to Ahmad before bed.
“Insom.”
“I am not an insomniac,” I said. I had just submitted a section of the
group project I was working on.
“I miss you, babe,” he sounded tired.
“Another long day?”
“Like you won’t believe.”
“Is that your dinner?” I asked when I heard something rustling in the
background.
“Yeah, I got some Chinese. Oh, by the way, Tumi is coming on as a
consultant. So happy about that; we honestly should have done that sooner.”
I could remember Tumi from his birthday dinner – a soft-spoken guy
with a big Afro. Ahmad told me about how he met the programmer in Japan
at a conference a few years prior.
“That’s good, right?” I asked him.
“Yeah, it should be.”
“So, why don’t you sound enthusiastic about it?” He had put so much
into this project, and I could sense how complicated it was getting,
especially with the amount of interest his idea was generating.
“Honestly, I should’ve gone with my instincts from the beginning.
What’s happening right now would have easily been avoided. The one time
I decided to listen to other people… I should’ve known better.” Ahmad
prided himself on how well he controlled his life and how logical his
decisions were, despite the popular opinion.
“Don’t beat yourself over it.”
“I should probably stop boring you with work,” he said.
“No, it’s okay. You can always talk to me about this,” I said, and I
meant it.
We were quiet for a few minutes. I was lying in bed with the phone to
my ear. I imagined he was doing the same. He was probably still in a loose
tie and rolled-up sleeves. I imagined a box of take-out somewhere on the
bed next to him.
“Gosh, I miss you,” he said again. I basked in it, his voice sounding like
a lullaby in my ear.
“Well, who’s to be blamed for that?”
“Me,” he laughed. It was followed by silence and then, “I wish you
were here.”
I felt the same way. It had been weeks since I last saw him. Facetime
calls and Skype were nice, but it didn’t feel the same as having him in the
same space as I was. He had given me the keys to his place, but I hadn’t
gone there since he left. Everything reminded me of him. The other day,
Sara and I got coffee from Timmie’s, and I remembered how much he loved
coffee, and for the rest of the day, I lost my smile.
“Do you know when you’re coming back?” I should have said I missed
him too.
“Say the word, and I’ll come back,” he teased quietly, his voice
suddenly sensual.
“Me? I don’t have the right.” I had to laugh it off to get rid of all the
images of him my mind had started conjuring.
“But you do,” and then he was suddenly serious: “You own me.”
I opened my mouth, but no words came out. I couldn’t find my voice;
all I could hear was the ticking of the clock in the room and the gentle hum
of the humidifier. I swallowed. “Less than 48 hours to launch day,” I finally
managed to say, a lame attempt to change the topic.
“How did you do in criminal law?”
“Grades aren’t up yet,” I answered. The conversation flowed into
schoolwork and upcoming exams. I silently wondered why I didn’t just tell
him that I missed him too, that I couldn’t wait to see him, that he owned me
too.
It was a week later, on a Thursday afternoon, when I received the news.
I’d just finished a study group session with Ada and Sara in the relatively
quiet library when I got a link forwarded from Afreen. Before I could open
it, Ada interrupted me: “So, how’s your boyfriend?”
I saw Sara looking at me from the corner of my eye. “How come she
has met him, and I haven’t?”
“Chill, he came to get her the other day, and I just ran into him,” said
Ada. “It wasn’t planned.”
“He’s alright,” I said.
“So, it’s serious then, ay?” Sara quipped. I didn’t know why I felt like
she was judging me. She probably wasn’t, and I was only projecting my
insecurities through her.
“They look soooooo cute together,” Ada went on.
“Wait. His parents are your guardians, right?” Sara asked, trying to
recall the little I’d said about Ahmad to them. “So, it’s an arranged thing,
yeah?”
“No, it’s not an arranged thing,” I answered. “Our parents don’t even
know yet.”
“Really? Wow, that’s weird.”
“Weird? How is that weird?” That was Ada.
“Couldn’t be me,” she said as we walked out of the library.
I bit my tongue, trying not to snap back.
“Why not? Muslims don’t date?” Ada propped.
“Well, it’s not allowed,” she continued. “We get marriage proposals, and
then we choose a good match, and arrange a meeting – at home – to see if
we’re compatible.”
