Chapter 29
Broken Not a halal love story Complete · about 11 min read
Toronto, June 2015
hmad had just commissioned Project Feed-A-Child, which provided
three meals a day to Almajiri children and the less fortunate in 10
states in northern Nigeria. In 12 months, he hoped to cover the country, and
by the 36th month, he planned on spreading out to major cities in other
West Africa like Dakar, Accra, and Bamako. He made an undertaking to
feed 1000 people, but he intended to do more than that as sadaqah,
goodwill for them both. On Friday evenings, he usually stopped at the
Mosque before heading home. This Friday was different; he had never
imagined that he would not be standing next to her on the day she
eventually graduated. He left the office early to catch a game at his place.
As he watched the basketball match in his living room, his sister called him;
she had just gotten back from her honeymoon.
“Somebody’s wife,” he said as he picked up. Ignoring the multiple
unread messages from Sakina, the daughter of a family friend he met during
Afreen’s wedding.
She laughed, “thank you for the wedding gift.” She knew that she didn’t
have to thank him, but this was her excuse to check up on him. “You doing
okay?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” he continued watching the game.
“Well, for one, you’re moving to Nigeria.”
“Yeah, temporarily. I’m just gonna be there for like three months to
kickstart a project.” He had no intention of telling anyone in his family
about Project Feed-A-Child; that was between him and Allah.
His sister remained quiet on the phone, then she asked, “sure it has
nothing to do with her?”
“Nope,” he answered a little too quickly.
“Because you didn’t decide to leave Canada until she graduated, and –”
“Afreen, don’t you have a husband to bother?” he laughed.
“It’s just that she has finally healed. Your timing is really awful.”
“Okay, noted. I’m just gonna suspend everything until it’s convenient
for you both.” His doorbell rang; it was the dinner he’d ordered on his way
back. “I gotta go. Thanks for checking in.”
“Ahm –”
Ahmad ended the call, pulled on a shirt and opened his wallet to find a
bill generous enough to cover the tip. When he opened the door, he was
surprised to see Fa’iza. She was wearing a black dress and a black veil, her
eyes were lined in kohl, and her lips were covered in red lipstick. She was
not smiling.
“I called your office and they said you’d left,” she spoke quickly and
angrily as she held up an envelope, “I didn’t wanna come here, but what the
heck?”
“Wa alaikumus salam to you too,” he said dryly as he stepped to the
side to allow her in, “you can come in.”
She walked past him and into the apartment, not stopping to take off her
shoes. Now standing in the sitting room, she turned around to face him and
started tapping her feet impatiently; she was wearing open-toed stilettos,
and her toes were painted red. “What’s this?” she asked. It suddenly crossed
Ahmad’s mind that she’d shied away from confrontations, but that seemed
to have changed. She looked beautiful when she was angry, and he had no
idea what she was angry about. The scent of her perfume made it harder to
think; it had been so long since she was in his apartment, yet now that she
was here, it was like she never left.
“What’s what, Fa’iza?” Ahmad asked as he made his way to the kitchen
to grab a bottle of water. He almost wished he had alcohol because his mind
was suddenly agitated. He wondered how much of a stress-buster nicotine
was, and maybe it was time for him to pick up smoking as a habit. As he
drank the water from the bottle, he turned around to see that she had opened
the envelope and was waving him a cheque.
“I don’t need your charity.”
Ahmad thought about how stubborn she was and how much he loved
that about her. “It’s not charity. The money is yours,” he said, distracting
himself from her presence by drinking more water.” There was more than
enough for her to run the Shelter for five years at least without her worrying
about donors, especially men who would want to take advantage of her.
“Your money is not mine! And we have sufficient donors. I don’t need
you.”
That was not true. Pierre updated him on her NGO financial and
transaction records every few months and the expenses were more than the
donations. By his projections, they would barely make it into the first
quarter before they became bankrupt. He scoffed and shook his head, “It’s
your dividends from your shares over the years,” he looked at his
wristwatch, wondering where his dinner was.
