Chapter 25
Broken Not a halal love story Complete · about 9 min read
hile time normally moved for everyone else, it seemed to crawl for
Ahmad – hours dragged into days and then into weeks and new
months came and went without reprise. There were only so many ways a
man could bury himself in work while fighting against his better judgment.
He had to consciously stop himself from reaching out to her. Ahmad was a
man with pride. Maybe it was a Hausa thing – perhaps it was a masculine
one – and although he would never admit it, he had an ego. He had canceled
business ventures in the past just because he felt that someone on his team
was being disrespected. He could never tolerate it when people treat people
around him with lesser respect than they accorded him. Yet, he found
himself multiple times resisting the urge to remind Fa’iza that he was not
giving up on them, that he was still searching for the wet nurse
He spent sleepless nights going through the documents Audu sent him
from Agadez whose search had taken him to Niamey. Every time he read
the transcripts of interviews with people who claimed to know her, he
wanted to reach out to Fa’iza to tell her that they were getting closer. But
they weren’t getting closer; it had been many months of disappointments. It
was like chasing a mirage; the harder they chased, the further she got.
Without fail, he showed up at the office at 7 am every day, earlier than
everyone. On the day that marked their first anniversary, he found himself
more and more agitated. He was opening an email when he heard a shuffle
at his door. He looked up as Brooke came in.
“Would you like me to cancel the Ritz Maldives reservation?” she
asked, looking up from her tablet.
“No, don’t worry about it.” They were supposed to start their
honeymoon with ten days in the Maldives before immersing themselves in
the wonders of Bali. He looked back at his computer screen and let out a
deep sigh.
The past year had been the most difficult in his life thus far. It had
started on a high and, despite all his efforts, snowballed into a colossal loss.
Like a phone call right around the time the snow started falling over Yonge-
Dundas Square, covering the city he thought he would call home for the
next few years in a blanket of white. Like everything he had feared, he
faced the phone call head-on. Clearing his throat to mask his hesitation.
“Ahmad?” It was his mother. “Did you see my text?”
“Yes, I did.”
“I’m sorry, Ahmad. Umma confirmed ‘yar Agadez’s picture. It’s the
same woman.”
Well, it is official. She does exist, he thought. “That’s okay, mum. I just
wanted to be sure.”
* * *
For the seventh time since the new year started, Ahmad sat down at Toronto
Pearson’s business lounge, waiting for his flight. He was distractedly
scrolling through her pictures – too quickly to linger on any, just a mindless
scrolling that indicated that his mind was elsewhere. Truth be told, he even
knew the exact order that they came in. There was one he took of her right
before summer; she was covering her face with a green scarf on the football
field as she laughed. Another of her wearing his black hoodie and petting a
kitten at the zoo in Mississauga. He scrolled faster. She’d sent this to him
on one of his work trips to the US; she was in the library, posing with a Tim
Horton’s cup. The next one was of both of them together at a Basketball
match when he got them front row tickets to the Raptors game, another
kissy-face picture she sent him.
He exhaled loudly as he returned to his home screen. he did this
multiple times a day, like he was trying to alter his memory of their last
interaction – her words, the tears in her eyes, how was it that he was the
cause of that much pain? Why would she beg him to leave her alone? Did
she really mean that?
As his flight to Ireland was announced, Ahmad returned his phone to his
pocket and dragged his hand luggage to the waiting airport staff to board.
His passport had such varied recent stamps for countries he had visited for
the same purpose. While he was in Nigeria, he went to Minna, then Sokoto.
When he didn’t get favorable answers to his questions, he left for Sudan.
Two weeks later, he was in Riyadh, then Malaysia. It was safe to say he was
following scholars that he remembered her listening to, scholars whose
words she kept close to her heart.
In between flights, he would go through his emails for replies to his
questions. It always started the same way: As-salamu alaikum, esteemed
brother in Islam. We thank you for your generous donation to our institute.
After discussion with the Ulamas, we regret to inform you that –
After the fifth letter of regret, Ahmad stopped reading the emails past
the first paragraph. Not even the impressive dividends from his company’s
financial records could get him in a better mood. Yet every time, he reached
a roadblock. He insisted to himself that he must have missed something.
His gut would just not allow him to accept what everyone was telling him.
He started paying more attention to religious texts and publications. When
he had questions for the sheikhs, he would attend their lectures, join them in
congregational prayers and then reach out to them with his question.
Nothing changed. Eventually, he was at the end of her list. It was June and
her favorite scholar was holding a lecture in Ireland. Ahmad booked a flight
as soon as the opportunity presented itself. An old classmate of his from
university happened to be the organizer of the Muslim event and had
reached out for donations. He gladly obliged and then pulled some strings
for a one-on-one with the Scholar.
