Chapter 12
Broken Not a halal love story Complete · about 23 min read
t was Sunday morning. I had been up since Fajr, which at that time of
the year, was at 4:15 am. It was the last week of the summer holiday, and
students who had gone home for the holidays would be coming back to the
rez that week. Grades for all the classes I had taken during the break were
already posted, and – not to brag, but – I aced them all. Things were already
looking great for the fall semester. I just needed to find the perfect place to
volunteer for twelve weeks, a requirement for my three-credit elective on
green spaces.
I spent most of dawn rearranging my closet, taking out summer clothes
and throwing them in an old bag I was going to donate to The Salvation
Army, a non-profit organization that collected fairly-used clothes for people
in need. When I was done, I moved to the shoe rack, making space for the
new ankle boots I’d gotten from The Bay and throwing some sandals and
flip-flops into the bag. I had just removed the second pair of ankle boots
from the box when my phone rang and as I made my way to my desk to
unplug it from the charger, I almost tripped over my open laundry basket
and almost missed the call. “Hello,” I smiled as I answered the call.
“Hello, Fa’iza?” It was my mum. I could barely hear her as there was so
much noise in the background.
“Ina kwana, Umma. Good morning,” I said.
“You called earlier?” I had called her twice after talking to my dad
earlier, but couldn’t reach her.
“Yes, twice.”
“I didn’t hear my phone; it was in my bag. We’re at Farida’s wedding,”
she screamed into the phone, her phone rising among others.
“Oh okay. How’s it going?” I asked. Like Kaltume, Farida was another
family friend my age getting married.
“Ah, biki ya yi kyau. It’s going very well, alhamdulillah,” I could hear
the smile in her voice as she continued, “ai bakatsine ta aura. The groom’s
family is from Katsina.”
I nodded and wondered why the information was necessary to share.
“Allah ya ba su zaman lafiya,” I responded. It was the customary thing to
say when someone got married, a prayer for God to bless them with a
peaceful marriage. In my culture, it was customary to pray at every
celebration and adversity. At the birth of a baby, we said Allah ya raya; may
God raise him/her. When someone was about to embark on a journey, we
said Allah ya tsare, may God protect. When we heard bad news, we shook
our heads, pulled on our tasbeeh, and we said: Allah ya kiyaye, may God
protect. And when we heard good news, we celebrated and prayed: Allah ya
sanya alheri, may God bless it.
“Ameen Ameen,” she said, “Hold on.” I heard her speaking to someone
else and then: “Here’s Hajiya Uwani, say hello to her.” Before I could
object, I heard my mother’s friend’s sing-song voice in my ear:
“Hellooooooo.” I immediately pictured the robust and ever-jovial Aunty
Uwani with her beautiful henna-stained hands. I couldn’t quite remember
when they became friends but in recent years, she had become an active and
permanent part of our lives
“Ina kwana, Aunty Uwani,” my voice had dropped an octave almost
subconscious, as I greeted her. It was not my doing; my language demanded
it. I absentmindedly scratched my head as I stared at my reflection in the
mirror.
“Lafiya lau, Fa’iza. Everything’s well,” she responded with a laugh. “Ya
makaranta? How’s school?”
“Alhamdulillah. Ya su Aisha?” I asked after her oldest daughter, who
was married with a kid and had moved abroad with her husband just a few
months prior. I saw her regular updates on Instagram and knew exactly
what she was up to, but asking after people to keep the conversation going
was just another thing our culture demanded.
“Tana can UK. She’s in the UK,” she answered, then changed the
subject: “Allah ya nuna mana naki, mu sha biki. May God let us see your
wedding, oh how we’ll jubilate!”
“Ameen,” I said, the only acceptable answer.
“Amma ban da bature. But we don’t want a white man,” she cautioned
with a laugh as she handed the phone to my mother.
I was relieved to hear my mother’s voice on the other end of the line.
“I’ll call you when I get home,” she said without acknowledging Hajiya
Uwani’s comment. She didn’t have to; she trusted that her daughter knew
what to do. Growing up, no one gave us the husband criteria, but we
overheard and knew just what to do from conversations our mothers and
aunties were having at social gatherings, conversations not meant for our
ears. We would hear comments they made after weddings about the families
of the bride or groom – what they praised, what they spoke about in hushed
tones, what they deemed shameful. “Ai suna da mako. They are very
stingy,” they would say about men from a particular state in Nigeria, or “ai
ba su da hakuri; abu kadan saki. Those ones are not patient; they divorce
their wives anyhow.” Of course, these rules were not set in stone, and they
often changed depending on whether someone knew someone who had a
different experience with men from that state. An outlier with prominence
in the political scene was, however, always welcome. Growing up with
comments like that allowed us filter through what our mothers thought was
desirable and what wasn’t.
Thinking about it now, that was why my mother made the “bakatsine”
comment. Like us, he was from Katsina, and that was desirable. A good
choice, a preferred choice – never mind the cousin I had whose bakatsine
husband somehow managed to have a drinking problem. When she came
home to complain about his drinking and his abandonment of sallah, she
was met with “Allah ya kiyaye” and was advised to pray for him. The aunts
gave her verses from the Qur’an to recite for him in the middle of the night.
All but my mother. Umma told her to leave him. “If you were the one with
a drinking problem, no mother or aunt would advise him to stay with you,”
she argued vehemently. And although no one could deny the truth in her
words, the aunts bowed their heads in response and reminded her: “it’s
different for a woman.” I remember my mother sighing in defeat. Nowhere
in the Qur’an did it say that sins would be judged in accordance with one’s
gender. Yet, in our culture and tradition, many Muslim rules were only
applicable to women. Society turned a blind eye to the wrongdoings of men
– that’s why they get away with almost everything. Women, however, were
always expected to uphold standards to which men were never held
accountable. I thought back at my conversation with Ahmad about his
relationship with Ezgi, and I was not exactly surprised. If anything
surprised me, it was the fact that he didn’t hide that he was in a haram
relationship.
