Chapter 30
Broken Not a halal love story Complete · about 8 min read
Abuja, September 2016
had been handling all cases pro-bono cases for months now. Sometimes
Ada came down from Lagos to fight a case or two and even though I
could now afford to pay her, she took up the cases like she did from the
beginning – as favors. Apart from us, all the lawyers on the team were on a
yearly contract, as per donor stipulations. We had three main donors :
Pocket of Hope, Al-Yusra Islamic Foundation and The Cain Mosni
Foundation funding the shelter, along with occasional donations from
citizens.
My office was on the ground floor along with the other offices, the
kitchen, storage, sick-bay and living area that also doubled up as a dining
area. Upstairs, the rooms housed displaced women and kids. Sometimes,
the husbands came and tried to win their families back after realizing their
mistakes, and the women would go back. Other times, the women would
stand their ground, insisting that they wanted out of the marriage. In some
cases, the men never even came to look for their wives or children. My job
was to ensure that the children never suffered the effects of parents at war
by providing a safe space, regular meals, and tuition for all the kids in need.
“We need to include the audit reports along with this year’s balance
sheets to the donor,” I said to Zee, the finance director, as she sat across me
in my office. “It’s crucial to ensure donors know that their money was
allocated correctly and well spent.”
“Yes, I cc’d you in an email this morning. CMF already approved next
year’s funding with a 25% increase,” Zee responded.
“Are you serious?” I was shocked. I looked through my email, filtering
through them until I got to hers. Most foundations had to go through a
rigorous process to continue getting sponsorship and monetary aid, but ours
was sailing through. It was not even the fourth quarter yet and one of our
donors, The Cain Mosni Foundation, had sent funding for the following
year. We cleared a few more financial details and as I rounded up the
meeting, I got a phone call from Afreen. “Afreen mama, how are you?” I
excitedly asked her. Afreen was in her second trimester. She was due to
give birth in a few months.
“Fa’ee, how are you doing?” she said quietly, not at all her usual cheery
self. I stopped typing on my computer to give the call my full attention.
“I’m fine. How did the ultrasound go?”
“Alhamdulillah, everything went well,” she hesitated, “I just wanted to
check up on you.”
“Aww, that’s sweet of you. I’ll come over this evening.” I had a box of
Turkish delights in my car that I had gotten for her as she was always
craving something sweet.
But I never made it to her place that day. As I was having my lunch and
scrolling through Instagram, I saw that one of the blogs I followed
announced Ahmad’s wedding to Sakina. The food in my mouth lost its taste
and I found myself staring at his face. It was a black-and-white picture from
his website since Ahmad was not active on social media and Sakina’s
picture was next to it; it was from one of her recent posts. I scrolled through
the app and found that other accounts had reposted the picture too. It was
already being talked about as ‘the wedding of the year.’
I pushed my plate away. I knew this day would come, so why do I feel
like I’ve been sucker-punched right in my guts? I thought angrily. I think
what angered me was the fact that he still sent flowers to me on my birthday
after all these years. Actually, no. That was a lie. What angered me was that
he had truly moved on. I chuckled to myself, overwhelmed by the extreme
sadness and the deep sense of loss I felt. What eventually broke me down
and sent me down the deep end was the following day when he dropped by
our house on the pretense of seeing my brother. He stopped me in the
hallway on my way to the dining room to get milk for my tea and asked if I
wanted to talk about it. I was heading out to work later than usual as I’d had
a rough night, and he looked even better than I had ever seen him in my
entire life in a brown kaftan and matching trousers. But his eyes looked sad.
Or maybe that was a lie I told myself to cope. A part of me wished that he
was not happy, that we were both unhappy. Misery did love company.
Once every few months, I checked in with Dr. Na’ima over video call
sessions. I never took the sessions at home or in my office; I always had
them in my car. Today, I called her without a pre-scheduled appointment.
She was with a patient, but as soon as she finished, she called me back, and
she listened to me cry over Ahmad for the first time in a while.
“We’ve talked about this moment for years, Fai’za,” she spoke gently.
I nodded. I knew that we would eventually marry other people, and I
had been preparing myself for that. “Still doesn’t numb the pain,” I said.
Over the years, I had watched him become a better Muslim, more like
someone I prayed for when I was a teen and now, years later, he was
officially going to be someone else’s. Forever.
“Would you have preferred it if you heard it from him first?” she asked.
I thought about it. I didn’t pick up his calls or reply to his messages for
years. Besides, hearing it from him first wouldn’t change how I felt. It
wouldn’t change the fact that someone else gets to wake up next to him
every morning, that someone else gets to hold him, to touch him, to love
him openly. It didn’t change the fact that I was not destined to be that
person.
“No. What’s the point? In a weird and twisted way, I’m kinda happy
that he has moved on. He’s a good person,” I started crying again. I was just
a chapter in his life story, and he had found his forever person.
“That is an interesting choice of words. Moved on. Do you feel like
you’ve been left behind?”
