Chapter 26
Broken Not a halal love story Complete · about 12 min read
wasn’t sleeping well. I always woke up around 2 am or 3 am, no matter
how late I went to bed. I did some nafila (voluntary prayers), studied
before fajr and talked to my parents in Abuja before the sun came up.
I also started going for yoga more frequently, and I looked so much
better than I did around this time last year. I had been having so much free
time since deactivating my Instagram; everyone was suddenly into “couple
goals,” and I got tired of liking pre-wedding pictures. The shelter in Abuja
was almost complete. Most of the primary donors were extended family
members and people who wanted to impress Abba since he never accepted
their gifts; they always seemed extra eager to dig deep into their pockets
whenever I dropped by with my business proposal. But there was still a
staffing problem. I was putting out job ads and going through multiple
resumes and when Abubakar noticed how overwhelming it was, he
suggested a staffing company. With that came dealing with carpenters,
electricians and plumbers. I had lost my vocal cords trying to coordinate
logistics in three weeks I spent in Nigeria while I was on Christmas break,
so when the time came to leave the supervision to the caretaker, I was
elated.
Back in Canada, the ambassador and Aunty Mami were still kind and
gracious when I visited them, which was now only twice or thrice in a
semester. I was very busy with school – at least, that was my excuse for not
visiting as often as I used to. Towards the end of the semester, Afreen and I
were at their dining table talking about a mutual friend’s divorce, which was
a big surprise because she got married about two years prior.
“She told me that he just changed overnight,” Afreen said as she painted
her nails with black halal nail polish. “You know they only dated for a
month, so she never really got to know him.”
“Well, sometimes, courting for shorter periods is the best. Ya fi lada; it
has more blessings.” If not for anything, short courtships didn’t allow you
to succumb to sexual tension and engage in sin like I did.
“Not always. People just aren’t honest about who they are in general.
They don’t show who they really are and short courtships don’t give you
much time to figure it out.”
I noticed movement outside the window, and the smile slowly
disappeared from my face as Ahmad’s white SUV pulled up into the
driveway. I had not seen him since that day he came by the residence and it
had been nine months, two weeks and five days. If I had known that he was
coming to see his parents today, I would have postponed my visit.
We heard him come into the house and listened to his footsteps as he
went upstairs to Aunty Mami’s living room.
“Are you okay?” Afreen asked as she watched my face, “we can go
watch something in my room if you want.”
I was tired of running from him. I never slept over in the house anymore
because of him; the only reason I dropped by was that it was an election
year in Nigeria and the ambassador’s tenure was coming to an end. They
were leaving for Nigeria in less than a week, and I came to wish them a safe
trip back.
“No, it’s okay,” I said as I added some grilled fish to my plate and
heaped a spoonful of yaji pepper. I needed to numb my senses, and the heat
from the chili pepper usually did the trick by making me focus on my
burning tongue.
“I didn’t know he was back from Ireland; I would have told you,” she
said apologetically. Afreen knew how hard the breakup was for me. My
messages were filled with texts of her checking on me. Ahmad, on the other
hand, was always traveling – not that I was keeping tabs on him. I just
heard it in conversations the few times I visited. He was in Riyadh,
somewhere in Malaysia, and now Ireland. It must be nice, I thought to
myself. He’s busy globetrotting and chasing his paper, building his
company every other day. For him, life just continued easily.
“Nah, I’m good actually,” I said as I put a heavily-peppered piece of
fish in my mouth. She turned around as the door opened. I could perceive
his cologne even before he walked in and I didn’t want to look up, but I did.
He was on the phone and our eyes met. He held my gaze for a second
before he looked away. He didn’t say anything to either of us; he just
mumbled something to the person at the other end and left the sitting room,
quietly closing the door behind him. A few seconds later, we heard a bang
down the hallway as he shut the door to his room. I flinched at the sound
and I drank the iced zobo to drown the pain. My heart had not stopped
beating wildly and the goosebumps on my skin didn’t look like they were
subsiding anytime soon.
