Chapter 17
Broken Not a halal love story Complete · about 35 min read
glanced at the green and yellow LED “Arrivals” display screen at
Heathrow Airport. Airports always felt the same – with airport security
that tried to blend in with travelers and the ones that were visible in
uniform, the cool air in the terminals, the blur of colours as people wheeled
their luggage away, always in a hurry not to miss their various flights even
the announcements about boarding flights in the background always felt the
same.
I pulled out my phone to read the message I’d gotten from my brother,
Abubakar, earlier in the day: BA 112. I had been tracking his flight since
mine landed a few hour hours prior. I looked up at the screen and almost
immediately located the flight, which was expected in 3 minutes. I paced
around the terminal again, reminding myself that it would not make time go
by faster. I was so excited to see him; I hadn’t seen him in a long time. My
phone vibrated, and I smiled at our inside joke as I picked up the call.
“Bae,” the voice at the other end said. Bae had replaced hello for us
when we picked each other’s calls. “Has his flight arrived?”
“Yes, bae?” I answered. “No, there was a slight delay, or something. I’m
already at the gate, so I’ll just wait until he comes through.” I had double-
checked multiple times to ensure that I had the correct gate numbers. More
people had begun to walk past me; it looked like the passengers from the
flight had gotten off the flight.
“How many more hours till you start boarding for Abuja?” Ahmad
asked.
“Two more hours,” I answered. “Oh, I see him!” I shouted excitedly as I
noticed Abubakar coming through the double doors, wheeling his brown
hand luggage.
“Alright then, I’ll call you before you guys take off,” Ahmad said,
excusing himself over the phone.
“Okay, talk soon,” I ended the call. I started making my way towards
Abubakar, giggling as I watched him scan the terminal, no doubt looking
for me. I laughed as I realized he was wearing the beige Thomas Pink wool
sweater I’d gotten him on his birthday. Abubakar was sentimental like that,
and I loved him for it. We were barely five feet apart, and he was looking
past me and had still not noticed me. I realized he wasn’t wearing his
glasses and might probably not see me if I didn’t reveal myself to him.
“Where are your glasses?” I called out to him.
His head whirled in the direction of my voice, and his eyes lit up.
“Fa’iza!” he reached out for me, holding me at arm’s length to look at me
properly before we embraced. He smelled like home, like his room back in
Abuja – Tom Ford’s Tobacco Vanille.
“Have you lost weight?” he asked as he looked at me with so much
fondness, the slight affection before the teasing took over. “It better be the
studying.” It was always a battle of wits with Abubakar, and they were
sometimes brutal. I had to learn to keep up at an early age.
“Where are your glasses?” I repeated. I had never seen him without
them. He looked different, his beard had also grown out since I saw him,
but I knew that from his various WhatsApp display pictures over the
months.
“I got LASIK over the summer,” he answered as he fished out the phone
from his pocket. I rolled my eyes; he was still the only member of our
family who was anti-Apple products and a huge advocate for Android
phones, specifically Samsungs.
“Eye surgery? It clearly didn’t work because you couldn’t see me,” I
teased, laughing.
“You still think you’re funny?” he laughed as he put his phone to his
ear. “I’m calling Abba to let him know I found you.” Whenever we were
traveling, we called home frequently to update them. In the unlikely event
that we missed a connection, our dad’s secretary was always quick to book
us an alternate flight.
“Or I found you?” I wasn’t going to stop teasing him. It was almost like
that was how we expressed love among ourselves. I was closer to Abubakar
than Ya Amin, who was far removed in age and character from me.
Abubakar was just three years older than me, and we got along more. Well,
sometimes.
“Assalamu alaikum,” his voice took on a somber tone. “Abba ina wuni.
Good evening.” We stopped walking to give Abba’s phone call the attention
it warranted. It wasn’t planned; it was a reverence that couldn’t be
explained. “Alhamdulillah,” I heard him say, then “Insha Allah.” Silence.
“Amin, Abba,” More silence. “Insha Allah.” He looked at me and added:
“We’re together, we’ll be boarding for Abuja soon, Insha Allah.”
My phone started ringing, and I picked up immediately: “Hello,
Umma.”
“Fa’iza, has he arrived yet?”
“They just landed. We’re together right now.”
“Okay, that’s good.” Her relief was evident from her sigh. “Have you
called Abba?”
“Abubakar is on the phone with him. When he’s done, I’ll talk to him.”
As I said goodbye, I heard her telling someone in the background, “They’re
already at Heathrow,” before the call ended. It was probably an aunt or the
cook. Days like this were usually busy in our household. With both of us
returning after being away in North America for so long, the drivers were
on standby for when they would be required to head to the airport, and the
cooks stayed back longer than usual just in case there was a delay and plans
had to be changed.
We prayed and bought a few books before our flight to Abuja. Then we
talked about school and my courses as we bonded over Chai lattes and
lemon poppy seed slices at Starbucks. My mind immediately went to
Ahmad and our Tim Horton’s drinks as I realized I hadn’t had Starbucks in
a while. When we were boarding, I sent him a message to inform him:
Boarding now.
His call came in almost immediately. I glanced at my brother, who was
busy on his phone. I answered as I watched Abubakar switch his American
passport for his Nigerian one as we boarded.
“Bae?” It was very early morning in Toronto and he’d been up all night,
tracking my flights and talking to me in-between connections.
“Hi.” It was hard to talk to him with a straight face; just hearing his
voice in my ear made me smile.
“Last leg?”
“Yup.”
I heard him chuckle over the phone, and I was sure it was because of
my monosyllabic answers. “I’m sure you are excited.”
“Very,” I said as I located my seat and sat down while Abubakar was
putting our hand luggage in the overhead compartment.
“I’ll see you in a few weeks,” he said, and the flutter in my chest
returned. They were coming for a visit before the New Year. It was just
supposed to be his dad, Aunty Mami, and Afreen, but Ahmad decided that
he had a few things to do in Abuja, so he booked a ticket to come with
them. “We’ll talk when you land.”
“Alright, insha Allah.”
“Have a safe flight,” he said.
“Thank you,” I ended the call and put the phone on airplane mode. I
could feel Abubakar looking at me suspiciously as he took his seat next to
me, probably wondering who I was talking to that I could barely pronounce
my words out loud. I looked away from him, afraid he might be able to read
the expression on my face.
* * *
It was safe to say I had finally gotten over my jet lag. I’d been back a few
weeks now and in that time, I had visited to Kaduna; attended an Islamic
lecture organized by some Muslim sisters I found on Instagram; went on a
movie and ice cream date with my cousin, Aisha Batagarawa, who was
getting married in a few months; attended two weddings and was also
getting over a horrible bout of malaria. To recap, I had been quite busy in
Nigeria.
In front of me, in the living room where I had spent the better part of the
day, the television was playing soundlessly. It was a Netflix movie starring
Genevieve Nnaji, my favorite Nigerian actress. In the movie, she was trying
to save her father’s company from a merger, and she traveled to Kano, the
city where I was born. I had watched the movie a few times, so I was not
paying much attention to it this time. I was lying down on the sofa, almost
done reading a book from Ahmad’s library, Voices of Liberation by Steve
Biko, which I started three days ago. In the distance, the sound of the
generator was like a soundboard for every other thing going on in the
compound. I was reading with the white noise in the background when the
voices of Ya Amin and Abubakar came over the loudspeakers from the
masjid at the entrance of the house as they led men in prayer: Allahu Akbar.
Allahu Akbar. Sami’a Allahu liman hamidah. Rabbana wa laka al-hamd.
Even though I was not praying, I was absentmindedly echoing their
words in my mind. In Canada, no mosque used a loudspeaker that could be
heard out on the street; the call to prayer was a pop-up notification from a
phone app. I had missed this.
The door slowly opened as soon as the evening prayer ended with
“Assalamu alaikum warah’matullah. Assalamu alaikum warah’matullah”. I
looked up to see the maid pushing in the trolley with food warmers. She
muttered salam under her breath and set the table for three with chilled
bottles of water in the middle.
“Hmm,” she started. I chuckled silently to myself because she didn’t
know how to address me since I stopped her from calling me ‘Aunty
Fa’iza’. I was nobody’s aunt. Besides, she was about my age, maybe even
older. Still, she never called me by my name. Now, whenever she had
something to tell me, it started with an unsure, ‘hmm.’ “Hmm,” she said
again, “Hajiya na kiran ki. Hajiya’s calling you.” She was one of the only
people who referred to Umma as Hajiya and Abba as Alhaji.
“Tana daki?” I asked if she was in her room. A rhetorical question, by
all means. It was Maghrib; of course, my mother would be in her room.
After the evening prayer, she would join Abba in the dining room in his
section, and they would eat dinner together and then watch the news. It had
been their routine for as long as I could remember. When he wasn’t in town,
she would eat alone in her section, and I would sometimes keep her
company.
“Yes,” she answered.