As Ahmad sat in the air-conditioned waiting room of the hotel suite, his
right leg was restless, and he could not stop hitting the heel of his shoe on
the carpet. The seven-hour flight was a drag, but the lecture was very
informative, and he stayed for all three sessions of it.
When the door opened and the bearded man walked in wearing a white
robe, Ahmad found himself on his feet. “As-salamu Alaikum wa
rahmatullahi wa barakatuh,” he said as he walked into the room, his voice
carrying an air of authority as Ahmad had expected. It was a face he
recognized; Fai’za used to send him short video clips of the mufti’s lectures
on Fridays and since their separation, he often found himself rewatching the
videos to fill the void her absence.
“Wa alaikumus-salam rahmatullahi wa barakatuh,” Ahmad answered as
they shook hands.
“Sit down, brother,” he motioned for Ahmad to sit on the plush chair.
He took a seat behind the glossy white table and looked down at the paper
he was holding; Ahmad knew it was the letter he had written to him. The
room was quiet as the mufti read, the only sound was Ahmad’s foot hitting
the ground restlessly. Eventually, the scholar finished reading.
“Brother,” he started. “My attention was already brought to your
question a few months ago by another Alim you reached out to some
months back,” he paused and looked Ahmad straight in the eye, “I can’t tell
you anything different from what they’ve all told you; marriage between
this couple is not permissible in Islam.”
Ahmad leaned forward. “No, I completely understand that.” It had taken
him a while, but he now understood the implications and limitations of why
it was that way what brought him all the way here was something different.
“As I said in the letter, I wonder if something can be done,” he paused
as the scholar watched him with steady eyes, “My point is, when you
mistakenly kill someone – an accident or something – you pay diyah,
right?”
“Yes, financial compensation to the family of the victim,” the scholar
responded, adding, “if it was a real mistake.” He raised his hand to
emphasize his point.
“Exactly. And there’s Fidyah and Kaffara for people who can’t fast or
have to break their fast,” Ahmad said and the older man nodded. Fidyah
was made for fasts missed out of necessity, when someone couldn’t make
up for the fast due to ill health or pregnancy. “So, you have to do Kaffara
when you intentionally break your fast during Ramadan – you either fast for
60 days straight, or you feed 60 poor people. Yes?” The scholar nodded,
and Ahmad continued: “My question is, in this situation, can the people
involved feed – let’s say 1000 people for 1000 days – as atonement?” He
was grasping at straws now, but he had to. He owed it to her.
Ahmad could feel the Mufti’s stare as he read the situation of Ahmad’s
crisis through the words he didn’t say and the ones between the lines of his
letter. He sighed as he leaned back into his chair. “Brother, I’m going to ask
you this and you don’t have to answer, if you don’t want to. Have you – in
any way – transgressed the boundaries that Allah imposed upon you
regarding what is haram and what is halal?”
Ahmad remained quiet. He sighed, then clasped his hands together and
looked at the floor. Which of the boundaries? He thought to himself. The
ones they thought of as minor before they got married, or the one that they
crossed by getting married. There was also a third one they crossed because
they had gotten married. A marriage he had initiated so that she would not
feel guilty about getting physical with him – only to find that the marriage
was never valid in the first place. The relationship they shared had no name,
which made everything they had done worse than just fornication. Until
recently, he didn’t think of it as a big deal, but this was not just that; this
was incest. The thought of that alone was enough to make the strongest of
men go mad, enough to make a man in love deranged.
“From your silence,” the Mufti continued silently, “I may know your
answer.”
When Ahmad raised his head again, his eyes were moist. The Mufti said
a few more things, but everything he heard made his head pound. All his
efforts had been a waste. They were impossible right from the beginning.
When Ahmad got up to leave, the weight in his heart was heavier than it
was when he came in.
“Brother Ahmad?” the Mufti called. Ahmad turned around to see the
Mufti looking at him with eyes filled with sympathy. “Where are you from,
if you don’t mind me asking?”
Ahmad cleared his throat, “Nigeria.”
The Mufti nodded. “I guessed as much from your last name. I’ve been
there a few times – wonderful people, mashaAllah,” he said. “You look like
you’re from a good family.” He allowed his words to sink into Ahmad’s
mind for a minute.”If you have the means to feed 1000 people in need for
1000 days, do it fisabilillah, for the sake of Allah. Allah is the best of
planners.”
Ahmad nodded.
“May Allah make us stronger than our desires,” the Mufti said.
“Ameen,” Ahmad reached for the doorknob and repeated the prayer
back to himself in Hausa: Allah ka sa mu fi karfin zuciyan mu.