Later that afternoon, I sat at the dining table at the ambassador’s house,
enjoying the danwake (bean dumplings garnished with vegetables) the chef
had made. Aunty Mami had just gotten back from Nigeria, and had she sent
me some Abayas earlier in the week, so I came by to say thanks. Afreen
picked me up from the residence just after I finished my laundry that
morning and had been talking about her internship at the Mayor’s office
since. It was only at dinner time that she asked what was going on with me.
I opened my mouth to bore her with school and the conversation I’d had
with Sara about relationships in Islam. What came out, instead, was a story
about my first fight with her brother.
“What?! He made you cry?” she asked.
“No, no, no. He didn’t make me cry. I said I cried during the argument,”
I tried to explain.
“So, why did you cry?”
“We were talking about something – sorry, I can’t tell you what exactly
– and I was embarrassed – no, not embarrassed – but it just kinda got
awkward, and I cried a little. But he didn’t make me cry.”
“Well, he had better not,” she said, still looking at me oddly. I liked that
she didn’t press to know what the conversation was about.
“How about you – how’s Zafar?”
She had barely spoken about him in the weeks that we’d been chatting
and when I asked, she took a sip of water and sighed. “He’s fine, just
getting mad impatient.”
I nodded slowly, waiting for her to give me more context, the sound of
the vacuum going off in the next room making the silence less awkward.
“So, he says now is a good time for him to meet my parents again,” she
shook her head and avoided eye contact. “He feels things are a bit different
for him now, so it might be better than the last time.” I nodded, and she
continued: “I think we should buy ourselves more time. I need time to get
mum warmed up to the idea that the person I like is married.”
“How do you think she would take it?” I asked.
“I think she wouldn’t mind as much if he were a widower.” Most of the
issues people had with polygamy was that the man might not treat both
women equitably as he was expected to. There are many stories about men
having favorites among their wives, while the least favorites were left to
fend for themselves.
I pursed my lips. I knew exactly what she meant. Even though Aunty
Mami was actually the ambassador’s second wife, the first wife had passed
away years before they met. So, she would definitely prefer if Afreen were
with someone without so much baggage and responsibilities – a wife and a
child.
“Allah ya zaban mana mafi alkhairi. May God choose what’s best for
us,” I said.
“Ameen. Fa’iza am,” She perked up a little.
The weekend went by pretty quickly as we spent most of it in bed
watching Gossip Girl. But on Sunday, we were having lunch at the dining
table when Aunty Mami walked in dressed in a peach-colored lace sewn
into a long gown. Her hair was plaited back and uncovered. Her stud
earrings caught the light as she moved and the scent of La vie est belle filled
the air with her entrance. “The turaren wutan smells burnt,” she sniffed
around as she moved further into the room and opened the windows. “You
can’t smell it?” She was referring to the incense on the electric burner that
filled the room with the scent of sandalwood.
“Maybe it’s the coal,” I walked to her side and helped with the
windows. It didn’t smell bad, but the incense was beginning to burn.
“I might have gotten a bad batch.”
“It doesn’t smell bad to me,” Afreen said with a shrug, standing up and
taking the burner from her mom, and left the room to go empty it.
“Toh, Maybe it’s my nose,” Aunty Mami said with a laugh. Her jet-
black hair had a strand or two of grey that I noticed for the first time.
“Fa’iza, I’ll leave this here for the cleaners,” she dropped a white
envelope on the table. “Please tell them they don’t need to come next
week.”
I nodded as I moved the envelope closer to me. Just then, the door
opened, and we both looked up to see Ahmad walking in a navy-blue slim
fit shirt and charcoal chinos. We’d been chatting all weekend and had
agreed he would take me back to the residence when I was ready. But I
didn’t realize he would be arriving this early.
“Ahmad, do you smell turaren wuta? Does it smell burnt?” she asked,
unrelenting in her quest to see if she’d gotten a bad batch.
He smiled as he moved towards her. “It smells great,” he kissed her on
the cheek and added, “You smell great.”
“Maybe it’s just my nose then,” she said to herself as she walked out.
He took the chair opposite me, removed his sunglasses and kept them
on the table. He ignored the food warmers and plates on the table and kept
his eyes on me. “What are you eating?”
“Rice,” I answered, “Za ka ci? Are you eating?”
“We’re going to see Edet, remember?” He shook his head with a smile
on his face.
“I thought that was tomorrow.” Edet’s longtime girlfriend was visiting
from the UK and they had invited us for an early dinner at their place.
“Babeeeee,” he raised his eyebrows. “I reminded you on Friday.”
“So, do we have to leave now?”
“No, we’ve got time. We can leave after Asr.”
* * *
Edet lived in one of the high-rise buildings downtown and in two hours, we
were standing outside. He buzzed us into the expansive lobby with a
fireplace burning, and we made our way into the elevators.
“How many people are going to be there?” I asked Ahmad.
“Why? Are you nervous? My friends don’t bite.” A smile slowly
formed on his face, as he fixed the ends of my scarf over my shoulder. His
hands lingered on my arm. “You look great.” He always complimented me,
even when I was wearing the simplest of things, like today – a red buttoned-
down shirt over white jeans.
“Thanks. You too,” I smiled.
The elevator door opened to a carpeted floor and Ahmad led us to
Edet’s apartment. The door was opened as soon as he knocked and Edet
stood at the door in brown khaki trousers and a black shirt. He had a kitchen
towel over his left shoulder.
“Fa’iza,” he looked at me. “Good to see you again.”
“Hi, Edet.” I smiled at him, as he shook hands with Ahmad. Ahmad
waited for me to I remove my shoes, and we walked into the eclectic-
designed living room together. As Edet walked towards the kitchen, I
looked around the space decorated with multiple minimalist frames on the
white walls with two white couches flanked by green plants.
“Ahmaaaad,” a stunning lady about my height walked out of the
bedroom, wearing a short white romper. She had bright, expressive eyes,
full lips, a slightly broad nose and high-arched brows. Her long box braids
formed a big bun on the top of her head, and her caramel skin glowed.
“Joanne,” he said as he hugged her. “Hope you’re keeping my guy in
check?”