“That’s not entirely true, Sara,” I knew I was being defensive, but I had
to say something. “It’s different across the world. In some countries,
Muslims date for a little while before marriage.”
“Well, not in Pakistan. It’s not done,” she answered with a laugh. “A
girl should never be alone with a guy she’s not married to, except a
chaperone is present.”
“Why?” Ada asked, “Y’all don’t trust yourselves?”
So it wasn’t in my head. I was being judged.
“When a guy and a girl are alone, there’s always a third entity present.”
It took every fibre in my being to resist rolling my eyes. I knew what
Sara was saying, but I was angry at what she was insinuating.
“Yeah, a chaperone or the Shaitan,” I completed.
“Say what now? The who?”
“The devil,” I started. I hated having to explain my religion sometimes.
People just didn’t get it. “If a chaperone isn’t present, then the devil is; and
he can influence their thoughts and actions.”
“Oh, okay, that actually makes sense,” Ada nodded, then took a sip
from her bottle of water, “that’s why you girls wear this, right? So you do
not tempt the boys,” she gestured towards the scarves that covered my head
and Sara’s.
“Nope, that’s a misconception,” I said. “We cover ourselves in
obedience to God’s command.”
“Yeah, not for the men,” Sara added. " I’m sure it was a man who first
said that.”
“Oh, I always thought that was the reason.” Ada laughed.
“But maybe it’s different in Nigeria – like dating before marriage,” Sara
added.
“Well, at the shisha bar I work downtown, I see a few Pakistani guys
come in with girls they’re obviously not married to, so –” Ada shrugged.
I resisted the urge to laugh out loud. Instead, I brought out my phone
and clicked on the link Afreen had sent. It was taking a while to load.
“Same time tomorrow?” Sara asked as we exited the building.
“Yeah,” I answered absentmindedly as I read the words on my screen.
“Bye, guys.”
“Bye, Fa’iza,” I heard them say as they walked towards the car park,
and I headed back to the residence. The link was for a Business Insider
page. As I scrolled down, I gasped. There was a picture of Ahmad and a
detailed article about his newly-launched app. The journalist called it “a
revolutionary concept.” I opened another search bar and searched the name
of his app. There were half a dozen articles in the past 12 hours. It was
unbelievable. I replied to Afreen with dancing emojis and exclamation
marks; then, I dialed his number. I got a busy tone, so I typed him a
message instead. So so proud of you <3
By Maghrib, the number of articles had doubled, and I had read each
article at least twice. It was inspiring reading the comments under the
articles. I tried reaching him a few more times before heading to bed, but
messages weren’t being delivered, and calls weren’t going through.
I
us back from his football game. It was mid-summer in ‘the 6ix’.
That’s what everyone called Toronto, and I was beginning to catch on.
Apparently, it was given the nickname because six different boroughs came
together to make the city. Looking back, my first summer here was one of
the best moments of my life, like nothing I had ever experienced – my bike
rides with Ahmad continued, we went to carnivals, concerts, loud music
festivals with food trucks blocking the whole street, and bringing flavorful
cuisines from different parts of the world, frozen popsicles at water parks
numbing my lips, watching the fireworks on Canada day and most
importantly, the Reviving the Islamic Spirit (RIS) convention where I
watched Mufti Menk and Imam Zaid Shakir speak in person for the first
time – it was all an experience.
“I think I’m nervous about taking it,” I answered as I made a right turn
into the underground parkade, the gold Chanel bracelet he’d bought me in
Milan slipping further down my arm.
“Why? You aren’t bad at all,” he was in the passenger seat, watching
me.
“What if I fail?” I asked, putting the car to a halt next to his power bike.
“Then you retake it. A lot of people flunk their first driving test,
anyway.”
I failed my first driving test, and the second one with just a few points
to the passing grade. I was doing well at the University though, my summer
classes started at noon. After classes, Ahmad would usually come to get me
and we would go downtown to check out whatever festival was taking place
that week. When we got back to his apartment, I went straight to the couch
to get my laptop, which I’d left to charge when I picked him up. I opened it
to reply to the class discussion on the topic of the week for my class in an
attempt to earn more marks.
“I am going to take a shower. What are we watching today?” he asked
as he went towards his room.