I got up from the position I’d been laying in for the past hour, wincing
at the slight period cramp and went to the antique solid wood dining table
and the aroma of dinner wafted towards me.
“Atine, what did the cook make?” I asked, even though I was already
opening one of the food warmers.
She looked up from the fridge she was restocking with juice and more
water, “Fried rice.” The biggest warmer had fried rice, the carrots, peas and
diced liver adding color to it. Left to me, there would be a strict rule against
liver in fried rice but since all my attempts at enforcing that rule in my
father’s house had failed, I couldn’t wait to enforce it in my own marital
home.
“No plantain?” I asked, looking over the coleslaw.
“There’s pepper soup.”
I opened the next food warmer with chicken pepper soup. That’ll be my
dinner, I thought.
I wore my Aldo slippers at the door and went out of the children’s living
room, past the archway that connected all three sections of the main house
and walked into Umma’s section. The scent of turaren wuta burning had
changed to bakhoor. The incense from bakhoor was richer and more
fragrant than regular turaren wuta. I followed the light at the end of the
hallway as I moved through her recently redecorated living room and
pushed the door to her room open. “Assalamu alaikum,” I called out. She
was on her maroon praying mat in a light green hijab, her tasbeeh forming
two uniform circles in front of her, untouched. She had both hands in front
of her face as she supplicated.
Outside her window, I could see the cooks cleaning up the kitchen in the
inner section of the house as they prepped for tomorrow morning’s
breakfast. Masa, if I could guess correctly from the number of covered
containers I guessed were fermenting the rice batter. As I waited for her to
acknowledge my presence, I busied myself by loosening the ties from her
tasseled bedroom drapes, letting the pleats fall and block out the moonlight.
I turned around to look at her just as she rubbed her hands together and
rubbed her face and tapped her chest – a prayer ritual.
“Allah shi karba,” I offered. May your prayers be answered.
“Ameeeeeen,” she dragged out the word as she stretched her legs in
front of her. “Mami called me today, and we spoke for a long time.”
I tried to keep my demeanor as neutral as possible even though since
Ahmad and I discussed it last week, I had gone through varying emotions:
excitement, panic, more excitement, uncertainty and back to excitement.
She continued, her voice soft and calm as if we were not about to
discuss something as hefty as my future. “They’re coming over tomorrow,”
she paused, “all of them – including Ahmad.” She paused a little after
saying Ahmad as if she was trying to read my facial expression.
I nodded. It wasn’t news to me. Ahmad had told me that once his
mother told his dad about our relationship, his elated father decided it was
about time for both families to be bonded by something stronger than
decades of friendship. It was time to finally become family, something they
had joked about over the years.
“Apparently, there’s an important discussion bringing them from
Canada,” she continued. I’m the matter they would discuss, I thought to
myself. Our language and culture had an interesting way of putting things
across – very subtly, like in everything we did. Umma’s word choices in
this conversation were very few, while meaning a lot. I listened very
closely. “When they leave tomorrow, Abba would want to talk to you; ya ji
daga bakin ki ko kina da masaniya akan maganan da ta kawo su; to hear
from your own mouth what you think about the important matter they came
to discuss.”
My consent. Our religion insisted on my consent in matters like this. I
nodded again.
She switched to English with uncalculated ease, “so you better have
your answer ready. You know your father won’t decide until he hears what
you have to say.”
“Toh, Umma. Okay,” I said finally. There has always been this chasm of
formality between my mother and I. Sometimes, I wondered if this
unbreachable distance between us was due to the complications she’d
experienced at my birth. I knew she loved me but there was a certain
aloofness I felt that seemed absent in her relationship with my brothers. I
used to think it was in my head, but Hajiya Uwani had noticed it too. I
could still remember her high-pitched voice from a few years ago: “Ko dan
ba ita ta shayar da ke ba? Is it because she did not breastfeed you?” and she
laughed it off as a joke. It seemed like a ridiculous conclusion then because
until she mentioned it, I had no idea I was not breastfed by my mother.
“Kawu Ibrahim is going to be here too,” she said, “Allah ya zabi mafi
alheri. May God choose the best outcome.” Kawu Ibrahim was my uncle.
“Oh, they are back from Zaria already?” I asked to keep the
conversation going.
By the time I returned to the living room in our section, my brothers
were in a loud argument about football with two of my cousins. The empty
plates of food on the dining table and the carpet by the sofa indicated how
much energy they still had to burn. I grabbed a ladle and filled a bowl with
some peppersoup. Just then, my phone started ringing, and I headed off to
my room with my bowl in one hand to answer. Evening calls had become
routine since I got back home. After isha, our nighttime calls lasted for
hours before we said goodnight and went to bed. We hadn’t seen each other
since he took me to the airport and it had been weeks.
The next day, with less than an hour to their visiting time, I found
myself checking my reflection in the mirror for the umpteenth time. None
of my features had changed since I checked two minutes earlier. Yet, I
checked again. Like what exactly was this visit? What would it signify?
Ahmad said I was overthinking everything. In his words, everything would
happen organically. Organically? I’d scoffed. With my parents, everything
was Qadr. Predestined. The pink and light blue atamfa with three-quarter
sleeves and a slim-fitted half-pleat skirt looked good on me. I had gone to
the salon over the weekend; my hair was in a bun covered with a light blue
veil. The only pieces of jewellery I wore apart from my earrings were the
wristwatch Aunty Mami gave me and the Milan bracelet. Reading a book
right now was impossible. The book I had started the previous night laid
unattended on my bed. The television could not keep my attention long
enough either. I made my way across the hallway to Abubakar’s room and
as soon as I closed the door behind me, he came out of his closet, fastening
silver cuff links to his blue kaftan – a deviation from yesterday’s jeans and a
T-shirt, and it wasn’t even Friday.
“Come onnnnnn,” I started begging almost immediately. This
conversation had been ongoing in bits and pieces since morning.
“Not happening,” he shook his head. He was stubborn but I knew that if
I navigated this carefully, he would come around. He took the remote from
the console and scrolled through the television guide.
“I would do the same for you,” I insisted.
“I would never need you to eavesdrop for me,” he dropped the remote
and walked towards the door.
“You don’t know that, though,” I stepped in front of him, blocking his
way. I only needed a few seconds to make my case. “And it’s not even
eavesdropping. All you have to do is pick up my call and return your phone
to your pocket. I’ll do the rest.” I could tell he was already cracking by the
slight smile that was forming on his lips.
“Is this how you intend to practice law, by getting illegally sourced
evidence?”
“Evidence is evidence. And if it’s not being presented in court as an
exhibit, there are no rules,” I opened the door, and he walked through.
“Besides, how good is a Samsung’s microphone, really?” My tactic had
now left coercion, bordering closely on reverse psychology.
“None of your business, Dean’s list,” his lips pulled into a smile as he
referred to my honor roll status from University and I rolled my eyes.
We were in the living room now, the long drapes that hung over the
windows had been pulled apart to allow sunlight in, giving us a clear view
of the compound and just then, we saw two black Range Rovers pulling up
into the compound. They were here. The cars pulled up slowly as they
drove past the window we were looking through and parked by the house’s
main entrance, the one that led into Abba’s living room. He normally
entertained his guests and government officials who came for
undocumented visits in that part of the house. A mobile police stepped out
and opened the door and Ahmad and his dad came down. Ahmad was
wearing a black kaftan and matching trousers, with a cap placed on his
head. I held my breath as I looked. In the next car, Aunty Mami came out,
and Afreen followed. I burst into a smile. They all looked regal, not that I
expected any less. It was amazing how they fit right in; one wouldn’t have
guessed that most of their lives were spent outside Nigeria.
“Is that Afreen?” Abubakar asked. He had never met either of them.
I nodded as they all disappeared into the other side of the house as my
parents welcomed them. The door to the living room opened, and we both
turned around. It was Ya Amin in a white kaftan. He raised his eyebrows as
he saw us by the window. He nodded to Abubakar and they walked towards
Abba’s section together.
“Do we have a deal?” I called out after him as a last resort, without
giving away too much information, so that our other brother can remain
clueless.
“Not a chance,” he answered without looking back at me.
I didn’t know if he was serious or not but I decided to try my luck
anyway. When I could no longer see the back of their heads, I groaned and
went back to my room, looked at my reflection again, then changed my veil
into a pink one and made my way to Umma’s living room. I wished my
cousin Aisha were there to keep me company because the anxiety was
nerve-wracking, but she was at a dress fitting with Style-Temple, and it
would take hours before she arrived.
As I approached Umma’s section, I could hear the quiet chatter between
Aunty Mami and my mom. I parted the curtains and they both looked up.
My worries disappeared immediately. After exchanging pleasantries and
asking about their journey, Afreen and I left them to continue their
discussions. From what I overheard, they were talking about other things,
nothing to do with me.