Her phone beeped and she ignored it. “What dividends?”
“Dividends from the company shares,” he replied, wondering who was
texting her, and if she was seeing someone.
“Spousal shares?”
He nodded gently.
“Why are the spousal shares still in my name? When the marriage was
voided, they should have automatically gone back to you.”
Ahmad knew she read the contract before she signed it but he must have
underestimated how meticulous she was to remember this one clause. He
scratched his forehead as he looked at the floor.
“You annulled the marriage when you got back, didn’t you?” she was
staring at him, unblinking.
He didn’t answer.
“Ahmad!”
All that was going through his mind was how beautiful she looked in
that dress and the way she called his name. “Yeah, about that….” he started.
“You did not annul the marriage?” she whispered like she was scared
someone would hear her and slowly sat on the chair by the dining table,
muttering the shahada over and over.
“You weren’t picking my calls and they needed both parties at City Hall
to sign the divorce documents,” he shrugged, picked up the remote and
started changing channels. “It’s not my fault.”
“That’s not true,” she shook her head as she spoke. “If the marriage is
less than three months, one person can file for dissolution.” She buried her
head in her hands and continued saying the shahada.
Oh yeah, that’s right, he thought to himself. She’s a Canadian lawyer
now. Their Islamic marriage might be void, but the documents he submitted
in the court still had them listed as husband and wife.
“I’m leaving tomorrow, so this needs to be taken care of now,” she said
as she stood up.
“What’s the hurry? Aure za ki yi, ne? Are you getting married?” he
chuckled bitterly as he gulped down the rest of his water and squeezed the
empty bottle into a flattened mess. He watched as her eyes glance down at
his unbuttoned shirt and back to his face; he knew that, like him, she
remembered everything that had happened within these walls. As she
adjusted her veil over her head, he remembered running his hands through
her hair and the floral scent of her shampoo from the many nights they
spent together with his face buried in her hair. Oh boy.
He walked away from her and back into the kitchen. This would be a
good time for the food to arrive, Ahmad thought as he glanced at his watch
again.
“I can see you’re expecting someone. I’ll leave you to it,” she left the
cheque on the chair and angrily walked towards the door.
“I’m waiting for my food.”
“Whatever. I’ll start the proceedings for what you should have done
years ago. I also won’t be expecting any more dividends. Thank you.” She
opened the door and let herself out, banging the door shut.
Ahmad sat on his couch, rubbing his temples and thinking of the
marriage certificate he still had in his safe after all these years. In the
beginning, he had held onto it because he knew he could fix the situation
and there would be no need to annul the marriage or relinquish her stake in
his company as his spouse. Unfortunately, as it became apparent that Fa’iza
was not going to be his in this lifetime – with all the slow leads for the wet
nurse’s location going cold – he still could not bring himself to do what was
needed.
There was finally a knock on the door and Ahmad was relieved his food
was here at last. He got up, picked up his wallet again and went to open the
door. It was Amin. The look of surprise on his face was a clear contrast to
Amin’s unsmiling face and stiff demeanor. Ahmad knew that her brothers
were in town for her graduation, but he was not expecting a visit from them.
“Aminu,” he called out playfully to his old friend. He held the door
open for him and Amin quietly walked into the apartment, looking around
as he did. As Ahmad closed the door, he asked him how he had been and
invited him to stay for dinner. “Amin, lafiya? Is everything okay?” Ahmad
asked, noticing Amin was still not smiling.
“How long has this been going on?” Amin asked quietly, chuckling as
he walked further into the living room.”There’s no need to pretend; I
followed her here.”
Her! Ahmad laughed in his head. Of course, this was about Fa’iza.
“Oh no, she just came to clear up a little misunderstanding,” Ahmad
said, careful not to go into details. He knew that Fai’za wouldn’t want her
brothers to know about their secret.