I was too distracted by the one single downvote to an earlier comment I
made. “Your turn to choose,” I answered as I typed away on the laptop,
making sure to attach links to cases supporting my argument.
“Have you watched Sinister?” the scent of his aftershave announced his
return about five minutes later; he sat next to me, he had changed into a
sleeveless white shirt and black shorts.
I shook my head, preoccupied with the immediate reply to the comment
I’d just posted. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Ahmad scrolling through
Netflix, and a few seconds later, a movie started playing. After I posted
what I decided would be my last comment of the day, I closed my laptop
and paid attention to the TV screen, to an eerie opening tune and a foggy
forest. “Is this a scary movie?” I asked, even though I could already tell –
because it didn’t start with a happy family moving into a new house.
He leaned into the cushions as he nodded; a smile tugged the corners of
his lips.
“You know I hate scary movies,” I reminded him. As a child, I’d
watched Child’s Play and Bride of Chucky with my brothers and had been
scarred ever since.
“So, let me get this straight,” he looked down at my hands and back at
my eyes, “You’re afraid of moving figures in a small rectangular box and
fake sounds?” he teased, trying hard not to laugh.
I tried to give him the meanest look, but my scrunched-up face must
have seemed comedic instead because he burst out laughing. I took the
brown cashmere blanket he always had out for me to cover my legs as I was
beginning to get cold, and that was when I noticed black lines below his
collarbone. “Wait, what’s that?” I asked, pointing.
“This?” he asked as he pulled down the neckline of his shirt, revealing
the Roman numerals on his skin: XII.XXIX
“A tattoo?” I asked, dazed.
“Yeah,” he answered slowly, watching my expression.
I nodded slowly and looked back at the television, where a young girl
and her brother were crouching behind a door, hiding from an unknown
entity.
“Are you going to say something?”
“I just didn’t know you had a tattoo. As a Muslim –” I left my sentence
incomplete. I didn’t have to say it; he knew that tattoos were haram. The
body was a vessel, a loan from the Creator, and Muslims were supposed to
return that vessel in the same state it was given to them – unmarked,
unbotched.
“Oh, you wanna go there. Alright then, let’s have this conversation.”
“I’m not judging you,” I said quietly.
“But you are, though.” He didn’t sound spiteful, just like he was stating
facts. “Me having a tattoo makes me a lesser Muslim?”
“I never said that.”
“You implied it,” he stood up. “I’m going to make some tea. Would you
like some?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“So, our grandparents, or great-grandparents who had tribal marks on
their face – are they condemned to hell, too?”
“Nobody said you were going to hell for a tattoo,” I followed him into
the kitchen.
“So, what is it then? Why can’t a Muslim have a tattoo? How is that
different from traditional body scarring and tribal marks?” He measured
some rooibos loose-leaf tea, dumped it in the tea maker and poured hot
water over it.
“I don’t make the rules, I just know what I’ve been told,” I rubbed my
forehead, then turned around to get the mugs.
“It’s never enough to just be told. You should never be afraid to
question things,” he said as we waited for the tea to steep.
“Question things? Ahmad there are rules we shouldn’t question.” As
Muslims, there are things that we might not understand, but we still have to
abide by them because they are tests of our iman, our faith.
“I disagree,” he said, shaking his head slowly as he added honey to my
tea; he knew exactly how I liked it. “why can’t you question things you do
not understand?”
“Because that’s how it has always been.” Our parents abided by these
rules from the scriptures, and so did their parents and their parents before
them.
“That is a very lazy approach to life, except if you are scared that
something you believe in might crumble under scrutiny—”
“—of course not,” we seem to be digressing from the matter at hand,
“wait, why would you even say that? Are we still talking about your tattoo.”
“Aren’t we?” He never took his eyes off mine as he passed me my tea,
and our fingers grazed lightly as I took the mug from him. “This tattoo
means something very important to me. To the best of my knowledge, the
ink isn’t harmful to me.”
“You don’t have to explain all this to me.”
He chuckled to himself and shrugged, “okay then.”