I
Ahmad – hours dragged into days and then into weeks and new
months came and went without reprise. There were only so many ways a
man could bury himself in work while fighting against his better judgment.
He had to consciously stop himself from reaching out to her. Ahmad was a
man with pride. Maybe it was a Hausa thing – perhaps it was a masculine
one – and although he would never admit it, he had an ego. He had canceled
business ventures in the past just because he felt that someone on his team
was being disrespected. He could never tolerate it when people treat people
around him with lesser respect than they accorded him. Yet, he found
himself multiple times resisting the urge to remind Fa’iza that he was not
giving up on them, that he was still searching for the wet nurse
He spent sleepless nights going through the documents Audu sent him
from Agadez whose search had taken him to Niamey. Every time he read
the transcripts of interviews with people who claimed to know her, he
wanted to reach out to Fa’iza to tell her that they were getting closer. But
they weren’t getting closer; it had been many months of disappointments. It
was like chasing a mirage; the harder they chased, the further she got.
Without fail, he showed up at the office at 7 am every day, earlier than
everyone. On the day that marked their first anniversary, he found himself
more and more agitated. He was opening an email when he heard a shuffle
at his door. He looked up as Brooke came in.
“Would you like me to cancel the Ritz Maldives reservation?” she
asked, looking up from her tablet.
“No, don’t worry about it.” They were supposed to start their
honeymoon with ten days in the Maldives before immersing themselves in
the wonders of Bali. He looked back at his computer screen and let out a
deep sigh.
The past year had been the most difficult in his life thus far. It had
started on a high and, despite all his efforts, snowballed into a colossal loss.
Like a phone call right around the time the snow started falling over Yonge-
Dundas Square, covering the city he thought he would call home for the
next few years in a blanket of white. Like everything he had feared, he
faced the phone call head-on. Clearing his throat to mask his hesitation.
“Ahmad?” It was his mother. “Did you see my text?”
“Yes, I did.”
“I’m sorry, Ahmad. Umma confirmed ‘yar Agadez’s picture. It’s the
same woman.”
Well, it is official. She does exist, he thought. “That’s okay, mum. I just
wanted to be sure.”
* * *
For the seventh time since the new year started, Ahmad sat down at Toronto
Pearson’s business lounge, waiting for his flight. He was distractedly
scrolling through her pictures – too quickly to linger on any, just a mindless
scrolling that indicated that his mind was elsewhere. Truth be told, he even
knew the exact order that they came in. There was one he took of her right
before summer; she was covering her face with a green scarf on the football
field as she laughed. Another of her wearing his black hoodie and petting a
kitten at the zoo in Mississauga. He scrolled faster. She’d sent this to him
on one of his work trips to the US; she was in the library, posing with a Tim
Horton’s cup. The next one was of both of them together at a Basketball
match when he got them front row tickets to the Raptors game, another
kissy-face picture she sent him.
He exhaled loudly as he returned to his home screen. he did this
multiple times a day, like he was trying to alter his memory of their last
interaction – her words, the tears in her eyes, how was it that he was the
cause of that much pain? Why would she beg him to leave her alone? Did
she really mean that?
As his flight to Ireland was announced, Ahmad returned his phone to his
pocket and dragged his hand luggage to the waiting airport staff to board.
His passport had such varied recent stamps for countries he had visited for
the same purpose. While he was in Nigeria, he went to Minna, then Sokoto.
When he didn’t get favorable answers to his questions, he left for Sudan.
Two weeks later, he was in Riyadh, then Malaysia. It was safe to say he was
following scholars that he remembered her listening to, scholars whose
words she kept close to her heart.
In between flights, he would go through his emails for replies to his
questions. It always started the same way: As-salamu alaikum, esteemed
brother in Islam. We thank you for your generous donation to our institute.
After discussion with the Ulamas, we regret to inform you that –
After the fifth letter of regret, Ahmad stopped reading the emails past
the first paragraph. Not even the impressive dividends from his company’s
financial records could get him in a better mood. Yet every time, he reached
a roadblock. He insisted to himself that he must have missed something.
His gut would just not allow him to accept what everyone was telling him.
He started paying more attention to religious texts and publications. When
he had questions for the sheikhs, he would attend their lectures, join them in
congregational prayers and then reach out to them with his question.
Nothing changed. Eventually, he was at the end of her list. It was June and
her favorite scholar was holding a lecture in Ireland. Ahmad booked a flight
as soon as the opportunity presented itself. An old classmate of his from
university happened to be the organizer of the Muslim event and had
reached out for donations. He gladly obliged and then pulled some strings
for a one-on-one with the Scholar.