“You know what?” Afreen broke the silence. “I don’t like this color.
How about we go out for a real mani-pedi?” She tried to keep her voice
light and cheery, but her eyes looked sad. Somehow, I knew they were a
reflection of my own eyes and I was happy to leave the house for some
fresh air.
My sessions with Dr. Na’ima continued. They ranged from a varying
degree of emotions – sometimes indignation, sometimes anger. “Why does
he still send me flowers on my birthday, yet he could not even say salam
when he saw me?” I stood behind the couch in Dr. Na’ima’s office as I
paced the carpeted floors.
She barely made notes these days. Our sessions felt like conversations
with a really wise sage.
“Let’s hold onto that thought for a minute,” she said calmly, “and let’s
examine how that made you feel.”
“I don’t know,” I replied. “How would getting flowers on your birthday
from your ex make you feel?”
“Did you want him to say salam?”
Not really. I didn’t want to be reminded of what his voice sounded like.
But instead, I said: “Yeah, it would’ve made the whole situation less
awkward.”
“How did you know he sent the flowers?”
Flowers got delivered to me on the morning of my birthday – two dozen
red roses. I honestly didn’t care for flowers and what having them entailed –
finding a vase, watering them and trying to keep them alive for as long as
possible even though they would eventually wither.
“It came with a handwritten scribble,” I said, sitting down on the chair
and putting a throw pillow on my legs. “It said: “Happy birthday, Insom.”
“He was the only person who called you that. That’s his nickname for
you,” she said quietly, and I nodded.
Dr. Na’ima somehow managed to remember all the details about my
relationship with Ahmad. I had been candid with her – telling her all about
how we met, how I fell for him and how it ended. Sometimes our sessions
were like chatting with an old friend but other times, it was painful, like
around the anniversary of our mistake of a “marriage” That day, I sat down
with bloodshot eyes on her couch with a box of tissues and the bin next to
me, bawling shamelessly.
“I just feel like I’m a bad person,” I blew my nose, “I know that I’m not
supposed to, but I still have feelings for him.” I still loved him.
“Fa’iza, that doesn’t make you a bad person,” she said.
“No but, like, a bad Muslim. How do you have feelings for someone
that’s like your –” I struggled to call him brother. My heart just refused to
accept the idea, even though my mind had made peace with it.
“Well, love isn’t a tap you can just turn off instantly,” she said. I looked
at her in her nice warm blazer and her teal-colored hijab that matched her
inner blouse. “Liking him and being forbidden to him are two truths that
can exist together. The fact that you’re not acting on those feelings is
commendable, Fai’za; and you need to remember your affirmations,” she
smiled softly, “use kinder words to yourself.”
I blew a raspberry, exhaling loudly. I felt so tiny, like a child even. “Can
I lie down?” I asked, arranging the pillows at the end of the couch without
waiting for her reply.
“Of course,” she replied, “get comfortable.”
I laid on the couch staring at the ceiling until her voice broke into my
thoughts, “you know what? How about we do an exercise?” She brought
out her notebook for the first time in today’s session. “I call it the 3-1
balance.”
I liked learning new things, so whenever I heard something I knew
nothing about, my curious mind forgot about my other problems and
latched onto that immediately.
“It’s about humanizing people we place on a pedestal. I want you to tell
me three things that drew you to Ahmad and then one thing you dislike
about him.”
I sighed. I had to make a conscious effort not to think of the things we
did when we were alone. Those things only brought back my panic attacks.
I could never forget the way he smiled, the way he held his coffee mug with
his left hand, the way he always inhaled and exhaled whenever we hugged,
the tiny pecks on my lips after we kiss, the forehead kisses, the way he
knew about changes to my flights before I did. “I like how he treats his
mum and his sister,” I said slowly and honestly. Ahmad’s relationship with
his mom was so beautiful, he revered and loved her, and his mannerisms
around her showed just that. I loved their relationship and even though he
and Afreen were constantly bickering, I knew how much he cared for her. I
saw how hard he fought for her happiness with Zafar. He was practically
the only one in the family on her side. The only one she felt comfortable
enough to come clean to, in the hopes that he would persuade her parents on
her behalf.