“I love your room,” Afreen stressed the word love as we entered my
little haven. “Aww, that is soo cute,” she gushed at a framed picture of her
and me that we’d taken at six flags over the summer.
“Thank you.”
“Are you anxious?” she asked, leaning back into the pillows and getting
comfortable on my bed.
“I just don’t know exactly what’s going on, and I wish I did,” I
answered honestly. I knew that they would be with Abba until it was time to
pray, then they would head out to the masjid and have lunch and when they
got back. But everything would have been done by then. Whatever was
happening at that moment was what was important.
“If only we could be flies on the wall,” she played with a decorative
pillow and then looked up to see my expression had changed. “What?”
“What if – hypothetically – we could hear what they were saying?”
Her eyes were suddenly filled with excitement as she considered the
possibility and opportunity that eavesdropping could offer us. “Let’s do it!”
she said with a clap.
I took my phone from the dresser and joined her on the bed and she
excitedly leaned closer as I dialed Abubakar’s number. Afreen was quiet,
and I whispered a prayer while listening as the line rang on the other end.
We held our breaths.
Finally, the call was answered. We heard some shuffle and a slight thud
as it got placed upside down on some hard surface. There was some static,
and then my uncle’s voice: " – ita Fai’zan kenan, ko? We’re talking about
Fa’iza, right?”
It worked! Afreen and I silently high-fived ourselves as we leaned
closer to the phone that was on speaker, listening to the men’s conversation.
“Being in school doesn’t stop marriage – " my uncle again. “When the
time is right –” a break in transmission, then the Ambassador completed: “It
becomes a duty.”
When my father spoke, his voice was the hardest to hear because he was
always soft-spoken. We had to strain to hear him. I could only pick out a
few words, “second year” and “after umrah.” Then a round chorus of Insha
Allah. We could barely make out the entirety of the exchange and it felt like
forever before the call to prayer went off from the masjid, and the men
dispersed to go and pray. I ended the call went back to the living room
window to catch a glimpse of Ahmad, while Afreen went to perform
ablution. He was walking to the masjid with Ya Amin, deep in conversation.
I knew they were childhood friends who grew apart as the Ambassador’s
family moved from place to place on assignment, but they seem to have a
lot to talk about now.
Afreen and I were eating lunch at the dining table when the door
opened, and all three of them – Ya Amin, Abubakar, and Ahmad – walked
in. Afreen exchanged pleasantries with my brothers and they spoke about
the weather in Canada. My eyes met Ahmad’s, who was deep in
conversation with my brother and only acknowledged my presence with a
slight nod.
They sat down in the living area and even though the television was
playing loudly, no one gave any attention to it. I busied myself with my
food, even though it had become tasteless to me now. My senses were now
clouded by him – I stole glances at him, listened as he enthralled my
brothers with European and Nigerian taxation rules for start-up businesses,
and inhaled his oud from across the room. After they finally ate their lunch,
my brothers excused themselves from the living room and left Ahmad with
Afreen and me. Afreen had turned towards the television which had her
complete attention, and I had Ahmad’s.
Our eyes met again and he smiled. “Hi.”
“Hiya,” I answered awkwardly.
The change in environment made our interaction slightly different,
mostly because this was my space – the house I grew up in – and here he
was in it. I wondered if I ever loved him more than I did in that moment.
“Well, that went well,” he said, as if he knew I was dying to know.
“Did it, really?”
“How have you been?” He nodded, never taking his eyes off mine.
I shrugged.
“I’ve missed you. A lot,” he said. Separated by the width of the dining
table with our hearts intertwined into something that couldn’t be explained.
That evening, after they had left, Abba sent for me. He was having tea
when I got to the covered verandah outside his library, where he sometimes
read papers while watching the goings and comings of everyone in the
compound.
“Assalamu alaikum,” I removed my slippers and walked barefoot on the
outdoor rug, settling into the cushions on the floor. “Abba, should I bring
honey?” I motioned towards the tray that held tea leaves, cashew nuts and
dates but not a jar of honey.
“No, I told them not to worry about it today,” he spoke in Hausa as he
folded up his paper and removed his glasses. He smiled fondly at me as he
watched me take a date from his tray and put it in my mouth. “How’s your
holiday going?”
“It’s already over,” I answered, almost sad.
He continued smiling as I answered, and a part of me wondered what
kind of tone this conversation would take. “You know why I sent for you.”
It wasn’t a question.
I remained quiet.
“A young man was here this afternoon,” he started. Abba had switched
to English, which meant we were being super formal then. Got it.
“He was here with his father, a very good friend of mine: Ambassador
Babangida. They came to express their interest in seeking for your hand in
marriage to him – uh, Ahamad,” I noticed that he pronounced Ahmad’s
name in three syllables. “You’re young, just in your second year in
University, and nobody is going to force you or ask you to bring a
prospective suitor because it will all happen when it comes. We leave
everything to God.” My father spoke slowly and deliberately, dragging out
his words in a way that commanded your full attention, and I nodded as I
listened. “But since they’ve shown interest, then as your father, I have to
ask. Do you like this Ahamad?”
In the distance, I could hear Abubakar’s Mercedes driving in. He always
went out and came back around the same time every day. I was beginning to
wonder who was taking up all his time. I looked up, and Abba was waiting
for my reply. I gave the slightest nod in the history of nods to indicate my
interest.
“Okay,” he nodded with me. “We’ll start the necessary investigations.
I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about. I know he’s a responsible young
man because he was raised by exemplary parents.”
Did he say investigations? What investigations? What kind of
investigations? What if they found something out about Ahmad’s past?
“When you come back from Umrah next year, they will be invited for a
more formal vi–” his phone started ringing, and he glanced down briefly to
see who was calling and continued talking to me, “for a more formal visit.
After that, a date will be fixed – most likely in December; that way, you
return back to Canada in January as a married woman.” It all sounded so
simple, so straightforward. We weren’t being rushed, due process was being
followed, but what if something came up before December? Then, what
would happen?
* * *
A few weeks later, I returned to Canada. It was still winter, and I was still
volunteering once a week at Inn From the Cold even though I had gotten
the grades for the elective course from last semester. I was learning many
valuable things from Jasmeet about running a Shelter, which I thought
would come in handy when I created mine. I started helping her with
scheduling and placing weekly orders, while still helping in the kitchen and
dining rooms. I was just finishing up at the shelter one day when I got a text
from Afreen asking about my bra size. I chuckled as I typed my reply and
pressed send. Afreen has been in the best of moods all year. I would get a
question from her regarding my preference for brands or questions about
my size multiple times a week. She didn’t have to tell me what it was for; I
knew that they had started shopping for my kayan lefe. Kayan lefe were
boxes of items that the groom’s family took to the bride’s home. Aunty
Mami traveled a lot this year. She was in Europe getting some shopping
done with her sister. At the end of the year, Ahmad’s family would take the
boxes filled with gifts for me to my family home as part of the proceedings
for the wedding. It still felt strange referring to myself as a bride-to-be, and
time seemed to be moving fast.
Looking back now, this was when my relationship with Ahmad started
to change. It was the most subtle of changes, so gradual that I almost didn’t
notice. Okay, that’s not true. I might have realized that our relationship was
changing, but I was too excited to be bothered.
One late evening, after about three days of not seeing each other (he’d
been working in California), we ended the day the usual way we did – with
a video call. We talked for over an hour while he ate dinner and I brushed
my teeth. Then we both made tea and as I settled into bed, he sent me links
to honeymoon locations to pick out from.
“I’m leaning heavily towards Seychelles or Maldives,” I said as I kicked
off my fluffy slippers and tucked my legs under the covers. This year, I was
in a new dormitory room with a new roommate who didn’t talk much.
Claire had moved out of the residence.
“Or… we could do both?” he suggested as he sent more pictures of
exotic locations to look at. “Are you okay?”
“I’m just worried about the results of our bloodwork,” I answered
truthfully. We had gone for some tests after our return to Canada.
“The genotype test? Why are you worried about it?”
I nodded as I took a sip of my ginger tea. It needed more honey. I knew
that I was AS and Ahmad said he had never needed to do such a test. But
what if he was AS too? That would mean we weren’t compatible. Would
our parents allow us to get married?
“It doesn’t matter what our genotypes are.”
“Of course, it matters,” I scoffed. I had a lot of cousins who were sickle
cell carriers, and I had seen what patients went through – the frequent visits
to the hospital, the unending pain they complained about during their
crises…
“No, it doesn’t. We’re getting married,” he spoke slowly, like he had
thought about this before this conversation, “even if we’re both AS.”
“That’ll be so irresponsible of us. Haven’t you read S is for Survivor?”
He shook his head.
“It’s a book written by a Nigerian girl about her experience with sickle
cell and bone marrow transplant. SS kids go through so much.”
“I’m not arguing that,” he said gently, “we’ll accept it as our qadr and
adopt kids.”
I looked up at him, and couldn’t help but smile after seeing how serious
he was.
