Chapter 37
Broken Not a halal love story Complete · about 10 min read
y the time I get home from the shelter, it’s almost Maghrib. I dash
into Abba’s library, while he’s in his living room with some guests
and spend a few minutes looking for his most comprehensive texts on
Shari’ah and laws governing Islamic marriages and Divorce. I go back to
my room with three textbooks that measure half my weight and four smaller
publications and spend the next few hours reading, outlining, writing and
tearing up pages from my notes in frustration.
Growing up, I was lucky to see the kind of lawyer that my father was. In
primary school, I spent after-school hours in his library doing assignments
and studying for common entrance exams into secondary school, on the
same spot in the later years. During those times, I heard him discuss cases
over the phone. A few years later, while I was in Junior Secondary School,
he got a contractor to break the back wall and extend it to create more room
for an office and more bookshelves, and after the renovation, I almost
relocated to the office. When I got to Senior Secondary School, my evening
visits to his library reduced until they completely stopped when I went to
the university. I watched how my father never pulled up citations from just
one source during those days; he would always have multiple texts in front
of him. I can’t remember what year it was – I must have been fifteen or
sixteen –some law students from ABU interned with him for a few months
and they were always in the library helping doing research for his cases. I
remember that he always told them to anticipate the other side’s defense. It
was not enough to just know your case; you should think about all the
possible ways your claim could be refuted and build your supporting
disquisition around that.
My phone beeps. It is a message from an unsaved number: Are you
awake?
I find myself smiling as I text back: Yes.
Another message came in: Can I call you?
As soon as I send another Yes, his call comes in.
“Hey,” he says as soon as he picks up.
“Heyyy.”
“Why are you still awake?”
I smile at how familiar his voice sounds in my ear. It has not changed
one bit. I can’t believe that I get to hear this voice again after so many
years.
“Why are you still awake?” I ask him back as I look at the wall clock,
surprised to see that it’s almost midnight.
He let out a deep sigh. “I can’t sleep.”
“I can’t either.” I am laying on my side in bed, looking around at all the
books I was surrounded by in my room. I can’t believe how many years it
has been since we spoke on the phone, yet, talking to him right now feels
like there hasn’t been a gap at all. My mind goes to the last phone call we
had; he was talking me out of a panic attack. It was the day I saw my
uncle’s car in the driveway, the day Abba came back from Egypt, the day I
met Malama Zainab. My eyes start tearing up as I remember the events of
that day and everything that followed.
“I can’t sleep. I’m afraid that if I go to sleep, I’ll wake up to find that
this was all a dream,” he pauses, “I don’t think I can survive that.”
I chuckle silently. It feels like a dream to me, too. Everything has been a
slow haze since I found out.
“You there?” he asks after a while.
“Why didn’t you tell me that you were still looking?”
“I tried to tell you a few times, but you wouldn’t pick up my calls.”
“I cried every time I disconnected those calls, and deleted the messages
without reading,” I confessed.
He is quiet for a while, then his voice drops: “Um – I told my parents.”
My heart skips a beat. A feeling that was like shame but not entirely it
overcame me, shame at what I had done in secret. What I had done with
Ahmad. What do they think of me now? Of us getting married secretly? I
know this is just the first hurdle; if anything, it’s the easiest hurdle. “What
did they say?”
Ahmad tells me how it went with his parents and I know I have to do
the same – to tell my parents the truth, too. The thought of it almost makes
me hope for the world to end right now.
“My dad is calling yours tomorrow,” he shuffles some papers, “and by
the end of the week, we’ll be coming to see him.”
I sigh as I think of all the implications. If only I waited a few more
weeks before saying yes to Umar, this would be easier. Now, I’m not just
breaking up with him; I’m breaking up with his family.
“I know this is sudden,” he says. It almost feels like he was next to me.
“How are you feeling about all of this?”
I scratch my forehead, looking for the right word. “Scared…?” I finally
said, even though it came out like a question.