“Okay, that’s one. You’re doing great. What else?”
“I like that he built his own thing from scratch instead of relying on his
father’s wealth, like most guys I know would.” She nodded at me as I
spoke; I had told her months before about how Ahmad lived by his own
rules.
She nodded, waiting for me to continue.
“I don’t have a third reason,” I said. It was a lie.
“I’m sure if you dig a little deeper, you would find something.”
This was the reason I fell as hard as I did. “I liked how he made me a
priority,” I sniffed, “like nothing else mattered when I was with him. He
made me feel good about myself and –” I know his love is genuine. I
couldn’t complete my sentence. The tears choked me.
She gave me a minute to reach for the box of tissues. The room was
once again filled with the sound of me blowing my nose.
“Thanks for sharing,” she said, as if to encourage me to trust her with
my deepest secrets. “Just so you know, having feelings for a man like this
doesn’t make you a bad person, Fa’iza. He sounds like someone anyone
would fall for. You’re not weak for doing so.”
I sighed, relieved. I needed to hear that. It was okay that I still had
feelings for him because I was sure that with time, they would slowly fade.
It was a brutal truth but, with the much-needed compassion.
“In our earlier sessions we talked about how being the youngest and
only daughter in cultures like ours can make one feel unseen,” she reminded
me, “and when we find someone who sees us for the first time, it is like a
serotonin and dopamine high.”
My sessions got better, and so did I. As I started looking for internship
positions in November, my sessions had dropped from weekly to once in
three weeks after my follow-up assessment. I was shopping again, I even
went on a road trip with Ada and Sara to Niagara Falls. My first time there
was with Ahmad and Afreen the previous year.
The year had come to an end and the week the snow started again, I
excitedly walked into Dr. Nai’ma’s office. I dropped my bag on the couch
and made myself some tea. “You know, I’ve been thinking,” I said as I
stirred some honey into my cup. “When you asked, I didn’t have anything I
disliked about Ahmad, but I finally got one.” I sat down on the couch,
pleased with myself. “He’s actually very manipulative,” I said. I was
literally shaking with excitement at the idea. Ahmad might actually be the
villain in my story, and I had a damn good reason to give him that title.
“You seem very happy with this epiphany,’ she said as she watched me
take a sip of my tea. “How did you arrive at this?”
I dropped the teacup on the saucer, placed it on the wooden coaster on
the side table, leaned back into the couch and crossed my leg. “He has this
way of making you do what he wants in a way that makes you feel like it
was your idea.” I spoke fast, with animated hands, excited to share this
information with her.
“Can you give me more clarity on that?” she said, unmoved.
“So, for example, when he’s talking to anyone – his assistant maybe –
he would not say, ‘Brooke, bring me x-y-z’, if he wanted a file; he would
say, ‘do you wanna send me that file we talked about?’” I did an awful
imitation of his British accent.
“Okay?” she did not get it. Why else was she not celebrating this
incredible moment? I had finally found what I could use to hate Ahmad
forever, what would help me get over him. And she wasn’t excited.
“Okay, so while we were dating, he would not say, ‘I want this’, or ‘let’s
do this’,” I spoke slowly so that she wouldn’t miss a word I was saying,
“He would ask, ‘what do you want? ‘or ‘whatever you want’,”
“So, he always wanted your input?”
“As a way to convince me into thinking it was my idea.”
She was silent for a while, like she was wondering how I came to such a
conclusion. Finally, she asked, “so you think he was persuasive?”
“Yes,” I clapped as I exclaimed. Manipulative sounds better in my head
but sure, I’d take this.
“Okay, good job completing the 3 -1. Always remember not to get
fixated on anyone else. Take responsibility for your actions. Therapy is
about you, not the people who you believe have wronged you.” Our 1-hour
session seemed to breeze by these days. This time last year, they were such
a drag.