“Do you have anything against adoption?”
I shook my head no.
“Great,” he said, “it’s settled then.”
A few days later, on a Saturday, Jasmeet offered to drop me off after my
volunteer session that evening. “How are your classes going?” she asked as
we approached my destination.
“Very well. Thanks,” I unfastened the seatbelt in the passenger side of
her Kia.
“Thank you so much for staying on,” she said. “We always appreciate
all the extra hands we can get.” It had been quite busy at the shelter, and
sometimes people didn’t show up for their shifts.
“I’m more than happy to help.” I hesitated before opening the door, “I –
I’m thinking of starting a smaller version of the centre back home, so this is
a learning experience for me.”
“Oh, that’s amazing, Fa’iza! Listen, I’m here to answer any question
you might have.”
“That’s so kind, I will. Ahm –” I stuttered, “my friend’s helping me with
most of the logistics. I’ll reach out when we start drafting job descriptions
and organizational charts.”
We said our goodbyes and I made my way into Ahmad’s building. The
doorman gave me a brief nod as I made my way to the Penthouse. I opened
the door and heard some music playing from his bedroom. “Bae?” No
answer. The apartment was spotless. His room was empty, and he was not
in the closet or bathroom either. I switched off the music playing from the
speakers, and I dialed his number.
“Bae?” He picked up on the first ring. I could hear the splash sounds of
water in the background, “Are you done? I’ll be there in five.”
“I’m here already,” I looked at the open laptop on his bed displaying an
RFP and an email about an acquisition from Edet. “Where are you?”
“At the pool downstairs. Come tell me about your day.”
“Okay,” I removed my coat, wore one of his slip-ons and made my way
downstairs. My key gave me access to the indoor pool area, which was
opposite the building’s gym I’d been to a few times to watch him.
Ahmad looked up from the rippling water in the hot tub and smiled as
the door closed behind me. I looked around. There were neatly folded
towels on the lounge chairs next to the doors leading to the showers and
changing rooms.
“How was your swim?” My voice echoed as I called out to him. I was
trying hard to keep my eyes off his bare chest and keep them glued to his
face. I was not so successful.
“I could only do six laps today,” he said as he swam towards me, “and
then I got sore.”
“Uh oh, your shoulder again?” His right shoulder had been hurt during
football earlier in the week.
“Yeah, it’s the worst,” he caught my gaze. His wet hair and the water
trickling down his face made him look even hotter. He stepped out of the
hot tub, the water dripping from his blue swim trunks that was stuck to his
skin. The ridges and muscles on his thighs glistened as he walked towards
me.
I swallowed hard. His hands went to the sides of my face as he gave me
a kiss on my forehead. Then he walked past me and dived into the pool. I
watched as the ripples formed around him in the blue-hued water, while the
gentle hum of the now-empty hot tub died down.
“I’m supposed to alternate between hot and cold for the soreness,” he
explained. “Get in.”
“In these clothes?” I laughed as I walked towards him to get a better
look at my green peplum top and black jeans. “Sorry, I’m not dressed for
the pool today.”
“I’ve got a shirt over there, if you want.” His grey T-shirt lay on the
white lounge chair, “and there’s a changing room just behind you.”
Very tempting offer, I thought. “Nah, I’m good. I just came to watch
you,” I finally responded, sitting at the edge of the pool. I rolled up the legs
of my trousers and dipped my legs into the cold water. My gaze went back
to his body as he did another lap through the length of the pool. He looked
good in clothes and somehow managed to look even better without them. I
sighed as I looked away, forcing myself to read every single signage around
the pool area – pool opening hours, disclaimers, directions to changing
rooms.
“You okay?” he started swimming towards me. This man would be my
husband in a few months. It felt surreal. Looking at him, I realized I was
happy time was flying; I couldn’t wait to be his wife.
“What’s on your mind?” he asked. I smiled. I kind of lucked out with
this one – attentive, sexy and sensitive to my needs. He was in front of me
now, looking into my eyes like he would find the answer to his question in
them.
“Nothing,” I answered as I felt a tickle on my foot. It was his hand. He
wrapped my calves around his waist as he swam to the edge, even closer to
me.
“Communication, babe,” he said, the deep baritone of his voice
seducing me even deeper. He’d stopped tickling me now and his palms
were sitting comfortably next to me. “We have talked about this.”
“I promised you I would always say what was on my mind instead of
bottling it up.”
He stared at me. I playfully put my hand on his face to avert his gaze,
and his hands held my waist as he pulled me into the pool with him.
I gasped as the water enveloped me from my neck downwards.
“Ahmad!” I screamed. “Not funny.” I, however couldn’t stop myself from
laughing after the initial shock wore off. We were in the shallow end of the
pool, and he started swimming away from me.
“I’m just leveling the playing field here,” he said with a wink.
“It’s freezing,” I complained, making my way up the pool stairs,
grabbing the silver rails as I climbed. The pool was warm, but the air was
cold so I got colder now that I was out of the water. I hurriedly walked to
the closest pool chair and wrapped myself in a white towel. Of course, the
one day I didn’t wear a padded bra was the day I found myself drenched in
water. I tried to hide that my nipples were hardened and visible through my
top. Well, this is embarrassing, I sighed while I stood there shivering.
In just a few seconds, Ahmad was behind me. He pressed his chiseled
chest into my back, his hands on my waist, and my stomach clenched into a
fist he slowly turned me around. I felt the familiar quickening of my breath
as we got closer. My already obvious nipples were getting harder by the
second. Damn lace bras!
“Hey,” he murmured, his eyes falling to my mouth and back to my eyes.
I bit my lips as I looked up at him. We were wet and inches apart, and I felt
his fingers gently graze mine as he took the towel from me and draped it
over my shoulders. His eyes fell to my chest, and I knew he could see the
hardened nipples through my top. He cleared his throat as he shifted his
weight from one leg to another. He wasn’t smiling anymore.
“Let’s get you warm and back to the rez,” he said, almost as if he was
trying to convince himself. Like if he said it out loud, then he would have to
follow through on it.
“Why are you sounding like a robot?”
“Because I want to kiss you so, so bad.” His eyes met mine and my
heartbeat quickened.
The air between us felt so heavy, and I felt weak at my knees. I wanted
to kiss him so very much. “Well, then, you better get me back to the rez,” I
said as I started walking towards the exit. The cool air around was doing
nothing to help the situation with my nipples. I heard him chuckle to
himself as he followed me. In the elevators, just as the doors started to
close, a black, pretty lady rushed in to join us. She smiled as she pressed the
button for the 14th floor. “Nice day out, huh?” she asked us.
“Yes, it is,” he answered, even though he hadn’t been out all day.
“Do you guys have plans for the evening?” she asked.
Nope, I thought to myself. Just trying very hard not to tear the clothes
off each other when we find ourselves alone again.
“No, nothing at all,” he responded, then looked at me. I wondered if the
edge I heard in his voice was just in my head.
She got off on her floor and we stood there – him behind me, our bodies
against each other. When we got to the Penthouse level, he brought out his
keys and opened the door, stepping aside to allow me to go in first then
following behind closely. My heart was thundering in my chest and all my
nerves were tingling. I watched him close the door and mustering the last
ounce of my confidence, I tipped on my toes and tried to give him a quick
kiss on his right cheek. At the same time, he turned his head towards me,
and our lips met.
He pulled back, and my breath caught. I could tell that he was surprised
by my action, even though that was maybe not what I had planned to do. He
pulled me back into him, turning me around as he braced me between the
door and his sculpted body. I dropped the towel as I unsteadily wrapped my
hands around his neck, and his lips claimed mine. His hands cupped my
face, reached for my neck, and grabbed my hands, all the while kissing me
like his life depended on it. His urgency was astonishingly sensual. It was
ravenous. It was breathtaking. I knew we should stop, but I couldn’t. I
didn’t want to. I felt a tingle climbing my legs and moving upwards. His
hand trailed my neck and moved downwards to my chest, and I felt his
fingers trace my nipples.
I opened my eyes and stiffened. He stopped, inhaled, and he groaned
into my neck. Then he pulled away. With his forehead on mine, his hands
returned to my face stroking my cheekbones with his thumbs as our
breathing normalized.
“I’m going to need a very cold shower,” his voice was hoarse. “This is
going to be the longest year of my life.”
The inexplicable need for something I could not describe – a hunger, a
madness. I started moving away from him. I needed water. Cold water.
“Hey, come here,” he said, holding my arms and pulling me back into a
hug. His strong arms held me tightly, and I softened as I leaned into him.
“Don’t run away like you did last time we kissed.”
I sighed, then looked up at him. His eyes were searching mine while he
waited for an answer. “I won’t,” I whispered.
“Promise?” He asked me as his hand stroked my back, drawing circles
on my wet top.
I scrunched up my face at him, and he laughed. The sound in the quiet
apartment reverberated around the high walls, easing the tension around us
as he kissed me on my forehead. “I promise.”