“Yes,” I covered my eyes with my hands as I sobbed, grateful for the
car’s tinted windows.
“How are you and Umar doing?” she asked quietly after I’d finished
crying and calmed down. “Has anything changed?”
For lack of a better phrase, Umar was someone my friends and cousins
thought was perfect for me. We had mutual friends, but we never actually
met until one day at Bleu Cafe in Abuja when we were set up by said
mutual friends.
“Nothing has changed.” I answered. I still felt nothing for him. It was
easy to be in a halal relationship this time around because I was not even
attracted to him. When Aisha told me that was okay – that the attraction
comes after marriage – I knew that was not true; the attraction between
Ahmad and I was instant and constant. Even through the years we were not
talking, the few times we ran into each other, I was reminded of how much I
still cared for him. I used to look up and catch him stealing glances at me,
and I would feel… seen. It was not the same with Umar and I could never
quite picture him as my husband. I never really imagined myself getting
married. I knew I would eventually, but I was not exactly racing to get to
that point. To be honest, I get repulsed thinking of what will happen if I
married Umar and he tried to touch me. I shuddered at the thought.
“You have to give yourself a chance at happiness,” Dr. Na’ima’s voice
came through the speakers. “Umar has shown you in many ways that he
cares about you. You should stop turning down his requests to get the
families involved.”
“He deserves someone who loves him, though,” I said, sniffing. Not
someone still pining over her ex. He deserved better.
“That’s a decision only you can make. What kind of wife are you going
to be to whomever you marry? Are you going to be the one he deserves?”
I wasn’t listening anymore; my mind was far away. Ahmad Babangida.
My whole world and more at one point in time; I remembered the first time
I ever saw him: the day I bumped into him at the airport, the day I
mistakenly walked into his room, waking him from his slumber, the football
matches we used to go to, the books we shared, staying up late talking
about everything, the plans we made for our future. It still hurt. I nodded as
I wiped away my tears. It was time to stop being faithful to the wounds of
my past.
After the longer-than-usual session, I stopped at Zainab’s cubicle when I
got to work. “Zee, where are our updated donor files? I want to make a
PowerPoint for Cain Mosni highlighting our wins for the past year.”
“Is everything okay? Your eyes are puffy,” she sounded concerned as
she reached for the cabinets behind her and started looking for the files for
me.
“Ba komai, it’s nothing. Just allergies,” I shook my head as I sniffed, I
went down the hallway into my office and started drowning myself in work.
At least this aspect of my life was going well.
A
had been handling all cases pro-bono cases for months now. Sometimes
Ada came down from Lagos to fight a case or two and even though I
could now afford to pay her, she took up the cases like she did from the
beginning – as favors. Apart from us, all the lawyers on the team were on a
yearly contract, as per donor stipulations. We had three main donors :
Pocket of Hope, Al-Yusra Islamic Foundation and The Cain Mosni
Foundation funding the shelter, along with occasional donations from
citizens.
My office was on the ground floor along with the other offices, the
kitchen, storage, sick-bay and living area that also doubled up as a dining
area. Upstairs, the rooms housed displaced women and kids. Sometimes,
the husbands came and tried to win their families back after realizing their
mistakes, and the women would go back. Other times, the women would
stand their ground, insisting that they wanted out of the marriage. In some
cases, the men never even came to look for their wives or children. My job
was to ensure that the children never suffered the effects of parents at war
by providing a safe space, regular meals, and tuition for all the kids in need.
“We need to include the audit reports along with this year’s balance
sheets to the donor,” I said to Zee, the finance director, as she sat across me
in my office. “It’s crucial to ensure donors know that their money was
allocated correctly and well spent.”
“Yes, I cc’d you in an email this morning. CMF already approved next
year’s funding with a 25% increase,” Zee responded.
“Are you serious?” I was shocked. I looked through my email, filtering
through them until I got to hers. Most foundations had to go through a
rigorous process to continue getting sponsorship and monetary aid, but ours
was sailing through. It was not even the fourth quarter yet and one of our
donors, The Cain Mosni Foundation, had sent funding for the following
year. We cleared a few more financial details and as I rounded up the
meeting, I got a phone call from Afreen. “Afreen mama, how are you?” I
excitedly asked her. Afreen was in her second trimester. She was due to
give birth in a few months.
“Fa’ee, how are you doing?” she said quietly, not at all her usual cheery
self. I stopped typing on my computer to give the call my full attention.
“I’m fine. How did the ultrasound go?”
“Alhamdulillah, everything went well,” she hesitated, “I just wanted to
check up on you.”
“Aww, that’s sweet of you. I’ll come over this evening.” I had a box of
Turkish delights in my car that I had gotten for her as she was always
craving something sweet.