As Ahmad sat in the air-conditioned waiting room of the hotel suite, his
right leg was restless, and he could not stop hitting the heel of his shoe on
the carpet. The seven-hour flight was a drag, but the lecture was very
informative, and he stayed for all three sessions of it.
When the door opened and the bearded man walked in wearing a white
robe, Ahmad found himself on his feet. “As-salamu Alaikum wa
rahmatullahi wa barakatuh,” he said as he walked into the room, his voice
carrying an air of authority as Ahmad had expected. It was a face he
recognized; Fai’za used to send him short video clips of the mufti’s lectures
on Fridays and since their separation, he often found himself rewatching the
videos to fill the void her absence.
“Wa alaikumus-salam rahmatullahi wa barakatuh,” Ahmad answered as
they shook hands.
“Sit down, brother,” he motioned for Ahmad to sit on the plush chair.
He took a seat behind the glossy white table and looked down at the paper
he was holding; Ahmad knew it was the letter he had written to him. The
room was quiet as the mufti read, the only sound was Ahmad’s foot hitting
the ground restlessly. Eventually, the scholar finished reading.
“Brother,” he started. “My attention was already brought to your
question a few months ago by another Alim you reached out to some
months back,” he paused and looked Ahmad straight in the eye, “I can’t tell
you anything different from what they’ve all told you; marriage between
this couple is not permissible in Islam.”
Ahmad leaned forward. “No, I completely understand that.” It had taken
him a while, but he now understood the implications and limitations of why
it was that way what brought him all the way here was something different.
“As I said in the letter, I wonder if something can be done,” he paused
as the scholar watched him with steady eyes, “My point is, when you
mistakenly kill someone – an accident or something – you pay diyah,
right?”
“Yes, financial compensation to the family of the victim,” the scholar
responded, adding, “if it was a real mistake.” He raised his hand to
emphasize his point.
“Exactly. And there’s Fidyah and Kaffara for people who can’t fast or
have to break their fast,” Ahmad said and the older man nodded. Fidyah
was made for fasts missed out of necessity, when someone couldn’t make
up for the fast due to ill health or pregnancy. “So, you have to do Kaffara
when you intentionally break your fast during Ramadan – you either fast for
60 days straight, or you feed 60 poor people. Yes?” The scholar nodded,
and Ahmad continued: “My question is, in this situation, can the people
involved feed – let’s say 1000 people for 1000 days – as atonement?” He
was grasping at straws now, but he had to. He owed it to her.
Ahmad could feel the Mufti’s stare as he read the situation of Ahmad’s
crisis through the words he didn’t say and the ones between the lines of his
letter. He sighed as he leaned back into his chair. “Brother, I’m going to ask
you this and you don’t have to answer, if you don’t want to. Have you – in
any way – transgressed the boundaries that Allah imposed upon you
regarding what is haram and what is halal?”
Ahmad remained quiet. He sighed, then clasped his hands together and
looked at the floor. Which of the boundaries? He thought to himself. The
ones they thought of as minor before they got married, or the one that they
crossed by getting married. There was also a third one they crossed because
they had gotten married. A marriage he had initiated so that she would not
feel guilty about getting physical with him – only to find that the marriage
was never valid in the first place. The relationship they shared had no name,
which made everything they had done worse than just fornication. Until
recently, he didn’t think of it as a big deal, but this was not just that; this
was incest. The thought of that alone was enough to make the strongest of
men go mad, enough to make a man in love deranged.
“From your silence,” the Mufti continued silently, “I may know your
answer.”
When Ahmad raised his head again, his eyes were moist. The Mufti said
a few more things, but everything he heard made his head pound. All his
efforts had been a waste. They were impossible right from the beginning.
When Ahmad got up to leave, the weight in his heart was heavier than it
was when he came in.
“Brother Ahmad?” the Mufti called. Ahmad turned around to see the
Mufti looking at him with eyes filled with sympathy. “Where are you from,
if you don’t mind me asking?”
Ahmad cleared his throat, “Nigeria.”
The Mufti nodded. “I guessed as much from your last name. I’ve been
there a few times – wonderful people, mashaAllah,” he said. “You look like
you’re from a good family.” He allowed his words to sink into Ahmad’s
mind for a minute.”If you have the means to feed 1000 people in need for
1000 days, do it fisabilillah, for the sake of Allah. Allah is the best of
planners.”
Ahmad nodded.
“May Allah make us stronger than our desires,” the Mufti said.
“Ameen,” Ahmad reached for the doorknob and repeated the prayer
back to himself in Hausa: Allah ka sa mu fi karfin zuciyan mu.
I