“A friend of mine saw you two leaving a hotel a few months ago.” It
was not a question.
“What? Me and Fa’iza? Must have been a mistake.”
" Fairmont Royal York,” Amin was certain.
Ah, damn it! Ahmad thought. That was the day he followed her
downtown with the donor fiasco. He sat down on the chair and started
rubbing his temples.
“You betrayed me,” Amin’s voice was hoarse as he looked at Ahmad
with anger and disgust. “She’s my sister, for God’s sake.”
“It’s not what you think,” Ahmad tried to explain, but Amin raised his
voice even higher. “Ba ka tsoron Allah,ne? You’re not even afraid of
Allah?”
Here came Amin with the righteousness, Ahmad thought, remembering
the reason they had drifted apart as teenagers. Everything was black and
white in Amin’s world, a blatant refusal to see reason sometimes.
“Why do you insist on being in a relationship with someone forbidden
for you?”
“We’re definitely not in a relationship,” Ahmad spoke slowly, trying to
talk over Amin to get his words across.
“Yaudaran ta kake yi; you’re deceiving her. That’s the conclusion I’ve
come to. If she insists on being stupid, why won’t you be the responsible
one and do what’s right?”
Ahmad remained still as he listened to Amin’s words. This could end
really badly, he thought. But this was Fa’iza’s brother, and that meant
something to him. Ahmad chose to reason with him. “If you knew her well,
you’d know that she’s not that type of girl; she’s responsible. And it’s been
years since she cut me out of her life.”
“I’ve had my suspicions since that morning you showed up at the house,
you know.”
“For the last time, Aminu. Wallahi tallahi ba komai tsakanin mu; I
swear there’s nothing between us.”
“Then prove it,” Amin said smugly.
“Prove what?”
“Prove it. Find a wife and get married. I imagine that wouldn’t be a
difficult task for someone like you; there’re always women falling at your
feet,” he had a wicked smile on his face as he stared at Ahmad. “My sister
may be stupid, but she’s got our mother’s pride; she won’t continue with
whatever you two are doing, if you have a wife.”
“You can’t force me to get married. What are we, kids?” It infuriated
Ahmad how Amin talked about Fa’iza, but he knew he couldn’t defend her.
He walked to the kitchen to get another bottle of water.
“I’m not going to watch you ruin her life. Get married and leave my
sister alone,” Amin followed him and placed a photocopied piece of paper
on the kitchen island. “Or I’m going to show Abba this.”
Ahmad closed the fridge and looked down at the piece of paper Amin
had pushed toward him. The unopened bottle of water fell on the white
marble top almost on its own accord as he looked at the copy of the
marriage certificate on the kitchen island.
“Where – where did you get that?” Ahmad knew how bad this looked to
someone on the outside; it looked like they had disregarded the stipulations
forbidding them to be together and continued a clandestine affair over the
years.
“It is almost too easy to access public records in this country,” he
smirked as he watched the blood drain from Ahmad’s face.
“It’s not what you think,” was all Ahmad could manage to say.
“She’s forbidden for you but – as usual – you found a way around the
word of Allah.”
As he stared at the marriage certificate, all Ahmad could think about
was Fa’iza. His heart crumbled at the thought of her being devastated again
and having tears in her eyes again. This was her worst nightmare coming
true – her family finding out about what they did years ago. If her father or
Umma ever saw this, it would kill her; she would be forced to relive the
pain all over again, and they might not even believe her. It would be her
word against Amin’s, and right now, Amin made a compelling argument on
paper, even though the reality couldn’t be further than his assumptions. His
head was pounding. He had no plans to get married, not anytime soon.
However, the secret marriage and not annulling the marriage were on him.
This was all his fault, and if getting married was the only way to be held
accountable and to hide the secret from the rest of her family, it seemed a
small price to pay. “Please don’t show Abba that,” he finally said.