They laughed. Her laughter was contagious; I found myself smiling.
“He’s behaving, he’s behaving.” Across the room, Edet shook his head, and
she turned in my direction. “You must be Fa’iza. I’ve heard so much about
you!”
“Good things, I hope?” I extended my arm to shake her.
“I am a hugger,” she held my hand, then she pulled me into a hug. She
turned towards Edet and gasped, “You didn’t tell me she was a beaut!”
Then she turned back to me: “You’re gorgeous.”
“And so are you,” I said to her with a laugh, following her to the sofa in
the living room.
“We were just watching Nigerian Idol,” she said, gesturing to the TV.
“Oh really? How do you guys get Nigerian channels?” Since I left
Nigeria, I hadn’t kept up with my regular TV shows, and the ones on
YouTube had too many ads or were incomplete.
“He has a thing…” she turned towards the kitchen where Edet was
busy`````, “Sugar, what’s the name of your box thingy?”
“What box thing?” he asked.
“The TV channel box thing.”
“Oh, World net,” he answered. “Guys, let’s eat,” and we moved to the
dining area. The table had already been set for four and was decorated with
many dishes: jollof rice, fried plantain, mixed green salad, fried chicken and
then a jar of freshly made juice.
“Let me warn you in advance,” announced Edet with a laugh. “I made
the Jollof.”
“Noted. Okay, so avoid the rice.” Ahmad joked as I unfolded the napkin
and placed it on my lap.
“Fa’iza, don’t worry. We made sure the chicken was halal,” Joanne said.
“Oh, that’s so kind,” I looked from her to Edet, “That’s so thoughtful of
you guys, thank you.”
“You should thank Ahmad. He kept insisting,” Edet said. “How was
your summer?”
“Can’t believe it’s September already! It’s been incredible,” I replied.
“How long are you around for?” Ahmad asked Joanne.
“I leave on Thursday,” she said. “I have to get back to work.”
“Still at Barclays?” he asked, and she nodded.
“Tell her the opportunities in Canada are just as great,” Edet said. “She
won’t listen to me.”
Ahmad chuckled. “You guys have to talk about the pros and cons of her
moving here – like how it affects her career, her relationships…
everything.”
“This is why Ahmad is my favorite person! He’s very objective,”
Joanne turned towards me, then took a sip of her wine, “I’ve been trying to
get sugar to have the conversation, but he won’t listen.”
“Long-distance gets exhausting, no?” Ahmad looked up at them.
“Thank you,” Edet thundered as if that was the validation he’d been
waiting for. “Fa’iza, would you be in a long-distance relationship?”
They all looked at me expectantly, waiting for an answer. I appreciated
their trying to include me in the conversation but I would have preferred if
they had allowed me to finish the morsel of food in my mouth first before
putting me on the spot. I swallowed, looked at Ahmad, and then Edet.
“Well, I’ve never really thought about it, but it doesn’t seem like the ideal
situation,” I glanced at Joanne, “But I can understand if that’s the only
possible way.”
“Yeah, it’s hard,” Joanne nodded, “My sister’s husband is in the army
and she goes months without seeing him.”
“I could never,” said Ahmad shaking his head.
Edet laughed. “A bit of distance is good for every relationship. You
prioritize more and fight less.” A soft smile settled on his face as he looked
at Joanne.
“Don’t get me wrong. I understand that for others, it’s a way of life. For
me, I always want my woman by my side,” Ahmad took a sip of water.
“So, it’s a dealbreaker for you, then? Fair enough,” Joanne said.
“Everyone has something they know they can’t handle.”
“Exactly – as long as you’re honest with yourself, and your partner,”
Edet agreed.
“What’s your dealbreaker?” Joanne asked me.
“Cheating,” I said. I didn’t even have to think about it. Infidelity and
dishonesty seemed to be the worst things in relationships, or at least, that’s
what Hollywood wants you to believe.
“Mine too,” Joanne agreed. “Like, why cheat? Just break up instead of
breaking someone’s heart.”
After dinner, Joanne made us some tea, and the conversation was moved
to the couch. The sliding door to the balcony was open, and cool breeze
wafted in, creating a relaxed ambience heightened by the 90s RnB playing
on the soundbars.
“How long have you guys been together?” I asked them. They seemed
like they were in love, like best friends. Even their movements mirrored
each other.
“We went to Corona together,” said Joanne.
“Corona in Lagos? No way – you’ve been together since secondary
school?” I asked.
“No, we only started going out when we got to Oxford,” Edet answered.
“Ahmad pretty much made it happen,” Joanne said, laughing. “My guy
here was shy.”
“Did you go to Corona, too?” I asked Ahmad.
“Yes, I did my junior secondary there, and then we left for Australia,”
he replied. They had been friends forever. That explained the camaraderie
they shared.
“You schooled in Abuja, ko?” He asked me.
I nodded, “Doveland.” His hands lightly touched the back of my
shoulders as silence hovered over the room. I guess this is what makes a
relationship – learning tiny tidbits about someone over time until they
became an open book to you, like Joanne and Edet.
As we left their apartment, Joanne pulled me into another hug. “It was
so nice meeting you, Fa’iza. I understand why Ahmad is smitten.”
Smitten, I thought to myself, as I looked up at him and he pretended not
to hear her. I looked back at her: “Thanks for having us over. It was so fun.”
As we entered the empty elevator and pressed the button for the lobby,
Ahmad pulled me gently towards him, his hands on my waist. “Had a good
time?”
“They’re the best.”
* * *
September started with the golden glow of Autumn – with the falling leaves
and reddish hues of dried ones on the pavements. I was barely a month into
my second semester, but it was harder than the first. The coursework was
heavier, the classes were more demanding, and I still had not finalized
where I would be volunteering for my 3-credit elective. The deadline for us
to submit the contracts with our chosen organization was fast approaching,
and I hadn’t found one.