I
how late I went to bed. I did some nafila (voluntary prayers), studied
before fajr and talked to my parents in Abuja before the sun came up.
I also started going for yoga more frequently, and I looked so much
better than I did around this time last year. I had been having so much free
time since deactivating my Instagram; everyone was suddenly into “couple
goals,” and I got tired of liking pre-wedding pictures. The shelter in Abuja
was almost complete. Most of the primary donors were extended family
members and people who wanted to impress Abba since he never accepted
their gifts; they always seemed extra eager to dig deep into their pockets
whenever I dropped by with my business proposal. But there was still a
staffing problem. I was putting out job ads and going through multiple
resumes and when Abubakar noticed how overwhelming it was, he
suggested a staffing company. With that came dealing with carpenters,
electricians and plumbers. I had lost my vocal cords trying to coordinate
logistics in three weeks I spent in Nigeria while I was on Christmas break,
so when the time came to leave the supervision to the caretaker, I was
elated.
Back in Canada, the ambassador and Aunty Mami were still kind and
gracious when I visited them, which was now only twice or thrice in a
semester. I was very busy with school – at least, that was my excuse for not
visiting as often as I used to. Towards the end of the semester, Afreen and I
were at their dining table talking about a mutual friend’s divorce, which was
a big surprise because she got married about two years prior.
“She told me that he just changed overnight,” Afreen said as she painted
her nails with black halal nail polish. “You know they only dated for a
month, so she never really got to know him.”
“Well, sometimes, courting for shorter periods is the best. Ya fi lada; it
has more blessings.” If not for anything, short courtships didn’t allow you
to succumb to sexual tension and engage in sin like I did.
“Not always. People just aren’t honest about who they are in general.
They don’t show who they really are and short courtships don’t give you
much time to figure it out.”
I noticed movement outside the window, and the smile slowly
disappeared from my face as Ahmad’s white SUV pulled up into the
driveway. I had not seen him since that day he came by the residence and it
had been nine months, two weeks and five days. If I had known that he was
coming to see his parents today, I would have postponed my visit.
We heard him come into the house and listened to his footsteps as he
went upstairs to Aunty Mami’s living room.
“Are you okay?” Afreen asked as she watched my face, “we can go
watch something in my room if you want.”
I was tired of running from him. I never slept over in the house anymore
because of him; the only reason I dropped by was that it was an election
year in Nigeria and the ambassador’s tenure was coming to an end. They
were leaving for Nigeria in less than a week, and I came to wish them a safe
trip back.
“No, it’s okay,” I said as I added some grilled fish to my plate and
heaped a spoonful of yaji pepper. I needed to numb my senses, and the heat
from the chili pepper usually did the trick by making me focus on my
burning tongue.
“I didn’t know he was back from Ireland; I would have told you,” she
said apologetically. Afreen knew how hard the breakup was for me. My
messages were filled with texts of her checking on me. Ahmad, on the other
hand, was always traveling – not that I was keeping tabs on him. I just
heard it in conversations the few times I visited. He was in Riyadh,
somewhere in Malaysia, and now Ireland. It must be nice, I thought to
myself. He’s busy globetrotting and chasing his paper, building his
company every other day. For him, life just continued easily.
“Nah, I’m good actually,” I said as I put a heavily-peppered piece of
fish in my mouth. She turned around as the door opened. I could perceive
his cologne even before he walked in and I didn’t want to look up, but I did.
He was on the phone and our eyes met. He held my gaze for a second
before he looked away. He didn’t say anything to either of us; he just
mumbled something to the person at the other end and left the sitting room,
quietly closing the door behind him. A few seconds later, we heard a bang
down the hallway as he shut the door to his room. I flinched at the sound
and I drank the iced zobo to drown the pain. My heart had not stopped
beating wildly and the goosebumps on my skin didn’t look like they were
subsiding anytime soon.
“You know what?” Afreen broke the silence. “I don’t like this color.