“Get married, and this secret is safe with me.” Amin repeated.
I
hmad had just commissioned Project Feed-A-Child, which provided
three meals a day to Almajiri children and the less fortunate in 10
states in northern Nigeria. In 12 months, he hoped to cover the country, and
by the 36th month, he planned on spreading out to major cities in other
West Africa like Dakar, Accra, and Bamako. He made an undertaking to
feed 1000 people, but he intended to do more than that as sadaqah,
goodwill for them both. On Friday evenings, he usually stopped at the
Mosque before heading home. This Friday was different; he had never
imagined that he would not be standing next to her on the day she
eventually graduated. He left the office early to catch a game at his place.
As he watched the basketball match in his living room, his sister called him;
she had just gotten back from her honeymoon.
“Somebody’s wife,” he said as he picked up. Ignoring the multiple
unread messages from Sakina, the daughter of a family friend he met during
Afreen’s wedding.
She laughed, “thank you for the wedding gift.” She knew that she didn’t
have to thank him, but this was her excuse to check up on him. “You doing
okay?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” he continued watching the game.
“Well, for one, you’re moving to Nigeria.”
“Yeah, temporarily. I’m just gonna be there for like three months to
kickstart a project.” He had no intention of telling anyone in his family
about Project Feed-A-Child; that was between him and Allah.
His sister remained quiet on the phone, then she asked, “sure it has
nothing to do with her?”
“Nope,” he answered a little too quickly.
“Because you didn’t decide to leave Canada until she graduated, and –”
“Afreen, don’t you have a husband to bother?” he laughed.
“It’s just that she has finally healed. Your timing is really awful.”
“Okay, noted. I’m just gonna suspend everything until it’s convenient
for you both.” His doorbell rang; it was the dinner he’d ordered on his way
back. “I gotta go. Thanks for checking in.”
“Ahm –”
Ahmad ended the call, pulled on a shirt and opened his wallet to find a
bill generous enough to cover the tip. When he opened the door, he was
surprised to see Fa’iza. She was wearing a black dress and a black veil, her
eyes were lined in kohl, and her lips were covered in red lipstick. She was
not smiling.
“I called your office and they said you’d left,” she spoke quickly and
angrily as she held up an envelope, “I didn’t wanna come here, but what the
heck?”
“Wa alaikumus salam to you too,” he said dryly as he stepped to the
side to allow her in, “you can come in.”
She walked past him and into the apartment, not stopping to take off her
shoes. Now standing in the sitting room, she turned around to face him and
started tapping her feet impatiently; she was wearing open-toed stilettos,
and her toes were painted red. “What’s this?” she asked. It suddenly crossed
Ahmad’s mind that she’d shied away from confrontations, but that seemed
to have changed. She looked beautiful when she was angry, and he had no
idea what she was angry about. The scent of her perfume made it harder to
think; it had been so long since she was in his apartment, yet now that she
was here, it was like she never left.
“What’s what, Fa’iza?” Ahmad asked as he made his way to the kitchen
to grab a bottle of water. He almost wished he had alcohol because his mind
was suddenly agitated. He wondered how much of a stress-buster nicotine
was, and maybe it was time for him to pick up smoking as a habit. As he
drank the water from the bottle, he turned around to see that she had opened
the envelope and was waving him a cheque.
“I don’t need your charity.”
Ahmad thought about how stubborn she was and how much he loved
that about her. “It’s not charity. The money is yours,” he said, distracting
himself from her presence by drinking more water.” There was more than
enough for her to run the Shelter for five years at least without her worrying
about donors, especially men who would want to take advantage of her.
“Your money is not mine! And we have sufficient donors. I don’t need
you.”
That was not true. Pierre updated him on her NGO financial and
transaction records every few months and the expenses were more than the
donations. By his projections, they would barely make it into the first
quarter before they became bankrupt. He scoffed and shook his head, “It’s
your dividends from your shares over the years,” he looked at his
wristwatch, wondering where his dinner was.
