Chapter 1
Broken Not a halal love story Complete · about 4 min read
Abuja, September 2016
o, do you want to talk about it?”
I really didn’t want to talk about it, but I could feel his stare
piercing the back of my head. We were in the living room in my parents’
house, one of the three living rooms in the house that I grew up in. I didn’t
turn around because I could not stand to look him in the face, and even as I
walked further away from his voice, all I could do in that moment was take
a deep breath and in an attempt to distance myself from his gaze, I opened
the fridge and took out a bottle of milk. Within seconds, the bottle fell on
the floor, spilling milk on the cold, grey-marbled tiles of the dining room,
missing the brown carpet by inches.
“Ugh,” I looked around for something to clean up the mess, angry at my
clumsiness.
“Are you seriously not gonna answer me?” he asked again.
I could hear the hint of frustration in his voice, even though he
maintained his distance. He was always good at taking a step back and
giving me space – far enough for me to not feel suffocated, yet close
enough for him to hover over me whenever he felt the need to. The strong
scent of his oud perfume reminded me of happier times, and in a moment of
weakness, it almost propelled me to turn around and look at his face. But I
was determined not to. I could feel tears moistening my eyes, so I focused
my sight on the marble tiles and the spilled milk that was refusing to get
soaked by the paper towels I found on the dining table.
I heard the door in the outer hallway door close with a slight bang, and
just as I was rounding up my cleaning, his voice dropped like a cannonball:
“Someone is here.” Crouched on the floor, I sighed as I heard him walking
away from the dining room and towards the living room. Let the charade
begin.
“Umma, ina wuni. Good evening,” I heard him from the dining room
and imagined him dropping to the customary crouch as he greeted my
mother.
I could hear my mum walking into the living room that led her towards
us. I looked up to find her regally dressed as though she were the mother of
a bride, in a heavy cream-colored burgundy brocade gown and a maroon
veil wrapped over her head with her gold bracelets clanking together by the
slow, deliberate movements she made as she looked around the room.
She adjusted her veil over her head as she answered him: “Ahmad, How
are you? When did you come back?”
“I came back last night, Umma,” he answered.
“Oh yes, that’s right. Your mum mentioned that you would be coming
back this week.” She smiled at him as he stood next to her by the door. “An
gama Masters din dai? Have you finished the Masters?”
“Ph.D., ne,” he smiled as he corrected her with the learned fake
humility we perfect quite early in northern Nigeria.
“That’s true; it’s Ph.D,” my mother corrected herself. “I suppose you
came to see your friend, Amin?” She asked to confirm that he was at the
house to see my older brother, his oldest friend.
He looked around the room for the first time since he arrived to give the
impression that he had just come indoors himself. “Yes,” he said, “I thought
I would find him here.”
She looked at me, our eyes met, and I watched a silent chuckle escape
her, and then, in the most casual tone, she asked as she looked back at him,
“Ya shirin bikin? How are your wedding preparations going?”
He opened his mouth, then swallowed back his words. “Um… Alham..
Alhamdulillah.” The always articulate, ever-charming Ahmad Babangida,
who always had a witty comeback for everything, was struggling to find
words other than “Thank God.” For the first time since I’ve known him, he
fumbled when asked about his upcoming wedding.
Ahmad Babangida was getting married. I blinked rapidly to force back
the tears that threatened to spill down my cheeks when I heard Atine, our
househelp’s voice. In my determination to keep my eyes glued to the spill I
was cleaning, I hadn’t seen her walk into the dining room.
“Aunty Fa’iza let me clean it,” she said in Hausa.
“I have told you to stop calling me aunty.” I said to her under my breath
as I stood up, grabbed my car keys and travel mug from the dining table.
“Umma, I’m going to work. I’ll be back by Zuhr Insha’Allah, God willing.”
“Have a good day at work.”
I walked out of the house without acknowledging the man standing next
to her; I couldn’t be bothered to feign courtesy or familiarity. I got into my
car, slammed the doors, and it was only when I was well past the gates, past
two traffic lights, that I parked the car on the curb and started hitting the
steering wheel with my fists, losing the battle with my self-control as the
tears streamed down my face uncontrollably.