O
Heathrow Airport. Airports always felt the same – with airport security
that tried to blend in with travelers and the ones that were visible in
uniform, the cool air in the terminals, the blur of colours as people wheeled
their luggage away, always in a hurry not to miss their various flights even
the announcements about boarding flights in the background always felt the
same.
I pulled out my phone to read the message I’d gotten from my brother,
Abubakar, earlier in the day: BA 112. I had been tracking his flight since
mine landed a few hour hours prior. I looked up at the screen and almost
immediately located the flight, which was expected in 3 minutes. I paced
around the terminal again, reminding myself that it would not make time go
by faster. I was so excited to see him; I hadn’t seen him in a long time. My
phone vibrated, and I smiled at our inside joke as I picked up the call.
“Bae,” the voice at the other end said. Bae had replaced hello for us
when we picked each other’s calls. “Has his flight arrived?”
“Yes, bae?” I answered. “No, there was a slight delay, or something. I’m
already at the gate, so I’ll just wait until he comes through.” I had double-
checked multiple times to ensure that I had the correct gate numbers. More
people had begun to walk past me; it looked like the passengers from the
flight had gotten off the flight.
“How many more hours till you start boarding for Abuja?” Ahmad
asked.
“Two more hours,” I answered. “Oh, I see him!” I shouted excitedly as I
noticed Abubakar coming through the double doors, wheeling his brown
hand luggage.
“Alright then, I’ll call you before you guys take off,” Ahmad said,
excusing himself over the phone.
“Okay, talk soon,” I ended the call. I started making my way towards
Abubakar, giggling as I watched him scan the terminal, no doubt looking
for me. I laughed as I realized he was wearing the beige Thomas Pink wool
sweater I’d gotten him on his birthday. Abubakar was sentimental like that,
and I loved him for it. We were barely five feet apart, and he was looking
past me and had still not noticed me. I realized he wasn’t wearing his
glasses and might probably not see me if I didn’t reveal myself to him.
“Where are your glasses?” I called out to him.
His head whirled in the direction of my voice, and his eyes lit up.
“Fa’iza!” he reached out for me, holding me at arm’s length to look at me
properly before we embraced. He smelled like home, like his room back in
Abuja – Tom Ford’s Tobacco Vanille.
“Have you lost weight?” he asked as he looked at me with so much
fondness, the slight affection before the teasing took over. “It better be the
studying.” It was always a battle of wits with Abubakar, and they were
sometimes brutal. I had to learn to keep up at an early age.
“Where are your glasses?” I repeated. I had never seen him without
them. He looked different, his beard had also grown out since I saw him,
but I knew that from his various WhatsApp display pictures over the
months.
“I got LASIK over the summer,” he answered as he fished out the phone
from his pocket. I rolled my eyes; he was still the only member of our
family who was anti-Apple products and a huge advocate for Android
phones, specifically Samsungs.
“Eye surgery? It clearly didn’t work because you couldn’t see me,” I
teased, laughing.
“You still think you’re funny?” he laughed as he put his phone to his
ear. “I’m calling Abba to let him know I found you.” Whenever we were
traveling, we called home frequently to update them. In the unlikely event
that we missed a connection, our dad’s secretary was always quick to book
us an alternate flight.
“Or I found you?” I wasn’t going to stop teasing him. It was almost like
that was how we expressed love among ourselves. I was closer to Abubakar
than Ya Amin, who was far removed in age and character from me.
Abubakar was just three years older than me, and we got along more. Well,
sometimes.
“Assalamu alaikum,” his voice took on a somber tone. “Abba ina wuni.
Good evening.” We stopped walking to give Abba’s phone call the attention
it warranted. It wasn’t planned; it was a reverence that couldn’t be
explained. “Alhamdulillah,” I heard him say, then “Insha Allah.” Silence.
“Amin, Abba,” More silence. “Insha Allah.” He looked at me and added:
“We’re together, we’ll be boarding for Abuja soon, Insha Allah.”
My phone started ringing, and I picked up immediately: “Hello,
Umma.”
“Fa’iza, has he arrived yet?”
“They just landed. We’re together right now.”
“Okay, that’s good.” Her relief was evident from her sigh. “Have you
called Abba?”
“Abubakar is on the phone with him. When he’s done, I’ll talk to him.”
As I said goodbye, I heard her telling someone in the background, “They’re
already at Heathrow,” before the call ended. It was probably an aunt or the
cook. Days like this were usually busy in our household. With both of us
returning after being away in North America for so long, the drivers were
on standby for when they would be required to head to the airport, and the
cooks stayed back longer than usual just in case there was a delay and plans
had to be changed.
We prayed and bought a few books before our flight to Abuja. Then we
talked about school and my courses as we bonded over Chai lattes and
lemon poppy seed slices at Starbucks. My mind immediately went to
Ahmad and our Tim Horton’s drinks as I realized I hadn’t had Starbucks in
a while. When we were boarding, I sent him a message to inform him:
Boarding now.
His call came in almost immediately. I glanced at my brother, who was
busy on his phone. I answered as I watched Abubakar switch his American
passport for his Nigerian one as we boarded.
“Bae?” It was very early morning in Toronto and he’d been up all night,
tracking my flights and talking to me in-between connections.
“Hi.” It was hard to talk to him with a straight face; just hearing his
voice in my ear made me smile.
“Last leg?”
“Yup.”
I heard him chuckle over the phone, and I was sure it was because of
my monosyllabic answers. “I’m sure you are excited.”
“Very,” I said as I located my seat and sat down while Abubakar was
putting our hand luggage in the overhead compartment.
“I’ll see you in a few weeks,” he said, and the flutter in my chest
returned. They were coming for a visit before the New Year. It was just
supposed to be his dad, Aunty Mami, and Afreen, but Ahmad decided that
he had a few things to do in Abuja, so he booked a ticket to come with
them. “We’ll talk when you land.”
“Alright, insha Allah.”
“Have a safe flight,” he said.
“Thank you,” I ended the call and put the phone on airplane mode. I
could feel Abubakar looking at me suspiciously as he took his seat next to
me, probably wondering who I was talking to that I could barely pronounce
my words out loud. I looked away from him, afraid he might be able to read
the expression on my face.
* * *
It was safe to say I had finally gotten over my jet lag. I’d been back a few
weeks now and in that time, I had visited to Kaduna; attended an Islamic
lecture organized by some Muslim sisters I found on Instagram; went on a
movie and ice cream date with my cousin, Aisha Batagarawa, who was
getting married in a few months; attended two weddings and was also
getting over a horrible bout of malaria. To recap, I had been quite busy in
Nigeria.
In front of me, in the living room where I had spent the better part of the
day, the television was playing soundlessly. It was a Netflix movie starring
Genevieve Nnaji, my favorite Nigerian actress. In the movie, she was trying
to save her father’s company from a merger, and she traveled to Kano, the
city where I was born. I had watched the movie a few times, so I was not
paying much attention to it this time. I was lying down on the sofa, almost
done reading a book from Ahmad’s library, Voices of Liberation by Steve
Biko, which I started three days ago. In the distance, the sound of the
generator was like a soundboard for every other thing going on in the
compound. I was reading with the white noise in the background when the
voices of Ya Amin and Abubakar came over the loudspeakers from the
masjid at the entrance of the house as they led men in prayer: Allahu Akbar.
Allahu Akbar. Sami’a Allahu liman hamidah. Rabbana wa laka al-hamd.
Even though I was not praying, I was absentmindedly echoing their
words in my mind. In Canada, no mosque used a loudspeaker that could be
heard out on the street; the call to prayer was a pop-up notification from a
phone app. I had missed this.
The door slowly opened as soon as the evening prayer ended with
“Assalamu alaikum warah’matullah. Assalamu alaikum warah’matullah”. I
looked up to see the maid pushing in the trolley with food warmers. She
muttered salam under her breath and set the table for three with chilled
bottles of water in the middle.
“Hmm,” she started. I chuckled silently to myself because she didn’t
know how to address me since I stopped her from calling me ‘Aunty
Fa’iza’. I was nobody’s aunt. Besides, she was about my age, maybe even
older. Still, she never called me by my name. Now, whenever she had
something to tell me, it started with an unsure, ‘hmm.’ “Hmm,” she said
again, “Hajiya na kiran ki. Hajiya’s calling you.” She was one of the only
people who referred to Umma as Hajiya and Abba as Alhaji.
“Tana daki?” I asked if she was in her room. A rhetorical question, by
all means. It was Maghrib; of course, my mother would be in her room.
After the evening prayer, she would join Abba in the dining room in his
section, and they would eat dinner together and then watch the news. It had
been their routine for as long as I could remember. When he wasn’t in town,
she would eat alone in her section, and I would sometimes keep her
company.
“Yes,” she answered.