I remained quiet, mulling the whole conversation in my head. When we
went back to the couch, we’d missed one-third of the movie, so we restarted
it. As much as I hated scary movies, I enjoyed trying to guess who was
behind all the chaos. I tried to get invested in this movie even though I was
watching it with one eye closed. The scariest thing about horror movies, for
me, was the jarring theme music, and the loud unexpected sounds made
them worse. If I were by myself, I would watch it muted. Halfway into the
movie – with our argument about tattoos forgotten – our mugs were on the
center table, empty. There I was flinching at everything that came on screen
– my chin on my knees as I folded myself to take up as little space as I
could out of unnecessary fear. My hands were on high alert to cover my
eyes every time I felt something scary coming on the screen. But Ahmad
was enjoying the movie – a little bit too much, I thought; laughing at my
reactions made it an even better experience for him. At one particularly
graphic scene that was totally unexpected and visceral, I screamed, and
before I could stop myself, I buried my face in his shoulder. Sauvage by
Dior.
I raised my head slowly and stared into his brown eyes. He held my
gaze, not saying a word. My heart was beating fast at the feel of my arms
against his skin and my cold feet by his warm legs. He bit his lower lip as
his gaze fell to mine and slowly back to my eyes. I felt a flutter in my chest,
then pulled away, cleared my throat and sat back to face the TV. I had just
broken the “no touching” rule I’d imposed on the relationship months prior.
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see frown lines on his forehead as he
concentrated on the movie attentively till it finished. But he didn’t say a
word. I saw the movie, but I didn’t watch it. All I knew was that I was
deeply, madly and undeniably attracted to the human being next to me.
The athan went off just as the end credits rolled on the dark screen.
“Gonna go pray,” I muttered as I grabbed my phone and headed toward the
restroom.
I need something to scream into, I thought to myself as I paced back and
forth the cool marble floors in the restroom. Why did I act like I had no
home training? I turned the tap on and off again and continued pacing the
floor. I didn’t even know how to navigate my feelings for him without
changing a fundamental part of who I am – a Muslim. ‘Why are you
disappointed that he didn’t hold you, when you put your head on him?’ a
voice in my head said. I shook off the thought as I began my ablution. ‘If he
had held onto you, you would’ve told him not to.’
“Stop it,” I muttered to myself in the mirror. I slowly tapped the back of
my head on the wall behind me with my eyes closed, trying to steady my
breath. Through the closed door, I heard him start his prayer. It was the first
time I was listening to his Takbir. He said Allahu Akbar in his deep baritone
voice and if I wasn’t in love with him already, this would have done the
trick. I replayed the scenario in my head – how I screamed and buried my
head in his neck, his eyes as he looked at me, the silence. I replayed it over
and over, right down to my awkward withdrawal, his hands keeping to
himself the entire time. Just admit it to yourself, the voice in my head came
again. You wanted more.
No, I did not. I turned on the tap again and rolled up my sleeves as I
rinsed my hands up to my wrists, the first step in my ablution. I rinsed my
mouth and looked at my reflection in the mirror as I continued with my
ablution.
Maybe this attraction you feel for him is one-sided.
It was the first time in my life I was aware of the voices in my head. Is
this what anxiety does to you?
I jumped as I heard a soft knock on the door. “Babe, you okay?” There
was concern in his voice.
“Yes,” was all I managed to say, my voice shrill in an attempt to sound
normal. I hadn’t realized I’d locked myself in the restroom for a while.
“Okay, just checking.”
I took a deep breath and opened the door, grabbed my hijab and
unfolded the prayer mat. I found solace in prayer, all my thoughts
evaporating as I took time to recite the verses from the Qur’an. I had always
found peace in this routine and was grateful for it. I folded my white hijab
and walked out of the room with it to put it in my tote on the dining table.
Then I walked towards the couch to disconnect my laptop and pack it up to
leave.
“I was thinking we could go for a concert before summer ends,” he said
absentmindedly as he scrolled through his phone. He was laying on his back
on the black leather couch, one hand behind his head.
“Yeah, sure.”
His phone started to ring, and he put it to his ear. I stood in front of the
mirror in the foyer and wrapped my scarf around my head.
“Yeah, hello?” pause and then: “are you serious?” another pause: “how
is this going to affect our timeline?” He stood up and walked into his study.
I could hear him typing away on his keyboard from where I stood. “That’s
expected. We had mitigations in place. It shouldn’t be a code red –” his
voice trailed off.