Her phone beeped and she ignored it. “What dividends?”
“Dividends from the company shares,” he replied, wondering who was
texting her, and if she was seeing someone.
“Spousal shares?”
He nodded gently.
“Why are the spousal shares still in my name? When the marriage was
voided, they should have automatically gone back to you.”
Ahmad knew she read the contract before she signed it but he must have
underestimated how meticulous she was to remember this one clause. He
scratched his forehead as he looked at the floor.
“You annulled the marriage when you got back, didn’t you?” she was
staring at him, unblinking.
He didn’t answer.
“Ahmad!”
All that was going through his mind was how beautiful she looked in
that dress and the way she called his name. “Yeah, about that….” he started.
“You did not annul the marriage?” she whispered like she was scared
someone would hear her and slowly sat on the chair by the dining table,
muttering the shahada over and over.
“You weren’t picking my calls and they needed both parties at City Hall
to sign the divorce documents,” he shrugged, picked up the remote and
started changing channels. “It’s not my fault.”
“That’s not true,” she shook her head as she spoke. “If the marriage is
less than three months, one person can file for dissolution.” She buried her
head in her hands and continued saying the shahada.
Oh yeah, that’s right, he thought to himself. She’s a Canadian lawyer
now. Their Islamic marriage might be void, but the documents he submitted
in the court still had them listed as husband and wife.
“I’m leaving tomorrow, so this needs to be taken care of now,” she said
as she stood up.
“What’s the hurry? Aure za ki yi, ne? Are you getting married?” he
chuckled bitterly as he gulped down the rest of his water and squeezed the
empty bottle into a flattened mess. He watched as her eyes glance down at
his unbuttoned shirt and back to his face; he knew that, like him, she
remembered everything that had happened within these walls. As she
adjusted her veil over her head, he remembered running his hands through
her hair and the floral scent of her shampoo from the many nights they
spent together with his face buried in her hair. Oh boy.
He walked away from her and back into the kitchen. This would be a
good time for the food to arrive, Ahmad thought as he glanced at his watch
again.
“I can see you’re expecting someone. I’ll leave you to it,” she left the
cheque on the chair and angrily walked towards the door.
“I’m waiting for my food.”
“Whatever. I’ll start the proceedings for what you should have done
years ago. I also won’t be expecting any more dividends. Thank you.” She
opened the door and let herself out, banging the door shut.
Ahmad sat on his couch, rubbing his temples and thinking of the
marriage certificate he still had in his safe after all these years. In the
beginning, he had held onto it because he knew he could fix the situation
and there would be no need to annul the marriage or relinquish her stake in
his company as his spouse. Unfortunately, as it became apparent that Fa’iza
was not going to be his in this lifetime – with all the slow leads for the wet
nurse’s location going cold – he still could not bring himself to do what was
needed.
There was finally a knock on the door and Ahmad was relieved his food
was here at last. He got up, picked up his wallet again and went to open the
door. It was Amin. The look of surprise on his face was a clear contrast to
Amin’s unsmiling face and stiff demeanor. Ahmad knew that her brothers
were in town for her graduation, but he was not expecting a visit from them.
“Aminu,” he called out playfully to his old friend. He held the door
open for him and Amin quietly walked into the apartment, looking around
as he did. As Ahmad closed the door, he asked him how he had been and
invited him to stay for dinner. “Amin, lafiya? Is everything okay?” Ahmad
asked, noticing Amin was still not smiling.
“How long has this been going on?” Amin asked quietly, chuckling as
he walked further into the living room.”There’s no need to pretend; I
followed her here.”
Her! Ahmad laughed in his head. Of course, this was about Fa’iza.
“Oh no, she just came to clear up a little misunderstanding,” Ahmad
said, careful not to go into details. He knew that Fai’za wouldn’t want her
brothers to know about their secret.