I got up from the position I’d been laying in for the past hour, wincing
at the slight period cramp and went to the antique solid wood dining table
and the aroma of dinner wafted towards me.
“Atine, what did the cook make?” I asked, even though I was already
opening one of the food warmers.
She looked up from the fridge she was restocking with juice and more
water, “Fried rice.” The biggest warmer had fried rice, the carrots, peas and
diced liver adding color to it. Left to me, there would be a strict rule against
liver in fried rice but since all my attempts at enforcing that rule in my
father’s house had failed, I couldn’t wait to enforce it in my own marital
home.
“No plantain?” I asked, looking over the coleslaw.
“There’s pepper soup.”
I opened the next food warmer with chicken pepper soup. That’ll be my
dinner, I thought.
I wore my Aldo slippers at the door and went out of the children’s living
room, past the archway that connected all three sections of the main house
and walked into Umma’s section. The scent of turaren wuta burning had
changed to bakhoor. The incense from bakhoor was richer and more
fragrant than regular turaren wuta. I followed the light at the end of the
hallway as I moved through her recently redecorated living room and
pushed the door to her room open. “Assalamu alaikum,” I called out. She
was on her maroon praying mat in a light green hijab, her tasbeeh forming
two uniform circles in front of her, untouched. She had both hands in front
of her face as she supplicated.
Outside her window, I could see the cooks cleaning up the kitchen in the
inner section of the house as they prepped for tomorrow morning’s
breakfast. Masa, if I could guess correctly from the number of covered
containers I guessed were fermenting the rice batter. As I waited for her to
acknowledge my presence, I busied myself by loosening the ties from her
tasseled bedroom drapes, letting the pleats fall and block out the moonlight.
I turned around to look at her just as she rubbed her hands together and
rubbed her face and tapped her chest – a prayer ritual.
“Allah shi karba,” I offered. May your prayers be answered.
“Ameeeeeen,” she dragged out the word as she stretched her legs in
front of her. “Mami called me today, and we spoke for a long time.”
I tried to keep my demeanor as neutral as possible even though since
Ahmad and I discussed it last week, I had gone through varying emotions:
excitement, panic, more excitement, uncertainty and back to excitement.
She continued, her voice soft and calm as if we were not about to
discuss something as hefty as my future. “They’re coming over tomorrow,”
she paused, “all of them – including Ahmad.” She paused a little after
saying Ahmad as if she was trying to read my facial expression.
I nodded. It wasn’t news to me. Ahmad had told me that once his
mother told his dad about our relationship, his elated father decided it was
about time for both families to be bonded by something stronger than
decades of friendship. It was time to finally become family, something they
had joked about over the years.
“Apparently, there’s an important discussion bringing them from
Canada,” she continued. I’m the matter they would discuss, I thought to
myself. Our language and culture had an interesting way of putting things
across – very subtly, like in everything we did. Umma’s word choices in
this conversation were very few, while meaning a lot. I listened very
closely. “When they leave tomorrow, Abba would want to talk to you; ya ji
daga bakin ki ko kina da masaniya akan maganan da ta kawo su; to hear
from your own mouth what you think about the important matter they came
to discuss.”
My consent. Our religion insisted on my consent in matters like this. I
nodded again.
She switched to English with uncalculated ease, “so you better have
your answer ready. You know your father won’t decide until he hears what
you have to say.”
“Toh, Umma. Okay,” I said finally. There has always been this chasm of
formality between my mother and I. Sometimes, I wondered if this
unbreachable distance between us was due to the complications she’d
experienced at my birth. I knew she loved me but there was a certain
aloofness I felt that seemed absent in her relationship with my brothers. I
used to think it was in my head, but Hajiya Uwani had noticed it too. I
could still remember her high-pitched voice from a few years ago: “Ko dan
ba ita ta shayar da ke ba? Is it because she did not breastfeed you?” and she
laughed it off as a joke. It seemed like a ridiculous conclusion then because
until she mentioned it, I had no idea I was not breastfed by my mother.
“Kawu Ibrahim is going to be here too,” she said, “Allah ya zabi mafi
alheri. May God choose the best outcome.” Kawu Ibrahim was my uncle.
“Oh, they are back from Zaria already?” I asked to keep the
conversation going.
By the time I returned to the living room in our section, my brothers
were in a loud argument about football with two of my cousins. The empty
plates of food on the dining table and the carpet by the sofa indicated how
much energy they still had to burn. I grabbed a ladle and filled a bowl with
some peppersoup. Just then, my phone started ringing, and I headed off to
my room with my bowl in one hand to answer. Evening calls had become
routine since I got back home. After isha, our nighttime calls lasted for
hours before we said goodnight and went to bed. We hadn’t seen each other
since he took me to the airport and it had been weeks.
The next day, with less than an hour to their visiting time, I found
myself checking my reflection in the mirror for the umpteenth time. None
of my features had changed since I checked two minutes earlier. Yet, I
checked again. Like what exactly was this visit? What would it signify?
Ahmad said I was overthinking everything. In his words, everything would
happen organically. Organically? I’d scoffed. With my parents, everything
was Qadr. Predestined. The pink and light blue atamfa with three-quarter
sleeves and a slim-fitted half-pleat skirt looked good on me. I had gone to
the salon over the weekend; my hair was in a bun covered with a light blue
veil. The only pieces of jewellery I wore apart from my earrings were the
wristwatch Aunty Mami gave me and the Milan bracelet. Reading a book
right now was impossible. The book I had started the previous night laid
unattended on my bed. The television could not keep my attention long
enough either. I made my way across the hallway to Abubakar’s room and
as soon as I closed the door behind me, he came out of his closet, fastening
silver cuff links to his blue kaftan – a deviation from yesterday’s jeans and a
T-shirt, and it wasn’t even Friday.
“Come onnnnnn,” I started begging almost immediately. This
conversation had been ongoing in bits and pieces since morning.
“Not happening,” he shook his head. He was stubborn but I knew that if
I navigated this carefully, he would come around. He took the remote from
the console and scrolled through the television guide.
“I would do the same for you,” I insisted.
“I would never need you to eavesdrop for me,” he dropped the remote
and walked towards the door.
“You don’t know that, though,” I stepped in front of him, blocking his
way. I only needed a few seconds to make my case. “And it’s not even
eavesdropping. All you have to do is pick up my call and return your phone
to your pocket. I’ll do the rest.” I could tell he was already cracking by the
slight smile that was forming on his lips.
“Is this how you intend to practice law, by getting illegally sourced
evidence?”
“Evidence is evidence. And if it’s not being presented in court as an
exhibit, there are no rules,” I opened the door, and he walked through.
“Besides, how good is a Samsung’s microphone, really?” My tactic had
now left coercion, bordering closely on reverse psychology.
“None of your business, Dean’s list,” his lips pulled into a smile as he
referred to my honor roll status from University and I rolled my eyes.
We were in the living room now, the long drapes that hung over the
windows had been pulled apart to allow sunlight in, giving us a clear view
of the compound and just then, we saw two black Range Rovers pulling up
into the compound. They were here. The cars pulled up slowly as they
drove past the window we were looking through and parked by the house’s
main entrance, the one that led into Abba’s living room. He normally
entertained his guests and government officials who came for
undocumented visits in that part of the house. A mobile police stepped out
and opened the door and Ahmad and his dad came down. Ahmad was
wearing a black kaftan and matching trousers, with a cap placed on his
head. I held my breath as I looked. In the next car, Aunty Mami came out,
and Afreen followed. I burst into a smile. They all looked regal, not that I
expected any less. It was amazing how they fit right in; one wouldn’t have
guessed that most of their lives were spent outside Nigeria.
“Is that Afreen?” Abubakar asked. He had never met either of them.
I nodded as they all disappeared into the other side of the house as my
parents welcomed them. The door to the living room opened, and we both
turned around. It was Ya Amin in a white kaftan. He raised his eyebrows as
he saw us by the window. He nodded to Abubakar and they walked towards
Abba’s section together.
“Do we have a deal?” I called out after him as a last resort, without
giving away too much information, so that our other brother can remain
clueless.
“Not a chance,” he answered without looking back at me.
I didn’t know if he was serious or not but I decided to try my luck
anyway. When I could no longer see the back of their heads, I groaned and
went back to my room, looked at my reflection again, then changed my veil
into a pink one and made my way to Umma’s living room. I wished my
cousin Aisha were there to keep me company because the anxiety was
nerve-wracking, but she was at a dress fitting with Style-Temple, and it
would take hours before she arrived.
As I approached Umma’s section, I could hear the quiet chatter between
Aunty Mami and my mom. I parted the curtains and they both looked up.
My worries disappeared immediately. After exchanging pleasantries and
asking about their journey, Afreen and I left them to continue their
discussions. From what I overheard, they were talking about other things,
nothing to do with me.
“I love your room,” Afreen stressed the word love as we entered my
little haven. “Aww, that is soo cute,” she gushed at a framed picture of her
and me that we’d taken at six flags over the summer.