I wondered what the urgency in his voice was about. I knew he was
working hard on the projects he had going on. I knew the launch date of the
health app he designed was fast approaching and how important it was to
him that everything went exactly as planned. If one of his staff was calling
him at this time on the weekend, there had to be a problem.
“Well, I’m with my girl right now,” he said. “What time is Brooke
scheduled to arrive?” silence. Then: “Alright, let’s have a conference call in
twenty.”
My girl. I smiled at the thought, then quickly took it off my mind. “Is
everything okay?” I asked.
I was sitting on the ottoman by the door and wearing my shoes when he
came out and started walking towards me. He had a frown on his forehead
yet, he managed to still look good. “What’s it called when everything that
could possibly go wrong starts going wrong?”
“Murphy’s law?”
“Yeah, that’s it.”
“That sucks. I’m sorry.”
“Nothing I can’t fix,” he said as we walked out. “Although now I’m just
wondering what else I might have missed.”
“It’s gonna be fine, insha Allah,” I said as we entered the elevator.
“Insha Allah,” he agreed with a nod. “Thanks, babe.”
* * *
It was another day of shopping with Afreen because she needed new things
every time she was stressed, and since we got back from the wedding, it had
become very often.
“He just said he was going to be in Toronto and was wondering if he
could come and greet Mama!” Her whisper sounded less and less like one
after every syllable.
“Just like that? I asked as I looked for my size among rows of lacy
brassieres in the pink glow of the La Senza store.
“Just like that.” She was holding out three racerback bras. “Despite all
my attempts at acting like a spoilt brat, Babagana still wants to meet my
mother. He doesn’t take a hint,” she powered through another row of
strapless bras, and added three to her collection.
“Well, you must have left quite the impression on him that he thinks it’s
worth the trouble,” I said as we made our way to the fitting rooms.
“And mum keeps mentioning Aunty Fatima in every single
conversation these days,” she rolled her eyes, then lowered her voice as she
began imitating her mom. “Aunty Fatima said you should send her the
number of your tailor in Abuja, oh I spoke to her this morning, she asked
after you, you should call Aunty Fatima and congratulate her, she was
nominated for-whatever-it-is,” then back to her normal voice: “Aunty Fati
this, Aunty Fati that.” Afreen was waving a red bralette around in anger as
she spoke. “I have no peace in that house. They’re trying to get rid of me so
badly. It’s not even subtle anymore.”
I took the bralette out of her hand and placed it on the counter. This
would take a few more hours of shopping to resolve. “Okay, maybe we
should check out Victoria’s Secret for PJs after this.”
“Good idea.”
“We just need one changing room,” I said to the nice lady behind the
counter. “And what’s your return policy?”
“14 days with the original receipt,” she said as she led us into a
changing room with neon pink cushioned benches outside the doors.
“Great. If it doesn’t fit, I’ll be back tomorrow,” I said.
“That’s not a problem. Let me know if there’s anything else you ladies
need,” she offered.
Afreen was already trying on the bras in one of the changing rooms. I
sat outside, staring at my reflection in the mirrored hallway as she spoke.
“Zafar says maybe it’s a good thing Babagana is coming,” she said from
behind the door.
“Oh, you told him?” I asked, staring at a pimple over my left eyebrow.
“Of course,” she answered like she was confused by my question. “I tell
him everything.”
“Why does he think it’s a good thing?” I asked, resisting the great urge
to pop the pimple. My mother’s voice was in my head, disapproving of my
picking at anything on my face because it would be unladylike.
“He thinks we can come to an understanding,” she opened the door.
“Should I get this?” She was standing in front of me with her top crumpled
around her waist over her jeans. She had on a matte black plunge bra. It was
strapless and the sidebands wrapped around her like a second skin.
“It looks good,” I said, “turn around,” and she did. The back of the bra
was halfway down her back and with clothes on, it would be perfectly
invisible.
“But it’s digging into my skin. Should I get a size up?”
“Yeah, probably,” I said, and she closed the door and continued trying
on the others. “What kind of understanding is Zafar thinking about?”
“We’re just going to be honest with Babagana when he gets here,” she
said.