Fall fashion was easily my favorite – the multiple layers, ankle boots
and knitted sweaters. I was no longer a newbie in the 6ix; I knew my way
around most libraries, art galleries and shopping malls. Claire had returned
from Saskatchewan with a tan, a new hair color and two new minimalistic
tattoos - one on her ribcage and the other by her ankle. The day she
returned, we squealed so loudly we were sure some neighbors would come
to our door to ask us to keep it down and were grateful that no one did.
The next day, we went down to the residence’s cafeteria on the main
floor to eat breakfast and she went on and on about her trip – how she went
salmon fishing with friends from her hometown, hiking in Alberta and
attended stampede, the biggest outdoor rodeo in North America, she said.
“Enough about me,” she finally said as she pushed her bleached blonde
bangs out of her face. I glanced up at her blue eyes and thought about how
lovely the color was against her pale skin. “How was your summer? I
wanna hear everything,” she took a sip of her black coffee.
I told her everything – about the food and music festivals we attended,
my trip to Milan, my classes with Professor Blake, how lonely the dorm
was without her to share avocados with, the pottery class I tried and failed
at woefully. It was only when I was done that I realized Ahmad’s name had
kept coming up in most of the activities I spoke about because she had a
huge grin on her face when she asked: “Do you have a picture of him?”
“I should have a few,” I said, knowing for a fact that I did.
“Show me,” the grin on her face got even bigger.
I swiped through my phone, looking for a picture I didn’t mind sharing
with her. I scrolled past a picture he sent me of an English Breakfast meal
he’d made the previous week. He made a funny face as he took the selfie,
his kitchen messy behind him. Not this one, I thought to myself. I scrolled
past one I took of him at Nordstrom. He was trying on a black coat in front
of a mirror. I shook my head. I finally found another that I’d taken of him in
the car. It was in front of the residence on a particularly sunny day. He was
wearing a red jersey and sunglasses. I passed the phone to her and
continued eating my granola and oat bowl.
Her smile got wider as she looked at the picture. “I don’t usually say
this about men, but damnnnn,” she fluttered her lashes playfully, and I
laughed, my chest swelled with pride.
“He’s alright,” I said dryly.
“Oh honey, he’s more than just alright,” she swiped to another picture
and chuckled. “Aww, you guys are so cute, it’s actually disgusting,” she
teased as she passed the phone back to me. I looked at the picture she’d
swiped to. It was a picture of us from the previous week watching a movie
on his couch. I was wearing a green hoodie I’d gotten from his closet,
concentrating hard on the subtitles from the French movie when I saw from
the corner of my eye, that he had his phone up in the air. I playfully
scrunched up my face, and he stuck his tongue out as the flash went off. I
was surprised it turned out to be a good picture.
After Claire and I went back to the room, we spent the rest of the
morning on my bed talking about movies and shows. Later that afternoon,
after my study sessions with Sara and Ada, I walked outside to meet Ahmad
by the parking lot just beside the faculty building.
“Hola,” he said as I got into the car. He’d changed his Audi to a newer
version a few weeks prior. So far, the only differences I’d noticed were the
white leather interior and some dashboard upgrades. He turned down the
music as I got in, so that The Weeknd was now playing in the background.
“Hiya,” I closed the door. He was wearing a white buttoned-down shirt
and navy-blue pants. His company had recently gotten a new office
downtown and he spent most of his time there these days.
“You good?” He asked as he glanced my way, a smile gradually filling
his face.
“Do you have a bad angle?” I asked.
He suddenly put on his best Keith Urban impersonation. “Oh, I can be
bad, if you want,” he winked, then started driving out of the parking lot. It
was a bad Australian impression accent, but it sounded so hot.
“Stop it,” I lightly hit his arm, “you know that’s not what I meant.”
He glanced at me and feigned a lack of understanding as a frown settled
on his forehead. “No? It’s not?”
“Sorry to disappoint you, but no.”
“When you change your mind, though, I’m gonna make it worth your
while.”
“What are you even talking about?” I asked, still laughing because his
impression was horrible.
“What are you talking about?” He was still in character, even though he
was the worst actor ever.
“I was looking for a bad photo of you to show Claire, but there wasn’t a
single one in my gallery.”
“Oh, I’m sure you can get one when I’m asleep or something,” he
looked back at the road. “You know we aim to please.” The mischievous
grin was back on his face. I shook my head.
“I can’t deal with you right now,” I said, ending the conversation.
“What did I say?” He asked again.
“Nothing.”
“I got these for you,” he said as he picked up some pamphlets from his
console and handed them to me. I removed my glasses and looked through
them. They were volunteer opportunities at Inn from the cold and The drop-
in centre. “I know you were specifically looking for places you could help
women and kids, so I did some research for you.”
“It says here that Inn from the cold is exclusively for displaced women
with kids,” I read the words on the yellow pamphlet out loud. “This is
actually perfect!” I turned the page.
“Yeah?”
I looked up at him, and he smiled. My unresolved issue with
volunteerism had been giving me sleepless nights, and I was always telling
him about how much it bothered me that I hadn’t gotten a spot. “This is
really sweet of you,” I said, “Na gode. Thank you.”
“If you like that place, why don’t we just go finalize it?”
“We can? I’d love that!” I grinned.
“Of course. Anything for you,” and the mock accent was back. I
groaned and he laughed, amusing himself.
Thirty minutes later, we were at Inn from the cold, a grey-walled
building that still retained most of its Victorian feel from the outer
architecture. Inside, however, was just like the walls of a university – white
walls and clear window panes. I sat on a brown mahogany chair in an air-
conditioned office with pictures of smiling women and children on the
walls across from the director, who was going over the forms I’d filled out
at the reception earlier. She made a photocopy of my student ID card and
handed it back to me with a smile. She was an imposing woman with kind
eyes. Her movements were quick and fluid like she was someone used to
doing this regularly. “You can start as soon as you get a copy of your police
report,” she said, handing me a copy of her contact card. Her name was
Jasmeet Kaur.
“Thank you very much, Jasmeet,” I said as I stood up and left, making
my way to the reception, where Ahmad was waiting for me.
“How did it go?” he asked when he saw me.
“I can start as soon as I get my police report.” I said excitedly.