“Thank you.”
“Are you anxious?” she asked, leaning back into the pillows and getting
comfortable on my bed.
“I just don’t know exactly what’s going on, and I wish I did,” I
answered honestly. I knew that they would be with Abba until it was time to
pray, then they would head out to the masjid and have lunch and when they
got back. But everything would have been done by then. Whatever was
happening at that moment was what was important.
“If only we could be flies on the wall,” she played with a decorative
pillow and then looked up to see my expression had changed. “What?”
“What if – hypothetically – we could hear what they were saying?”
Her eyes were suddenly filled with excitement as she considered the
possibility and opportunity that eavesdropping could offer us. “Let’s do it!”
she said with a clap.
I took my phone from the dresser and joined her on the bed and she
excitedly leaned closer as I dialed Abubakar’s number. Afreen was quiet,
and I whispered a prayer while listening as the line rang on the other end.
We held our breaths.
Finally, the call was answered. We heard some shuffle and a slight thud
as it got placed upside down on some hard surface. There was some static,
and then my uncle’s voice: " – ita Fai’zan kenan, ko? We’re talking about
Fa’iza, right?”
It worked! Afreen and I silently high-fived ourselves as we leaned
closer to the phone that was on speaker, listening to the men’s conversation.
“Being in school doesn’t stop marriage – " my uncle again. “When the
time is right –” a break in transmission, then the Ambassador completed: “It
becomes a duty.”
When my father spoke, his voice was the hardest to hear because he was
always soft-spoken. We had to strain to hear him. I could only pick out a
few words, “second year” and “after umrah.” Then a round chorus of Insha
Allah. We could barely make out the entirety of the exchange and it felt like
forever before the call to prayer went off from the masjid, and the men
dispersed to go and pray. I ended the call went back to the living room
window to catch a glimpse of Ahmad, while Afreen went to perform
ablution. He was walking to the masjid with Ya Amin, deep in conversation.
I knew they were childhood friends who grew apart as the Ambassador’s
family moved from place to place on assignment, but they seem to have a
lot to talk about now.
Afreen and I were eating lunch at the dining table when the door
opened, and all three of them – Ya Amin, Abubakar, and Ahmad – walked
in. Afreen exchanged pleasantries with my brothers and they spoke about
the weather in Canada. My eyes met Ahmad’s, who was deep in
conversation with my brother and only acknowledged my presence with a
slight nod.
They sat down in the living area and even though the television was
playing loudly, no one gave any attention to it. I busied myself with my
food, even though it had become tasteless to me now. My senses were now
clouded by him – I stole glances at him, listened as he enthralled my
brothers with European and Nigerian taxation rules for start-up businesses,
and inhaled his oud from across the room. After they finally ate their lunch,
my brothers excused themselves from the living room and left Ahmad with
Afreen and me. Afreen had turned towards the television which had her
complete attention, and I had Ahmad’s.
Our eyes met again and he smiled. “Hi.”
“Hiya,” I answered awkwardly.
The change in environment made our interaction slightly different,
mostly because this was my space – the house I grew up in – and here he
was in it. I wondered if I ever loved him more than I did in that moment.
“Well, that went well,” he said, as if he knew I was dying to know.
“Did it, really?”
“How have you been?” He nodded, never taking his eyes off mine.
I shrugged.
“I’ve missed you. A lot,” he said. Separated by the width of the dining
table with our hearts intertwined into something that couldn’t be explained.
That evening, after they had left, Abba sent for me. He was having tea
when I got to the covered verandah outside his library, where he sometimes
read papers while watching the goings and comings of everyone in the
compound.
“Assalamu alaikum,” I removed my slippers and walked barefoot on the
outdoor rug, settling into the cushions on the floor. “Abba, should I bring
honey?” I motioned towards the tray that held tea leaves, cashew nuts and
dates but not a jar of honey.
“No, I told them not to worry about it today,” he spoke in Hausa as he
folded up his paper and removed his glasses. He smiled fondly at me as he
watched me take a date from his tray and put it in my mouth. “How’s your
holiday going?”
“It’s already over,” I answered, almost sad.
He continued smiling as I answered, and a part of me wondered what
kind of tone this conversation would take. “You know why I sent for you.”
It wasn’t a question.
I remained quiet.
“A young man was here this afternoon,” he started. Abba had switched
to English, which meant we were being super formal then. Got it.
“He was here with his father, a very good friend of mine: Ambassador
Babangida. They came to express their interest in seeking for your hand in
marriage to him – uh, Ahamad,” I noticed that he pronounced Ahmad’s
name in three syllables. “You’re young, just in your second year in
University, and nobody is going to force you or ask you to bring a
prospective suitor because it will all happen when it comes. We leave
everything to God.” My father spoke slowly and deliberately, dragging out
his words in a way that commanded your full attention, and I nodded as I
listened. “But since they’ve shown interest, then as your father, I have to
ask. Do you like this Ahamad?”
In the distance, I could hear Abubakar’s Mercedes driving in. He always
went out and came back around the same time every day. I was beginning to
wonder who was taking up all his time. I looked up, and Abba was waiting
for my reply. I gave the slightest nod in the history of nods to indicate my
interest.
“Okay,” he nodded with me. “We’ll start the necessary investigations.
I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about. I know he’s a responsible young
man because he was raised by exemplary parents.”
Did he say investigations? What investigations? What kind of
investigations? What if they found something out about Ahmad’s past?
“When you come back from Umrah next year, they will be invited for a
more formal vi–” his phone started ringing, and he glanced down briefly to
see who was calling and continued talking to me, “for a more formal visit.
After that, a date will be fixed – most likely in December; that way, you
return back to Canada in January as a married woman.” It all sounded so
simple, so straightforward. We weren’t being rushed, due process was being
followed, but what if something came up before December? Then, what
would happen?
* * *
A few weeks later, I returned to Canada. It was still winter, and I was still
volunteering once a week at Inn From the Cold even though I had gotten
the grades for the elective course from last semester. I was learning many
valuable things from Jasmeet about running a Shelter, which I thought
would come in handy when I created mine. I started helping her with
scheduling and placing weekly orders, while still helping in the kitchen and
dining rooms. I was just finishing up at the shelter one day when I got a text
from Afreen asking about my bra size. I chuckled as I typed my reply and
pressed send. Afreen has been in the best of moods all year. I would get a
question from her regarding my preference for brands or questions about
my size multiple times a week. She didn’t have to tell me what it was for; I
knew that they had started shopping for my kayan lefe. Kayan lefe were
boxes of items that the groom’s family took to the bride’s home. Aunty
Mami traveled a lot this year. She was in Europe getting some shopping
done with her sister. At the end of the year, Ahmad’s family would take the
boxes filled with gifts for me to my family home as part of the proceedings
for the wedding. It still felt strange referring to myself as a bride-to-be, and
time seemed to be moving fast.
Looking back now, this was when my relationship with Ahmad started
to change. It was the most subtle of changes, so gradual that I almost didn’t
notice. Okay, that’s not true. I might have realized that our relationship was
changing, but I was too excited to be bothered.
One late evening, after about three days of not seeing each other (he’d
been working in California), we ended the day the usual way we did – with
a video call. We talked for over an hour while he ate dinner and I brushed
my teeth. Then we both made tea and as I settled into bed, he sent me links
to honeymoon locations to pick out from.
“I’m leaning heavily towards Seychelles or Maldives,” I said as I kicked
off my fluffy slippers and tucked my legs under the covers. This year, I was
in a new dormitory room with a new roommate who didn’t talk much.
Claire had moved out of the residence.
“Or… we could do both?” he suggested as he sent more pictures of
exotic locations to look at. “Are you okay?”
“I’m just worried about the results of our bloodwork,” I answered
truthfully. We had gone for some tests after our return to Canada.
“The genotype test? Why are you worried about it?”
I nodded as I took a sip of my ginger tea. It needed more honey. I knew
that I was AS and Ahmad said he had never needed to do such a test. But
what if he was AS too? That would mean we weren’t compatible. Would
our parents allow us to get married?
“It doesn’t matter what our genotypes are.”
“Of course, it matters,” I scoffed. I had a lot of cousins who were sickle
cell carriers, and I had seen what patients went through – the frequent visits
to the hospital, the unending pain they complained about during their
crises…
“No, it doesn’t. We’re getting married,” he spoke slowly, like he had
thought about this before this conversation, “even if we’re both AS.”
“That’ll be so irresponsible of us. Haven’t you read S is for Survivor?”
He shook his head.
“It’s a book written by a Nigerian girl about her experience with sickle
cell and bone marrow transplant. SS kids go through so much.”
“I’m not arguing that,” he said gently, “we’ll accept it as our qadr and
adopt kids.”
I looked up at him, and couldn’t help but smile after seeing how serious
he was.
“Do you have anything against adoption?”
I shook my head no.