I couldn’t imagine a scenario in which that would end well, but they say
honesty is the best policy. So, maybe it is. I looked up and she was looking
at me, trying to gauge my reaction. I nodded and let out a prayer: “Allah ya
sa shi yafi alheri. May Allah make that the best decision.”
After two hours of more shopping and a quick lunch at the food court,
she was in a better mood. “Fa’ee am, you’re so lucky,” she paused as she
sipped her bubble tea. “To be with someone that you know your parents will
definitely approve of? That peace of mind is priceless, wallahi.”
I always knew that I could never marry someone my parents didn’t
approve of, no matter how much I cared about him. When the time came, I
knew there would be no objection from either side of the family regarding
Ahmad and me. We had been in a relationship for a few months and while
he talked about the future, he never really talked about our future. I
wondered what that meant. Did he think about us being together in the
future? Isn’t that the whole point of a relationship?
That voice in my head was back: ‘But Ahmad has had other girlfriends
before you. He didn’t marry them. Who’s to say there isn’t going to be
another girlfriend after you?’ I shook my head, desperate to get the
thoughts out of my head.
“When’s he coming?” I asked, taking the straw to my lips, even though
I could barely taste my watered-down drink because all the ice had melted
while we talked.
“Next week,” she sighed.
* * *
It’s been two weeks since Ahmad had to leave unexpectedly for the US. As
he got closer to finishing off his project, more issues kept popping up that
he had to go be there in person. I was at my guardian’s home for the long
weekend. I always went to Aunty Mami’s place when there was a public
holiday. But I made sure to go to my room a little early, so I could work on
assignments and talk to Ahmad before bed.
“Insom.”
“I am not an insomniac,” I said. I had just submitted a section of the
group project I was working on.
“I miss you, babe,” he sounded tired.
“Another long day?”
“Like you won’t believe.”
“Is that your dinner?” I asked when I heard something rustling in the
background.
“Yeah, I got some Chinese. Oh, by the way, Tumi is coming on as a
consultant. So happy about that; we honestly should have done that sooner.”
I could remember Tumi from his birthday dinner – a soft-spoken guy
with a big Afro. Ahmad told me about how he met the programmer in Japan
at a conference a few years prior.
“That’s good, right?” I asked him.
“Yeah, it should be.”
“So, why don’t you sound enthusiastic about it?” He had put so much
into this project, and I could sense how complicated it was getting,
especially with the amount of interest his idea was generating.
“Honestly, I should’ve gone with my instincts from the beginning.
What’s happening right now would have easily been avoided. The one time
I decided to listen to other people… I should’ve known better.” Ahmad
prided himself on how well he controlled his life and how logical his
decisions were, despite the popular opinion.
“Don’t beat yourself over it.”
“I should probably stop boring you with work,” he said.
“No, it’s okay. You can always talk to me about this,” I said, and I
meant it.
We were quiet for a few minutes. I was lying in bed with the phone to
my ear. I imagined he was doing the same. He was probably still in a loose
tie and rolled-up sleeves. I imagined a box of take-out somewhere on the
bed next to him.
“Gosh, I miss you,” he said again. I basked in it, his voice sounding like
a lullaby in my ear.
“Well, who’s to be blamed for that?”
“Me,” he laughed. It was followed by silence and then, “I wish you
were here.”
I felt the same way. It had been weeks since I last saw him. Facetime
calls and Skype were nice, but it didn’t feel the same as having him in the
same space as I was. He had given me the keys to his place, but I hadn’t
gone there since he left. Everything reminded me of him. The other day,
Sara and I got coffee from Timmie’s, and I remembered how much he loved
coffee, and for the rest of the day, I lost my smile.
“Do you know when you’re coming back?” I should have said I missed
him too.
“Say the word, and I’ll come back,” he teased quietly, his voice
suddenly sensual.
“Me? I don’t have the right.” I had to laugh it off to get rid of all the
images of him my mind had started conjuring.
“But you do,” and then he was suddenly serious: “You own me.”
I opened my mouth, but no words came out. I couldn’t find my voice;
all I could hear was the ticking of the clock in the room and the gentle hum
of the humidifier. I swallowed. “Less than 48 hours to launch day,” I finally
managed to say, a lame attempt to change the topic.