But I never made it to her place that day. As I was having my lunch and
scrolling through Instagram, I saw that one of the blogs I followed
announced Ahmad’s wedding to Sakina. The food in my mouth lost its taste
and I found myself staring at his face. It was a black-and-white picture from
his website since Ahmad was not active on social media and Sakina’s
picture was next to it; it was from one of her recent posts. I scrolled through
the app and found that other accounts had reposted the picture too. It was
already being talked about as ‘the wedding of the year.’
I pushed my plate away. I knew this day would come, so why do I feel
like I’ve been sucker-punched right in my guts? I thought angrily. I think
what angered me was the fact that he still sent flowers to me on my birthday
after all these years. Actually, no. That was a lie. What angered me was that
he had truly moved on. I chuckled to myself, overwhelmed by the extreme
sadness and the deep sense of loss I felt. What eventually broke me down
and sent me down the deep end was the following day when he dropped by
our house on the pretense of seeing my brother. He stopped me in the
hallway on my way to the dining room to get milk for my tea and asked if I
wanted to talk about it. I was heading out to work later than usual as I’d had
a rough night, and he looked even better than I had ever seen him in my
entire life in a brown kaftan and matching trousers. But his eyes looked sad.
Or maybe that was a lie I told myself to cope. A part of me wished that he
was not happy, that we were both unhappy. Misery did love company.
Once every few months, I checked in with Dr. Na’ima over video call
sessions. I never took the sessions at home or in my office; I always had
them in my car. Today, I called her without a pre-scheduled appointment.
She was with a patient, but as soon as she finished, she called me back, and
she listened to me cry over Ahmad for the first time in a while.
“We’ve talked about this moment for years, Fai’za,” she spoke gently.
I nodded. I knew that we would eventually marry other people, and I
had been preparing myself for that. “Still doesn’t numb the pain,” I said.
Over the years, I had watched him become a better Muslim, more like
someone I prayed for when I was a teen and now, years later, he was
officially going to be someone else’s. Forever.
“Would you have preferred it if you heard it from him first?” she asked.
I thought about it. I didn’t pick up his calls or reply to his messages for
years. Besides, hearing it from him first wouldn’t change how I felt. It
wouldn’t change the fact that someone else gets to wake up next to him
every morning, that someone else gets to hold him, to touch him, to love
him openly. It didn’t change the fact that I was not destined to be that
person.
“No. What’s the point? In a weird and twisted way, I’m kinda happy
that he has moved on. He’s a good person,” I started crying again. I was just
a chapter in his life story, and he had found his forever person.
“That is an interesting choice of words. Moved on. Do you feel like
you’ve been left behind?”
“Yes,” I covered my eyes with my hands as I sobbed, grateful for the
car’s tinted windows.
“How are you and Umar doing?” she asked quietly after I’d finished
crying and calmed down. “Has anything changed?”
For lack of a better phrase, Umar was someone my friends and cousins
thought was perfect for me. We had mutual friends, but we never actually
met until one day at Bleu Cafe in Abuja when we were set up by said
mutual friends.
“Nothing has changed.” I answered. I still felt nothing for him. It was
easy to be in a halal relationship this time around because I was not even
attracted to him. When Aisha told me that was okay – that the attraction
comes after marriage – I knew that was not true; the attraction between
Ahmad and I was instant and constant. Even through the years we were not
talking, the few times we ran into each other, I was reminded of how much I
still cared for him. I used to look up and catch him stealing glances at me,
and I would feel… seen. It was not the same with Umar and I could never
quite picture him as my husband. I never really imagined myself getting
married. I knew I would eventually, but I was not exactly racing to get to
that point. To be honest, I get repulsed thinking of what will happen if I
married Umar and he tried to touch me. I shuddered at the thought.
“You have to give yourself a chance at happiness,” Dr. Na’ima’s voice
came through the speakers. “Umar has shown you in many ways that he
cares about you. You should stop turning down his requests to get the
families involved.”
“He deserves someone who loves him, though,” I said, sniffing. Not
someone still pining over her ex. He deserved better.
“That’s a decision only you can make. What kind of wife are you going
to be to whomever you marry? Are you going to be the one he deserves?”
I wasn’t listening anymore; my mind was far away. Ahmad Babangida.
My whole world and more at one point in time; I remembered the first time
I ever saw him: the day I bumped into him at the airport, the day I
mistakenly walked into his room, waking him from his slumber, the football
matches we used to go to, the books we shared, staying up late talking
about everything, the plans we made for our future. It still hurt. I nodded as
I wiped away my tears. It was time to stop being faithful to the wounds of
my past.
After the longer-than-usual session, I stopped at Zainab’s cubicle when I
got to work. “Zee, where are our updated donor files? I want to make a
PowerPoint for Cain Mosni highlighting our wins for the past year.”
“Is everything okay? Your eyes are puffy,” she sounded concerned as
she reached for the cabinets behind her and started looking for the files for
me.
“Ba komai, it’s nothing. Just allergies,” I shook my head as I sniffed, I
went down the hallway into my office and started drowning myself in work.
At least this aspect of my life was going well.
A