“Great,” he said, “it’s settled then.”
A few days later, on a Saturday, Jasmeet offered to drop me off after my
volunteer session that evening. “How are your classes going?” she asked as
we approached my destination.
“Very well. Thanks,” I unfastened the seatbelt in the passenger side of
her Kia.
“Thank you so much for staying on,” she said. “We always appreciate
all the extra hands we can get.” It had been quite busy at the shelter, and
sometimes people didn’t show up for their shifts.
“I’m more than happy to help.” I hesitated before opening the door, “I –
I’m thinking of starting a smaller version of the centre back home, so this is
a learning experience for me.”
“Oh, that’s amazing, Fa’iza! Listen, I’m here to answer any question
you might have.”
“That’s so kind, I will. Ahm –” I stuttered, “my friend’s helping me with
most of the logistics. I’ll reach out when we start drafting job descriptions
and organizational charts.”
We said our goodbyes and I made my way into Ahmad’s building. The
doorman gave me a brief nod as I made my way to the Penthouse. I opened
the door and heard some music playing from his bedroom. “Bae?” No
answer. The apartment was spotless. His room was empty, and he was not
in the closet or bathroom either. I switched off the music playing from the
speakers, and I dialed his number.
“Bae?” He picked up on the first ring. I could hear the splash sounds of
water in the background, “Are you done? I’ll be there in five.”
“I’m here already,” I looked at the open laptop on his bed displaying an
RFP and an email about an acquisition from Edet. “Where are you?”
“At the pool downstairs. Come tell me about your day.”
“Okay,” I removed my coat, wore one of his slip-ons and made my way
downstairs. My key gave me access to the indoor pool area, which was
opposite the building’s gym I’d been to a few times to watch him.
Ahmad looked up from the rippling water in the hot tub and smiled as
the door closed behind me. I looked around. There were neatly folded
towels on the lounge chairs next to the doors leading to the showers and
changing rooms.
“How was your swim?” My voice echoed as I called out to him. I was
trying hard to keep my eyes off his bare chest and keep them glued to his
face. I was not so successful.
“I could only do six laps today,” he said as he swam towards me, “and
then I got sore.”
“Uh oh, your shoulder again?” His right shoulder had been hurt during
football earlier in the week.
“Yeah, it’s the worst,” he caught my gaze. His wet hair and the water
trickling down his face made him look even hotter. He stepped out of the
hot tub, the water dripping from his blue swim trunks that was stuck to his
skin. The ridges and muscles on his thighs glistened as he walked towards
me.
I swallowed hard. His hands went to the sides of my face as he gave me
a kiss on my forehead. Then he walked past me and dived into the pool. I
watched as the ripples formed around him in the blue-hued water, while the
gentle hum of the now-empty hot tub died down.
“I’m supposed to alternate between hot and cold for the soreness,” he
explained. “Get in.”
“In these clothes?” I laughed as I walked towards him to get a better
look at my green peplum top and black jeans. “Sorry, I’m not dressed for
the pool today.”
“I’ve got a shirt over there, if you want.” His grey T-shirt lay on the
white lounge chair, “and there’s a changing room just behind you.”
Very tempting offer, I thought. “Nah, I’m good. I just came to watch
you,” I finally responded, sitting at the edge of the pool. I rolled up the legs
of my trousers and dipped my legs into the cold water. My gaze went back
to his body as he did another lap through the length of the pool. He looked
good in clothes and somehow managed to look even better without them. I
sighed as I looked away, forcing myself to read every single signage around
the pool area – pool opening hours, disclaimers, directions to changing
rooms.
“You okay?” he started swimming towards me. This man would be my
husband in a few months. It felt surreal. Looking at him, I realized I was
happy time was flying; I couldn’t wait to be his wife.
“What’s on your mind?” he asked. I smiled. I kind of lucked out with
this one – attentive, sexy and sensitive to my needs. He was in front of me
now, looking into my eyes like he would find the answer to his question in
them.
“Nothing,” I answered as I felt a tickle on my foot. It was his hand. He
wrapped my calves around his waist as he swam to the edge, even closer to
me.
“Communication, babe,” he said, the deep baritone of his voice
seducing me even deeper. He’d stopped tickling me now and his palms
were sitting comfortably next to me. “We have talked about this.”
“I promised you I would always say what was on my mind instead of
bottling it up.”
He stared at me. I playfully put my hand on his face to avert his gaze,
and his hands held my waist as he pulled me into the pool with him.
I gasped as the water enveloped me from my neck downwards.
“Ahmad!” I screamed. “Not funny.” I, however couldn’t stop myself from
laughing after the initial shock wore off. We were in the shallow end of the
pool, and he started swimming away from me.
“I’m just leveling the playing field here,” he said with a wink.
“It’s freezing,” I complained, making my way up the pool stairs,
grabbing the silver rails as I climbed. The pool was warm, but the air was
cold so I got colder now that I was out of the water. I hurriedly walked to
the closest pool chair and wrapped myself in a white towel. Of course, the
one day I didn’t wear a padded bra was the day I found myself drenched in
water. I tried to hide that my nipples were hardened and visible through my
top. Well, this is embarrassing, I sighed while I stood there shivering.
In just a few seconds, Ahmad was behind me. He pressed his chiseled
chest into my back, his hands on my waist, and my stomach clenched into a
fist he slowly turned me around. I felt the familiar quickening of my breath
as we got closer. My already obvious nipples were getting harder by the
second. Damn lace bras!
“Hey,” he murmured, his eyes falling to my mouth and back to my eyes.
I bit my lips as I looked up at him. We were wet and inches apart, and I felt
his fingers gently graze mine as he took the towel from me and draped it
over my shoulders. His eyes fell to my chest, and I knew he could see the
hardened nipples through my top. He cleared his throat as he shifted his
weight from one leg to another. He wasn’t smiling anymore.
“Let’s get you warm and back to the rez,” he said, almost as if he was
trying to convince himself. Like if he said it out loud, then he would have to
follow through on it.
“Why are you sounding like a robot?”
“Because I want to kiss you so, so bad.” His eyes met mine and my
heartbeat quickened.
The air between us felt so heavy, and I felt weak at my knees. I wanted
to kiss him so very much. “Well, then, you better get me back to the rez,” I
said as I started walking towards the exit. The cool air around was doing
nothing to help the situation with my nipples. I heard him chuckle to
himself as he followed me. In the elevators, just as the doors started to
close, a black, pretty lady rushed in to join us. She smiled as she pressed the
button for the 14th floor. “Nice day out, huh?” she asked us.
“Yes, it is,” he answered, even though he hadn’t been out all day.
“Do you guys have plans for the evening?” she asked.
Nope, I thought to myself. Just trying very hard not to tear the clothes
off each other when we find ourselves alone again.
“No, nothing at all,” he responded, then looked at me. I wondered if the
edge I heard in his voice was just in my head.
She got off on her floor and we stood there – him behind me, our bodies
against each other. When we got to the Penthouse level, he brought out his
keys and opened the door, stepping aside to allow me to go in first then
following behind closely. My heart was thundering in my chest and all my
nerves were tingling. I watched him close the door and mustering the last
ounce of my confidence, I tipped on my toes and tried to give him a quick
kiss on his right cheek. At the same time, he turned his head towards me,
and our lips met.
He pulled back, and my breath caught. I could tell that he was surprised
by my action, even though that was maybe not what I had planned to do. He
pulled me back into him, turning me around as he braced me between the
door and his sculpted body. I dropped the towel as I unsteadily wrapped my
hands around his neck, and his lips claimed mine. His hands cupped my
face, reached for my neck, and grabbed my hands, all the while kissing me
like his life depended on it. His urgency was astonishingly sensual. It was
ravenous. It was breathtaking. I knew we should stop, but I couldn’t. I
didn’t want to. I felt a tingle climbing my legs and moving upwards. His
hand trailed my neck and moved downwards to my chest, and I felt his
fingers trace my nipples.
I opened my eyes and stiffened. He stopped, inhaled, and he groaned
into my neck. Then he pulled away. With his forehead on mine, his hands
returned to my face stroking my cheekbones with his thumbs as our
breathing normalized.
“I’m going to need a very cold shower,” his voice was hoarse. “This is
going to be the longest year of my life.”
The inexplicable need for something I could not describe – a hunger, a
madness. I started moving away from him. I needed water. Cold water.
“Hey, come here,” he said, holding my arms and pulling me back into a
hug. His strong arms held me tightly, and I softened as I leaned into him.
“Don’t run away like you did last time we kissed.”
I sighed, then looked up at him. His eyes were searching mine while he
waited for an answer. “I won’t,” I whispered.
“Promise?” He asked me as his hand stroked my back, drawing circles
on my wet top.
I scrunched up my face at him, and he laughed. The sound in the quiet
apartment reverberated around the high walls, easing the tension around us
as he kissed me on my forehead. “I promise.”
O