“Let’s go get you one, then.”
H
the year, was at 4:15 am. It was the last week of the summer holiday, and
students who had gone home for the holidays would be coming back to the
rez that week. Grades for all the classes I had taken during the break were
already posted, and – not to brag, but – I aced them all. Things were already
looking great for the fall semester. I just needed to find the perfect place to
volunteer for twelve weeks, a requirement for my three-credit elective on
green spaces.
I spent most of dawn rearranging my closet, taking out summer clothes
and throwing them in an old bag I was going to donate to The Salvation
Army, a non-profit organization that collected fairly-used clothes for people
in need. When I was done, I moved to the shoe rack, making space for the
new ankle boots I’d gotten from The Bay and throwing some sandals and
flip-flops into the bag. I had just removed the second pair of ankle boots
from the box when my phone rang and as I made my way to my desk to
unplug it from the charger, I almost tripped over my open laundry basket
and almost missed the call. “Hello,” I smiled as I answered the call.
“Hello, Fa’iza?” It was my mum. I could barely hear her as there was so
much noise in the background.
“Ina kwana, Umma. Good morning,” I said.
“You called earlier?” I had called her twice after talking to my dad
earlier, but couldn’t reach her.
“Yes, twice.”
“I didn’t hear my phone; it was in my bag. We’re at Farida’s wedding,”
she screamed into the phone, her phone rising among others.
“Oh okay. How’s it going?” I asked. Like Kaltume, Farida was another
family friend my age getting married.
“Ah, biki ya yi kyau. It’s going very well, alhamdulillah,” I could hear
the smile in her voice as she continued, “ai bakatsine ta aura. The groom’s
family is from Katsina.”
I nodded and wondered why the information was necessary to share.
“Allah ya ba su zaman lafiya,” I responded. It was the customary thing to
say when someone got married, a prayer for God to bless them with a
peaceful marriage. In my culture, it was customary to pray at every
celebration and adversity. At the birth of a baby, we said Allah ya raya; may
God raise him/her. When someone was about to embark on a journey, we
said Allah ya tsare, may God protect. When we heard bad news, we shook
our heads, pulled on our tasbeeh, and we said: Allah ya kiyaye, may God
protect. And when we heard good news, we celebrated and prayed: Allah ya
sanya alheri, may God bless it.
“Ameen Ameen,” she said, “Hold on.” I heard her speaking to someone
else and then: “Here’s Hajiya Uwani, say hello to her.” Before I could
object, I heard my mother’s friend’s sing-song voice in my ear:
“Hellooooooo.” I immediately pictured the robust and ever-jovial Aunty
Uwani with her beautiful henna-stained hands. I couldn’t quite remember
when they became friends but in recent years, she had become an active and
permanent part of our lives
“Ina kwana, Aunty Uwani,” my voice had dropped an octave almost
subconscious, as I greeted her. It was not my doing; my language demanded
it. I absentmindedly scratched my head as I stared at my reflection in the
mirror.
“Lafiya lau, Fa’iza. Everything’s well,” she responded with a laugh. “Ya
makaranta? How’s school?”
“Alhamdulillah. Ya su Aisha?” I asked after her oldest daughter, who
was married with a kid and had moved abroad with her husband just a few
months prior. I saw her regular updates on Instagram and knew exactly
what she was up to, but asking after people to keep the conversation going
was just another thing our culture demanded.
“Tana can UK. She’s in the UK,” she answered, then changed the
subject: “Allah ya nuna mana naki, mu sha biki. May God let us see your
wedding, oh how we’ll jubilate!”
“Ameen,” I said, the only acceptable answer.
“Amma ban da bature. But we don’t want a white man,” she cautioned
with a laugh as she handed the phone to my mother.
I was relieved to hear my mother’s voice on the other end of the line.
“I’ll call you when I get home,” she said without acknowledging Hajiya
Uwani’s comment. She didn’t have to; she trusted that her daughter knew
what to do. Growing up, no one gave us the husband criteria, but we
overheard and knew just what to do from conversations our mothers and
aunties were having at social gatherings, conversations not meant for our
ears. We would hear comments they made after weddings about the families
of the bride or groom – what they praised, what they spoke about in hushed
tones, what they deemed shameful. “Ai suna da mako. They are very
stingy,” they would say about men from a particular state in Nigeria, or “ai
ba su da hakuri; abu kadan saki. Those ones are not patient; they divorce
their wives anyhow.” Of course, these rules were not set in stone, and they
often changed depending on whether someone knew someone who had a
different experience with men from that state. An outlier with prominence
in the political scene was, however, always welcome. Growing up with
comments like that allowed us filter through what our mothers thought was
desirable and what wasn’t.
Thinking about it now, that was why my mother made the “bakatsine”
comment. Like us, he was from Katsina, and that was desirable. A good
choice, a preferred choice – never mind the cousin I had whose bakatsine
husband somehow managed to have a drinking problem. When she came
home to complain about his drinking and his abandonment of sallah, she
was met with “Allah ya kiyaye” and was advised to pray for him. The aunts
gave her verses from the Qur’an to recite for him in the middle of the night.
All but my mother. Umma told her to leave him. “If you were the one with
a drinking problem, no mother or aunt would advise him to stay with you,”
she argued vehemently. And although no one could deny the truth in her
words, the aunts bowed their heads in response and reminded her: “it’s
different for a woman.” I remember my mother sighing in defeat. Nowhere
in the Qur’an did it say that sins would be judged in accordance with one’s
gender. Yet, in our culture and tradition, many Muslim rules were only
applicable to women. Society turned a blind eye to the wrongdoings of men
– that’s why they get away with almost everything. Women, however, were
always expected to uphold standards to which men were never held
accountable. I thought back at my conversation with Ahmad about his
relationship with Ezgi, and I was not exactly surprised. If anything
surprised me, it was the fact that he didn’t hide that he was in a haram
relationship.