His voice is hoarse when he speaks. “I’ll be by your side every step of
the way, okay? Put the blame on me; it was my idea. It was all my fault.”
“No, it’s not.” It felt like the right decision then – brilliant even; we
were going to keep our Canadian marriage a secret for a few months and
then get married in front of our family and friends in December with no sins
committed. But now the day of reckoning is finally here. Right behind it is
the gate to redemption and if Ahmad and I want to get through the gates and
be together, this is the price to pay. For Ahmad, I will pay it with interest.
The following day, after concluding a meeting I chaired with the legal
team on our cases for the week, the receptionist comes in to tell me that
someone wants to see me urgently; she is waiting in my office. I have an
open-door policy because I realized that some people didn’t want to wait in
the reception for fear of being followed or meeting people who know them.
Keeping up with appearances in this part of the world is a big thing. I nod to
her, excuse myself and go toward my office. To my surprise, I find Aunty
Mami sitting at my desk. My heart starts pounding, my mouth gets dry and
I feel faint.
“Goo – good morning,” my voice comes out as a whisper. I want to melt
to the floor and completely evaporate. I can’t look at her; all I can think
about is: She knows. She knows of what Ahmad and I did when we were
alone. What does she think of me? What does she think of the secret we hid
all these years?
“Ahmad said I would find you here,” The last time she was here was at
the opening ceremony; she came with the Ambassador and other dignitaries
to support the initiative. I remember how she hugged me that day as she
told me how proud she was of me. But looking at her now, I wonder if she
would say the same today. She gestures at the chair next to her and I sit. We
are now facing each other, but I’m looking down at the lines on my palms.
“Fa’iza,” she finally says.” Look at me.”
I drag my eyes from my hands and look into hers. She looks at me the
same way she always did – with kindness and tears begin to fill my eyes.
“Umma needs to hear about this from you,” she says, standing up. “I
called to let her know that I’m on my way to see her about something
important, but she needs to hear it from you. So, come. Let’s go.”
I nod. The day of reckoning. I might not even make it till the day the
trumpet blows. Today might just be my last day on Earth because Umma
will surely kill me. But I know that if anyone knows how to get through to
her, it’s Aunty Mami. She’s her oldest friend and even though they spent a
lot of time apart, they have always been there for each other when it
mattered.
The car ride is quiet, even the radio is silent. Forty-five minutes later,
I’m sitting on the carpet in Umma’s living room sobbing uncontrollably, my
blazer soaked with tears I didn’t know I still had left in me. What is killing
me was my mother’s silence – the way she’s covering her face with her
hands, her slow movement as she shakes her head. I want to run out of the
house and never return. Why isn’t she screaming at me? Why isn’t she
insulting me? Why isn’t she telling she’s disappointed? I cover my face with
my hands, too.
“She’s sorry,” Aunty Mami leans towards my mom and speaks in
hushed tones – the kind reserved for confidential matters that start with
telling none of the domestic helps to come into a particular section of the
house until they were called in. You would be surprised to know how often
this happened in conservative Northern households. “They were young and
stupid; they didn’t know better.” Umma is still quiet. “Ahmad’s father is
coming over in two days to talk to Abba about this situation,” she says to
Umma, who is cradling her cheek in her palm and staring into the distance.
“We have to put our heads together, so that the outcome will be in the
children’s best interest.”
“We have to know exactly what to say to Umar’s family so that it
doesn’t bring shame upon us,” she finally says. “If people find out –” she
can’t bring herself to finish the thought. She shakes her head and lowers it
to the ground.
Later that night, I look up from my father’s Shariah book to find my
phone ringing. It is Ahmad. When he asks, I start to tell him how everything
went and start crying as I tell him Umma has still not eaten dinner. I tell him
about how she cried because of me, how she didn’t look up at me when I
went into her room after Isha, and how I’m not sure she’ll ever forgive me.
“Fa’iza, I’m so sorry,” he says quietly, crying with me.
“It’s not like you forced me. I agreed to it,” I sniff. “I agreed to it,
without thinking. I didn’t think about the shame it would br –”
“You were innocent in all of this,” he insists. “I should never have
brought it up.”