How about we go out for a real mani-pedi?” She tried to keep her voice
light and cheery, but her eyes looked sad. Somehow, I knew they were a
reflection of my own eyes and I was happy to leave the house for some
fresh air.
My sessions with Dr. Na’ima continued. They ranged from a varying
degree of emotions – sometimes indignation, sometimes anger. “Why does
he still send me flowers on my birthday, yet he could not even say salam
when he saw me?” I stood behind the couch in Dr. Na’ima’s office as I
paced the carpeted floors.
She barely made notes these days. Our sessions felt like conversations
with a really wise sage.
“Let’s hold onto that thought for a minute,” she said calmly, “and let’s
examine how that made you feel.”
“I don’t know,” I replied. “How would getting flowers on your birthday
from your ex make you feel?”
“Did you want him to say salam?”
Not really. I didn’t want to be reminded of what his voice sounded like.
But instead, I said: “Yeah, it would’ve made the whole situation less
awkward.”
“How did you know he sent the flowers?”
Flowers got delivered to me on the morning of my birthday – two dozen
red roses. I honestly didn’t care for flowers and what having them entailed –
finding a vase, watering them and trying to keep them alive for as long as
possible even though they would eventually wither.
“It came with a handwritten scribble,” I said, sitting down on the chair
and putting a throw pillow on my legs. “It said: “Happy birthday, Insom.”
“He was the only person who called you that. That’s his nickname for
you,” she said quietly, and I nodded.
Dr. Na’ima somehow managed to remember all the details about my
relationship with Ahmad. I had been candid with her – telling her all about
how we met, how I fell for him and how it ended. Sometimes our sessions
were like chatting with an old friend but other times, it was painful, like
around the anniversary of our mistake of a “marriage” That day, I sat down
with bloodshot eyes on her couch with a box of tissues and the bin next to
me, bawling shamelessly.
“I just feel like I’m a bad person,” I blew my nose, “I know that I’m not
supposed to, but I still have feelings for him.” I still loved him.
“Fa’iza, that doesn’t make you a bad person,” she said.
“No but, like, a bad Muslim. How do you have feelings for someone
that’s like your –” I struggled to call him brother. My heart just refused to
accept the idea, even though my mind had made peace with it.
“Well, love isn’t a tap you can just turn off instantly,” she said. I looked
at her in her nice warm blazer and her teal-colored hijab that matched her
inner blouse. “Liking him and being forbidden to him are two truths that
can exist together. The fact that you’re not acting on those feelings is
commendable, Fai’za; and you need to remember your affirmations,” she
smiled softly, “use kinder words to yourself.”
I blew a raspberry, exhaling loudly. I felt so tiny, like a child even. “Can
I lie down?” I asked, arranging the pillows at the end of the couch without
waiting for her reply.
“Of course,” she replied, “get comfortable.”
I laid on the couch staring at the ceiling until her voice broke into my
thoughts, “you know what? How about we do an exercise?” She brought
out her notebook for the first time in today’s session. “I call it the 3-1
balance.”
I liked learning new things, so whenever I heard something I knew
nothing about, my curious mind forgot about my other problems and
latched onto that immediately.
“It’s about humanizing people we place on a pedestal. I want you to tell
me three things that drew you to Ahmad and then one thing you dislike
about him.”
I sighed. I had to make a conscious effort not to think of the things we
did when we were alone. Those things only brought back my panic attacks.
I could never forget the way he smiled, the way he held his coffee mug with
his left hand, the way he always inhaled and exhaled whenever we hugged,
the tiny pecks on my lips after we kiss, the forehead kisses, the way he
knew about changes to my flights before I did. “I like how he treats his
mum and his sister,” I said slowly and honestly. Ahmad’s relationship with
his mom was so beautiful, he revered and loved her, and his mannerisms
around her showed just that. I loved their relationship and even though he
and Afreen were constantly bickering, I knew how much he cared for her. I
saw how hard he fought for her happiness with Zafar. He was practically
the only one in the family on her side. The only one she felt comfortable
enough to come clean to, in the hopes that he would persuade her parents on
her behalf.