Later that afternoon, I sat at the dining table at the ambassador’s house,
enjoying the danwake (bean dumplings garnished with vegetables) the chef
had made. Aunty Mami had just gotten back from Nigeria, and had she sent
me some Abayas earlier in the week, so I came by to say thanks. Afreen
picked me up from the residence just after I finished my laundry that
morning and had been talking about her internship at the Mayor’s office
since. It was only at dinner time that she asked what was going on with me.
I opened my mouth to bore her with school and the conversation I’d had
with Sara about relationships in Islam. What came out, instead, was a story
about my first fight with her brother.
“What?! He made you cry?” she asked.
“No, no, no. He didn’t make me cry. I said I cried during the argument,”
I tried to explain.
“So, why did you cry?”
“We were talking about something – sorry, I can’t tell you what exactly
– and I was embarrassed – no, not embarrassed – but it just kinda got
awkward, and I cried a little. But he didn’t make me cry.”
“Well, he had better not,” she said, still looking at me oddly. I liked that
she didn’t press to know what the conversation was about.
“How about you – how’s Zafar?”
She had barely spoken about him in the weeks that we’d been chatting
and when I asked, she took a sip of water and sighed. “He’s fine, just
getting mad impatient.”
I nodded slowly, waiting for her to give me more context, the sound of
the vacuum going off in the next room making the silence less awkward.
“So, he says now is a good time for him to meet my parents again,” she
shook her head and avoided eye contact. “He feels things are a bit different
for him now, so it might be better than the last time.” I nodded, and she
continued: “I think we should buy ourselves more time. I need time to get
mum warmed up to the idea that the person I like is married.”
“How do you think she would take it?” I asked.
“I think she wouldn’t mind as much if he were a widower.” Most of the
issues people had with polygamy was that the man might not treat both
women equitably as he was expected to. There are many stories about men
having favorites among their wives, while the least favorites were left to
fend for themselves.
I pursed my lips. I knew exactly what she meant. Even though Aunty
Mami was actually the ambassador’s second wife, the first wife had passed
away years before they met. So, she would definitely prefer if Afreen were
with someone without so much baggage and responsibilities – a wife and a
child.
“Allah ya zaban mana mafi alkhairi. May God choose what’s best for
us,” I said.
“Ameen. Fa’iza am,” She perked up a little.
The weekend went by pretty quickly as we spent most of it in bed
watching Gossip Girl. But on Sunday, we were having lunch at the dining
table when Aunty Mami walked in dressed in a peach-colored lace sewn
into a long gown. Her hair was plaited back and uncovered. Her stud
earrings caught the light as she moved and the scent of La vie est belle filled
the air with her entrance. “The turaren wutan smells burnt,” she sniffed
around as she moved further into the room and opened the windows. “You
can’t smell it?” She was referring to the incense on the electric burner that
filled the room with the scent of sandalwood.
“Maybe it’s the coal,” I walked to her side and helped with the
windows. It didn’t smell bad, but the incense was beginning to burn.
“I might have gotten a bad batch.”
“It doesn’t smell bad to me,” Afreen said with a shrug, standing up and
taking the burner from her mom, and left the room to go empty it.
“Toh, Maybe it’s my nose,” Aunty Mami said with a laugh. Her jet-
black hair had a strand or two of grey that I noticed for the first time.
“Fa’iza, I’ll leave this here for the cleaners,” she dropped a white
envelope on the table. “Please tell them they don’t need to come next
week.”
I nodded as I moved the envelope closer to me. Just then, the door
opened, and we both looked up to see Ahmad walking in a navy-blue slim
fit shirt and charcoal chinos. We’d been chatting all weekend and had
agreed he would take me back to the residence when I was ready. But I
didn’t realize he would be arriving this early.
“Ahmad, do you smell turaren wuta? Does it smell burnt?” she asked,
unrelenting in her quest to see if she’d gotten a bad batch.
He smiled as he moved towards her. “It smells great,” he kissed her on
the cheek and added, “You smell great.”
“Maybe it’s just my nose then,” she said to herself as she walked out.
He took the chair opposite me, removed his sunglasses and kept them
on the table. He ignored the food warmers and plates on the table and kept
his eyes on me. “What are you eating?”
“Rice,” I answered, “Za ka ci? Are you eating?”
“We’re going to see Edet, remember?” He shook his head with a smile
on his face.
“I thought that was tomorrow.” Edet’s longtime girlfriend was visiting
from the UK and they had invited us for an early dinner at their place.
“Babeeeee,” he raised his eyebrows. “I reminded you on Friday.”
“So, do we have to leave now?”
“No, we’ve got time. We can leave after Asr.”
* * *
Edet lived in one of the high-rise buildings downtown and in two hours, we
were standing outside. He buzzed us into the expansive lobby with a
fireplace burning, and we made our way into the elevators.
“How many people are going to be there?” I asked Ahmad.
“Why? Are you nervous? My friends don’t bite.” A smile slowly
formed on his face, as he fixed the ends of my scarf over my shoulder. His
hands lingered on my arm. “You look great.” He always complimented me,
even when I was wearing the simplest of things, like today – a red buttoned-
down shirt over white jeans.
“Thanks. You too,” I smiled.
The elevator door opened to a carpeted floor and Ahmad led us to
Edet’s apartment. The door was opened as soon as he knocked and Edet
stood at the door in brown khaki trousers and a black shirt. He had a kitchen
towel over his left shoulder.
“Fa’iza,” he looked at me. “Good to see you again.”
“Hi, Edet.” I smiled at him, as he shook hands with Ahmad. Ahmad
waited for me to I remove my shoes, and we walked into the eclectic-
designed living room together. As Edet walked towards the kitchen, I
looked around the space decorated with multiple minimalist frames on the
white walls with two white couches flanked by green plants.
“Ahmaaaad,” a stunning lady about my height walked out of the
bedroom, wearing a short white romper. She had bright, expressive eyes,
full lips, a slightly broad nose and high-arched brows. Her long box braids
formed a big bun on the top of her head, and her caramel skin glowed.
“Joanne,” he said as he hugged her. “Hope you’re keeping my guy in
check?”
They laughed. Her laughter was contagious; I found myself smiling.