“How did you do in criminal law?”
“Grades aren’t up yet,” I answered. The conversation flowed into
schoolwork and upcoming exams. I silently wondered why I didn’t just tell
him that I missed him too, that I couldn’t wait to see him, that he owned me
too.
It was a week later, on a Thursday afternoon, when I received the news.
I’d just finished a study group session with Ada and Sara in the relatively
quiet library when I got a link forwarded from Afreen. Before I could open
it, Ada interrupted me: “So, how’s your boyfriend?”
I saw Sara looking at me from the corner of my eye. “How come she
has met him, and I haven’t?”
“Chill, he came to get her the other day, and I just ran into him,” said
Ada. “It wasn’t planned.”
“He’s alright,” I said.
“So, it’s serious then, ay?” Sara quipped. I didn’t know why I felt like
she was judging me. She probably wasn’t, and I was only projecting my
insecurities through her.
“They look soooooo cute together,” Ada went on.
“Wait. His parents are your guardians, right?” Sara asked, trying to
recall the little I’d said about Ahmad to them. “So, it’s an arranged thing,
yeah?”
“No, it’s not an arranged thing,” I answered. “Our parents don’t even
know yet.”
“Really? Wow, that’s weird.”
“Weird? How is that weird?” That was Ada.
“Couldn’t be me,” she said as we walked out of the library.
I bit my tongue, trying not to snap back.
“Why not? Muslims don’t date?” Ada propped.
“Well, it’s not allowed,” she continued. “We get marriage proposals, and
then we choose a good match, and arrange a meeting – at home – to see if
we’re compatible.”
“That’s not entirely true, Sara,” I knew I was being defensive, but I had
to say something. “It’s different across the world. In some countries,
Muslims date for a little while before marriage.”
“Well, not in Pakistan. It’s not done,” she answered with a laugh. “A
girl should never be alone with a guy she’s not married to, except a
chaperone is present.”
“Why?” Ada asked, “Y’all don’t trust yourselves?”
So it wasn’t in my head. I was being judged.
“When a guy and a girl are alone, there’s always a third entity present.”
It took every fibre in my being to resist rolling my eyes. I knew what
Sara was saying, but I was angry at what she was insinuating.
“Yeah, a chaperone or the Shaitan,” I completed.
“Say what now? The who?”
“The devil,” I started. I hated having to explain my religion sometimes.
People just didn’t get it. “If a chaperone isn’t present, then the devil is; and
he can influence their thoughts and actions.”
“Oh, okay, that actually makes sense,” Ada nodded, then took a sip
from her bottle of water, “that’s why you girls wear this, right? So you do
not tempt the boys,” she gestured towards the scarves that covered my head
and Sara’s.
“Nope, that’s a misconception,” I said. “We cover ourselves in
obedience to God’s command.”
“Yeah, not for the men,” Sara added. " I’m sure it was a man who first
said that.”
“Oh, I always thought that was the reason.” Ada laughed.
“But maybe it’s different in Nigeria – like dating before marriage,” Sara
added.
“Well, at the shisha bar I work downtown, I see a few Pakistani guys
come in with girls they’re obviously not married to, so –” Ada shrugged.
I resisted the urge to laugh out loud. Instead, I brought out my phone
and clicked on the link Afreen had sent. It was taking a while to load.
“Same time tomorrow?” Sara asked as we exited the building.
“Yeah,” I answered absentmindedly as I read the words on my screen.
“Bye, guys.”
“Bye, Fa’iza,” I heard them say as they walked towards the car park,
and I headed back to the residence. The link was for a Business Insider
page. As I scrolled down, I gasped. There was a picture of Ahmad and a
detailed article about his newly-launched app. The journalist called it “a
revolutionary concept.” I opened another search bar and searched the name
of his app. There were half a dozen articles in the past 12 hours. It was
unbelievable. I replied to Afreen with dancing emojis and exclamation
marks; then, I dialed his number. I got a busy tone, so I typed him a
message instead. So so proud of you <3
By Maghrib, the number of articles had doubled, and I had read each
article at least twice. It was inspiring reading the comments under the
articles. I tried reaching him a few more times before heading to bed, but
messages weren’t being delivered, and calls weren’t going through.
I