“A friend of mine saw you two leaving a hotel a few months ago.” It
was not a question.
“What? Me and Fa’iza? Must have been a mistake.”
" Fairmont Royal York,” Amin was certain.
Ah, damn it! Ahmad thought. That was the day he followed her
downtown with the donor fiasco. He sat down on the chair and started
rubbing his temples.
“You betrayed me,” Amin’s voice was hoarse as he looked at Ahmad
with anger and disgust. “She’s my sister, for God’s sake.”
“It’s not what you think,” Ahmad tried to explain, but Amin raised his
voice even higher. “Ba ka tsoron Allah,ne? You’re not even afraid of
Allah?”
Here came Amin with the righteousness, Ahmad thought, remembering
the reason they had drifted apart as teenagers. Everything was black and
white in Amin’s world, a blatant refusal to see reason sometimes.
“Why do you insist on being in a relationship with someone forbidden
for you?”
“We’re definitely not in a relationship,” Ahmad spoke slowly, trying to
talk over Amin to get his words across.
“Yaudaran ta kake yi; you’re deceiving her. That’s the conclusion I’ve
come to. If she insists on being stupid, why won’t you be the responsible
one and do what’s right?”
Ahmad remained still as he listened to Amin’s words. This could end
really badly, he thought. But this was Fa’iza’s brother, and that meant
something to him. Ahmad chose to reason with him. “If you knew her well,
you’d know that she’s not that type of girl; she’s responsible. And it’s been
years since she cut me out of her life.”
“I’ve had my suspicions since that morning you showed up at the house,
you know.”
“For the last time, Aminu. Wallahi tallahi ba komai tsakanin mu; I
swear there’s nothing between us.”
“Then prove it,” Amin said smugly.
“Prove what?”
“Prove it. Find a wife and get married. I imagine that wouldn’t be a
difficult task for someone like you; there’re always women falling at your
feet,” he had a wicked smile on his face as he stared at Ahmad. “My sister
may be stupid, but she’s got our mother’s pride; she won’t continue with
whatever you two are doing, if you have a wife.”
“You can’t force me to get married. What are we, kids?” It infuriated
Ahmad how Amin talked about Fa’iza, but he knew he couldn’t defend her.
He walked to the kitchen to get another bottle of water.
“I’m not going to watch you ruin her life. Get married and leave my
sister alone,” Amin followed him and placed a photocopied piece of paper
on the kitchen island. “Or I’m going to show Abba this.”
Ahmad closed the fridge and looked down at the piece of paper Amin
had pushed toward him. The unopened bottle of water fell on the white
marble top almost on its own accord as he looked at the copy of the
marriage certificate on the kitchen island.
“Where – where did you get that?” Ahmad knew how bad this looked to
someone on the outside; it looked like they had disregarded the stipulations
forbidding them to be together and continued a clandestine affair over the
years.
“It is almost too easy to access public records in this country,” he
smirked as he watched the blood drain from Ahmad’s face.
“It’s not what you think,” was all Ahmad could manage to say.
“She’s forbidden for you but – as usual – you found a way around the
word of Allah.”
As he stared at the marriage certificate, all Ahmad could think about
was Fa’iza. His heart crumbled at the thought of her being devastated again
and having tears in her eyes again. This was her worst nightmare coming
true – her family finding out about what they did years ago. If her father or
Umma ever saw this, it would kill her; she would be forced to relive the
pain all over again, and they might not even believe her. It would be her
word against Amin’s, and right now, Amin made a compelling argument on
paper, even though the reality couldn’t be further than his assumptions. His
head was pounding. He had no plans to get married, not anytime soon.
However, the secret marriage and not annulling the marriage were on him.
This was all his fault, and if getting married was the only way to be held
accountable and to hide the secret from the rest of her family, it seemed a
small price to pay. “Please don’t show Abba that,” he finally said.
“Get married, and this secret is safe with me.” Amin repeated.
I