“He’s behaving, he’s behaving.” Across the room, Edet shook his head, and
she turned in my direction. “You must be Fa’iza. I’ve heard so much about
you!”
“Good things, I hope?” I extended my arm to shake her.
“I am a hugger,” she held my hand, then she pulled me into a hug. She
turned towards Edet and gasped, “You didn’t tell me she was a beaut!”
Then she turned back to me: “You’re gorgeous.”
“And so are you,” I said to her with a laugh, following her to the sofa in
the living room.
“We were just watching Nigerian Idol,” she said, gesturing to the TV.
“Oh really? How do you guys get Nigerian channels?” Since I left
Nigeria, I hadn’t kept up with my regular TV shows, and the ones on
YouTube had too many ads or were incomplete.
“He has a thing…” she turned towards the kitchen where Edet was
busy`````, “Sugar, what’s the name of your box thingy?”
“What box thing?” he asked.
“The TV channel box thing.”
“Oh, World net,” he answered. “Guys, let’s eat,” and we moved to the
dining area. The table had already been set for four and was decorated with
many dishes: jollof rice, fried plantain, mixed green salad, fried chicken and
then a jar of freshly made juice.
“Let me warn you in advance,” announced Edet with a laugh. “I made
the Jollof.”
“Noted. Okay, so avoid the rice.” Ahmad joked as I unfolded the napkin
and placed it on my lap.
“Fa’iza, don’t worry. We made sure the chicken was halal,” Joanne said.
“Oh, that’s so kind,” I looked from her to Edet, “That’s so thoughtful of
you guys, thank you.”
“You should thank Ahmad. He kept insisting,” Edet said. “How was
your summer?”
“Can’t believe it’s September already! It’s been incredible,” I replied.
“How long are you around for?” Ahmad asked Joanne.
“I leave on Thursday,” she said. “I have to get back to work.”
“Still at Barclays?” he asked, and she nodded.
“Tell her the opportunities in Canada are just as great,” Edet said. “She
won’t listen to me.”
Ahmad chuckled. “You guys have to talk about the pros and cons of her
moving here – like how it affects her career, her relationships…
everything.”
“This is why Ahmad is my favorite person! He’s very objective,”
Joanne turned towards me, then took a sip of her wine, “I’ve been trying to
get sugar to have the conversation, but he won’t listen.”
“Long-distance gets exhausting, no?” Ahmad looked up at them.
“Thank you,” Edet thundered as if that was the validation he’d been
waiting for. “Fa’iza, would you be in a long-distance relationship?”
They all looked at me expectantly, waiting for an answer. I appreciated
their trying to include me in the conversation but I would have preferred if
they had allowed me to finish the morsel of food in my mouth first before
putting me on the spot. I swallowed, looked at Ahmad, and then Edet.
“Well, I’ve never really thought about it, but it doesn’t seem like the ideal
situation,” I glanced at Joanne, “But I can understand if that’s the only
possible way.”
“Yeah, it’s hard,” Joanne nodded, “My sister’s husband is in the army
and she goes months without seeing him.”
“I could never,” said Ahmad shaking his head.
Edet laughed. “A bit of distance is good for every relationship. You
prioritize more and fight less.” A soft smile settled on his face as he looked
at Joanne.
“Don’t get me wrong. I understand that for others, it’s a way of life. For
me, I always want my woman by my side,” Ahmad took a sip of water.
“So, it’s a dealbreaker for you, then? Fair enough,” Joanne said.
“Everyone has something they know they can’t handle.”
“Exactly – as long as you’re honest with yourself, and your partner,”
Edet agreed.
“What’s your dealbreaker?” Joanne asked me.
“Cheating,” I said. I didn’t even have to think about it. Infidelity and
dishonesty seemed to be the worst things in relationships, or at least, that’s
what Hollywood wants you to believe.
“Mine too,” Joanne agreed. “Like, why cheat? Just break up instead of
breaking someone’s heart.”
After dinner, Joanne made us some tea, and the conversation was moved
to the couch. The sliding door to the balcony was open, and cool breeze
wafted in, creating a relaxed ambience heightened by the 90s RnB playing
on the soundbars.
“How long have you guys been together?” I asked them. They seemed
like they were in love, like best friends. Even their movements mirrored
each other.
“We went to Corona together,” said Joanne.
“Corona in Lagos? No way – you’ve been together since secondary
school?” I asked.
“No, we only started going out when we got to Oxford,” Edet answered.
“Ahmad pretty much made it happen,” Joanne said, laughing. “My guy
here was shy.”
“Did you go to Corona, too?” I asked Ahmad.
“Yes, I did my junior secondary there, and then we left for Australia,”
he replied. They had been friends forever. That explained the camaraderie
they shared.
“You schooled in Abuja, ko?” He asked me.
I nodded, “Doveland.” His hands lightly touched the back of my
shoulders as silence hovered over the room. I guess this is what makes a
relationship – learning tiny tidbits about someone over time until they
became an open book to you, like Joanne and Edet.
As we left their apartment, Joanne pulled me into another hug. “It was
so nice meeting you, Fa’iza. I understand why Ahmad is smitten.”
Smitten, I thought to myself, as I looked up at him and he pretended not
to hear her. I looked back at her: “Thanks for having us over. It was so fun.”
As we entered the empty elevator and pressed the button for the lobby,
Ahmad pulled me gently towards him, his hands on my waist. “Had a good
time?”
“They’re the best.”
* * *
September started with the golden glow of Autumn – with the falling leaves
and reddish hues of dried ones on the pavements. I was barely a month into
my second semester, but it was harder than the first. The coursework was
heavier, the classes were more demanding, and I still had not finalized
where I would be volunteering for my 3-credit elective. The deadline for us
to submit the contracts with our chosen organization was fast approaching,
and I hadn’t found one.