I
o, do you want to talk about it?”
I really didn’t want to talk about it, but I could feel his stare
piercing the back of my head. We were in the living room in my parents’
house, one of the three living rooms in the house that I grew up in. I didn’t
turn around because I could not stand to look him in the face, and even as I
walked further away from his voice, all I could do in that moment was take
a deep breath and in an attempt to distance myself from his gaze, I opened
the fridge and took out a bottle of milk. Within seconds, the bottle fell on
the floor, spilling milk on the cold, grey-marbled tiles of the dining room,
missing the brown carpet by inches.
“Ugh,” I looked around for something to clean up the mess, angry at my
clumsiness.
“Are you seriously not gonna answer me?” he asked again.
I could hear the hint of frustration in his voice, even though he
maintained his distance. He was always good at taking a step back and
giving me space – far enough for me to not feel suffocated, yet close
enough for him to hover over me whenever he felt the need to. The strong
scent of his oud perfume reminded me of happier times, and in a moment of
weakness, it almost propelled me to turn around and look at his face. But I
was determined not to. I could feel tears moistening my eyes, so I focused
my sight on the marble tiles and the spilled milk that was refusing to get
soaked by the paper towels I found on the dining table.
I heard the door in the outer hallway door close with a slight bang, and
just as I was rounding up my cleaning, his voice dropped like a cannonball:
“Someone is here.” Crouched on the floor, I sighed as I heard him walking
away from the dining room and towards the living room. Let the charade
begin.
“Umma, ina wuni. Good evening,” I heard him from the dining room
and imagined him dropping to the customary crouch as he greeted my
mother.
I could hear my mum walking into the living room that led her towards
us. I looked up to find her regally dressed as though she were the mother of
a bride, in a heavy cream-colored burgundy brocade gown and a maroon
veil wrapped over her head with her gold bracelets clanking together by the
slow, deliberate movements she made as she looked around the room.
She adjusted her veil over her head as she answered him: “Ahmad, How
are you? When did you come back?”
“I came back last night, Umma,” he answered.
“Oh yes, that’s right. Your mum mentioned that you would be coming
back this week.” She smiled at him as he stood next to her by the door. “An
gama Masters din dai? Have you finished the Masters?”
“Ph.D., ne,” he smiled as he corrected her with the learned fake
humility we perfect quite early in northern Nigeria.
“That’s true; it’s Ph.D,” my mother corrected herself. “I suppose you
came to see your friend, Amin?” She asked to confirm that he was at the
house to see my older brother, his oldest friend.
He looked around the room for the first time since he arrived to give the
impression that he had just come indoors himself. “Yes,” he said, “I thought
I would find him here.”
She looked at me, our eyes met, and I watched a silent chuckle escape
her, and then, in the most casual tone, she asked as she looked back at him,
“Ya shirin bikin? How are your wedding preparations going?”
He opened his mouth, then swallowed back his words. “Um… Alham..
Alhamdulillah.” The always articulate, ever-charming Ahmad Babangida,
who always had a witty comeback for everything, was struggling to find
words other than “Thank God.” For the first time since I’ve known him, he
fumbled when asked about his upcoming wedding.
Ahmad Babangida was getting married. I blinked rapidly to force back
the tears that threatened to spill down my cheeks when I heard Atine, our
househelp’s voice. In my determination to keep my eyes glued to the spill I
was cleaning, I hadn’t seen her walk into the dining room.
“Aunty Fa’iza let me clean it,” she said in Hausa.
“I have told you to stop calling me aunty.” I said to her under my breath
as I stood up, grabbed my car keys and travel mug from the dining table.
“Umma, I’m going to work. I’ll be back by Zuhr Insha’Allah, God willing.”
“Have a good day at work.”
I walked out of the house without acknowledging the man standing next
to her; I couldn’t be bothered to feign courtesy or familiarity. I got into my
car, slammed the doors, and it was only when I was well past the gates, past
two traffic lights, that I parked the car on the curb and started hitting the
steering wheel with my fists, losing the battle with my self-control as the
tears streamed down my face uncontrollably.
I