“Okay, that’s one. You’re doing great. What else?”
“I like that he built his own thing from scratch instead of relying on his
father’s wealth, like most guys I know would.” She nodded at me as I
spoke; I had told her months before about how Ahmad lived by his own
rules.
She nodded, waiting for me to continue.
“I don’t have a third reason,” I said. It was a lie.
“I’m sure if you dig a little deeper, you would find something.”
This was the reason I fell as hard as I did. “I liked how he made me a
priority,” I sniffed, “like nothing else mattered when I was with him. He
made me feel good about myself and –” I know his love is genuine. I
couldn’t complete my sentence. The tears choked me.
She gave me a minute to reach for the box of tissues. The room was
once again filled with the sound of me blowing my nose.
“Thanks for sharing,” she said, as if to encourage me to trust her with
my deepest secrets. “Just so you know, having feelings for a man like this
doesn’t make you a bad person, Fa’iza. He sounds like someone anyone
would fall for. You’re not weak for doing so.”
I sighed, relieved. I needed to hear that. It was okay that I still had
feelings for him because I was sure that with time, they would slowly fade.
It was a brutal truth but, with the much-needed compassion.
“In our earlier sessions we talked about how being the youngest and
only daughter in cultures like ours can make one feel unseen,” she reminded
me, “and when we find someone who sees us for the first time, it is like a
serotonin and dopamine high.”
My sessions got better, and so did I. As I started looking for internship
positions in November, my sessions had dropped from weekly to once in
three weeks after my follow-up assessment. I was shopping again, I even
went on a road trip with Ada and Sara to Niagara Falls. My first time there
was with Ahmad and Afreen the previous year.
The year had come to an end and the week the snow started again, I
excitedly walked into Dr. Nai’ma’s office. I dropped my bag on the couch
and made myself some tea. “You know, I’ve been thinking,” I said as I
stirred some honey into my cup. “When you asked, I didn’t have anything I
disliked about Ahmad, but I finally got one.” I sat down on the couch,
pleased with myself. “He’s actually very manipulative,” I said. I was
literally shaking with excitement at the idea. Ahmad might actually be the
villain in my story, and I had a damn good reason to give him that title.
“You seem very happy with this epiphany,’ she said as she watched me
take a sip of my tea. “How did you arrive at this?”
I dropped the teacup on the saucer, placed it on the wooden coaster on
the side table, leaned back into the couch and crossed my leg. “He has this
way of making you do what he wants in a way that makes you feel like it
was your idea.” I spoke fast, with animated hands, excited to share this
information with her.
“Can you give me more clarity on that?” she said, unmoved.
“So, for example, when he’s talking to anyone – his assistant maybe –
he would not say, ‘Brooke, bring me x-y-z’, if he wanted a file; he would
say, ‘do you wanna send me that file we talked about?’” I did an awful
imitation of his British accent.
“Okay?” she did not get it. Why else was she not celebrating this
incredible moment? I had finally found what I could use to hate Ahmad
forever, what would help me get over him. And she wasn’t excited.
“Okay, so while we were dating, he would not say, ‘I want this’, or ‘let’s
do this’,” I spoke slowly so that she wouldn’t miss a word I was saying,
“He would ask, ‘what do you want? ‘or ‘whatever you want’,”
“So, he always wanted your input?”
“As a way to convince me into thinking it was my idea.”
She was silent for a while, like she was wondering how I came to such a
conclusion. Finally, she asked, “so you think he was persuasive?”
“Yes,” I clapped as I exclaimed. Manipulative sounds better in my head
but sure, I’d take this.
“Okay, good job completing the 3 -1. Always remember not to get
fixated on anyone else. Take responsibility for your actions. Therapy is
about you, not the people who you believe have wronged you.” Our 1-hour
session seemed to breeze by these days. This time last year, they were such
a drag.
I