Fall fashion was easily my favorite – the multiple layers, ankle boots
and knitted sweaters. I was no longer a newbie in the 6ix; I knew my way
around most libraries, art galleries and shopping malls. Claire had returned
from Saskatchewan with a tan, a new hair color and two new minimalistic
tattoos - one on her ribcage and the other by her ankle. The day she
returned, we squealed so loudly we were sure some neighbors would come
to our door to ask us to keep it down and were grateful that no one did.
The next day, we went down to the residence’s cafeteria on the main
floor to eat breakfast and she went on and on about her trip – how she went
salmon fishing with friends from her hometown, hiking in Alberta and
attended stampede, the biggest outdoor rodeo in North America, she said.
“Enough about me,” she finally said as she pushed her bleached blonde
bangs out of her face. I glanced up at her blue eyes and thought about how
lovely the color was against her pale skin. “How was your summer? I
wanna hear everything,” she took a sip of her black coffee.
I told her everything – about the food and music festivals we attended,
my trip to Milan, my classes with Professor Blake, how lonely the dorm
was without her to share avocados with, the pottery class I tried and failed
at woefully. It was only when I was done that I realized Ahmad’s name had
kept coming up in most of the activities I spoke about because she had a
huge grin on her face when she asked: “Do you have a picture of him?”
“I should have a few,” I said, knowing for a fact that I did.
“Show me,” the grin on her face got even bigger.
I swiped through my phone, looking for a picture I didn’t mind sharing
with her. I scrolled past a picture he sent me of an English Breakfast meal
he’d made the previous week. He made a funny face as he took the selfie,
his kitchen messy behind him. Not this one, I thought to myself. I scrolled
past one I took of him at Nordstrom. He was trying on a black coat in front
of a mirror. I shook my head. I finally found another that I’d taken of him in
the car. It was in front of the residence on a particularly sunny day. He was
wearing a red jersey and sunglasses. I passed the phone to her and
continued eating my granola and oat bowl.
Her smile got wider as she looked at the picture. “I don’t usually say
this about men, but damnnnn,” she fluttered her lashes playfully, and I
laughed, my chest swelled with pride.
“He’s alright,” I said dryly.
“Oh honey, he’s more than just alright,” she swiped to another picture
and chuckled. “Aww, you guys are so cute, it’s actually disgusting,” she
teased as she passed the phone back to me. I looked at the picture she’d
swiped to. It was a picture of us from the previous week watching a movie
on his couch. I was wearing a green hoodie I’d gotten from his closet,
concentrating hard on the subtitles from the French movie when I saw from
the corner of my eye, that he had his phone up in the air. I playfully
scrunched up my face, and he stuck his tongue out as the flash went off. I
was surprised it turned out to be a good picture.
After Claire and I went back to the room, we spent the rest of the
morning on my bed talking about movies and shows. Later that afternoon,
after my study sessions with Sara and Ada, I walked outside to meet Ahmad
by the parking lot just beside the faculty building.
“Hola,” he said as I got into the car. He’d changed his Audi to a newer
version a few weeks prior. So far, the only differences I’d noticed were the
white leather interior and some dashboard upgrades. He turned down the
music as I got in, so that The Weeknd was now playing in the background.
“Hiya,” I closed the door. He was wearing a white buttoned-down shirt
and navy-blue pants. His company had recently gotten a new office
downtown and he spent most of his time there these days.
“You good?” He asked as he glanced my way, a smile gradually filling
his face.
“Do you have a bad angle?” I asked.
He suddenly put on his best Keith Urban impersonation. “Oh, I can be
bad, if you want,” he winked, then started driving out of the parking lot. It
was a bad Australian impression accent, but it sounded so hot.
“Stop it,” I lightly hit his arm, “you know that’s not what I meant.”
He glanced at me and feigned a lack of understanding as a frown settled
on his forehead. “No? It’s not?”
“Sorry to disappoint you, but no.”
“When you change your mind, though, I’m gonna make it worth your
while.”
“What are you even talking about?” I asked, still laughing because his
impression was horrible.
“What are you talking about?” He was still in character, even though he
was the worst actor ever.
“I was looking for a bad photo of you to show Claire, but there wasn’t a
single one in my gallery.”
“Oh, I’m sure you can get one when I’m asleep or something,” he
looked back at the road. “You know we aim to please.” The mischievous
grin was back on his face. I shook my head.
“I can’t deal with you right now,” I said, ending the conversation.
“What did I say?” He asked again.
“Nothing.”
“I got these for you,” he said as he picked up some pamphlets from his
console and handed them to me. I removed my glasses and looked through
them. They were volunteer opportunities at Inn from the cold and The drop-
in centre. “I know you were specifically looking for places you could help
women and kids, so I did some research for you.”
“It says here that Inn from the cold is exclusively for displaced women
with kids,” I read the words on the yellow pamphlet out loud. “This is
actually perfect!” I turned the page.
“Yeah?”
I looked up at him, and he smiled. My unresolved issue with
volunteerism had been giving me sleepless nights, and I was always telling
him about how much it bothered me that I hadn’t gotten a spot. “This is
really sweet of you,” I said, “Na gode. Thank you.”
“If you like that place, why don’t we just go finalize it?”
“We can? I’d love that!” I grinned.
“Of course. Anything for you,” and the mock accent was back. I
groaned and he laughed, amusing himself.
Thirty minutes later, we were at Inn from the cold, a grey-walled
building that still retained most of its Victorian feel from the outer
architecture. Inside, however, was just like the walls of a university – white
walls and clear window panes. I sat on a brown mahogany chair in an air-
conditioned office with pictures of smiling women and children on the
walls across from the director, who was going over the forms I’d filled out
at the reception earlier. She made a photocopy of my student ID card and
handed it back to me with a smile. She was an imposing woman with kind
eyes. Her movements were quick and fluid like she was someone used to
doing this regularly. “You can start as soon as you get a copy of your police
report,” she said, handing me a copy of her contact card. Her name was
Jasmeet Kaur.
“Thank you very much, Jasmeet,” I said as I stood up and left, making
my way to the reception, where Ahmad was waiting for me.
“How did it go?” he asked when he saw me.
“I can start as soon as I get my police report.” I said excitedly.
“Let’s go get you one, then.”
H