“Did you print the documents?” I finally ask him, as I lay in bed. With
his parents backing us up and hopefully Umma forgiving me, we might
actually have a credible case to present to Abba. When that time comes, we
need to be well-prepared.
“Yes, everything.”
I open my mouth to reply but am interrupted by the sound of my phone
beeping. Umar is forwarding me something about the health benefits of
drinking lime water before bed, another generic message. I sigh.
“Are you okay?” Ahmad asks. Even after all these years, he can still tell
when there’s something on my mind.
“It’s Umar.”
“Are you worried your dad might not accept our marriage?” Ahmad
asks, like he knows what I was thinking. I know exactly how my dad thinks
and in this case, it’s going to be a blessing for us.
The two ‘yar Agadez sisters are already in Abuja and in Ahmad’s
parents’ guest house. They’re going to be part of the entourage coming to
see Abba. After Subh, I go over the drafts I wrote on presenting my case to
Abba. It is absolutely perfect. It’s as if the decisions we made while being
apart all through the years led up to this moment and it finally seems like
there’s a chance of me getting my Happily Ever After, after all.
W
into Abba’s library, while he’s in his living room with some guests
and spend a few minutes looking for his most comprehensive texts on
Shari’ah and laws governing Islamic marriages and Divorce. I go back to
my room with three textbooks that measure half my weight and four smaller
publications and spend the next few hours reading, outlining, writing and
tearing up pages from my notes in frustration.
Growing up, I was lucky to see the kind of lawyer that my father was. In
primary school, I spent after-school hours in his library doing assignments
and studying for common entrance exams into secondary school, on the
same spot in the later years. During those times, I heard him discuss cases
over the phone. A few years later, while I was in Junior Secondary School,
he got a contractor to break the back wall and extend it to create more room
for an office and more bookshelves, and after the renovation, I almost
relocated to the office. When I got to Senior Secondary School, my evening
visits to his library reduced until they completely stopped when I went to
the university. I watched how my father never pulled up citations from just
one source during those days; he would always have multiple texts in front
of him. I can’t remember what year it was – I must have been fifteen or
sixteen –some law students from ABU interned with him for a few months
and they were always in the library helping doing research for his cases. I
remember that he always told them to anticipate the other side’s defense. It
was not enough to just know your case; you should think about all the
possible ways your claim could be refuted and build your supporting
disquisition around that.
My phone beeps. It is a message from an unsaved number: Are you
awake?
I find myself smiling as I text back: Yes.
Another message came in: Can I call you?
As soon as I send another Yes, his call comes in.
“Hey,” he says as soon as he picks up.
“Heyyy.”
“Why are you still awake?”
I smile at how familiar his voice sounds in my ear. It has not changed
one bit. I can’t believe that I get to hear this voice again after so many
years.
“Why are you still awake?” I ask him back as I look at the wall clock,
surprised to see that it’s almost midnight.
He let out a deep sigh. “I can’t sleep.”
“I can’t either.” I am laying on my side in bed, looking around at all the
books I was surrounded by in my room. I can’t believe how many years it
has been since we spoke on the phone, yet, talking to him right now feels
like there hasn’t been a gap at all. My mind goes to the last phone call we
had; he was talking me out of a panic attack. It was the day I saw my
uncle’s car in the driveway, the day Abba came back from Egypt, the day I
met Malama Zainab. My eyes start tearing up as I remember the events of
that day and everything that followed.
“I can’t sleep. I’m afraid that if I go to sleep, I’ll wake up to find that
this was all a dream,” he pauses, “I don’t think I can survive that.”
I chuckle silently. It feels like a dream to me, too. Everything has been a
slow haze since I found out.
“You there?” he asks after a while.
“Why didn’t you tell me that you were still looking?”
“I tried to tell you a few times, but you wouldn’t pick up my calls.”
“I cried every time I disconnected those calls, and deleted the messages
without reading,” I confessed.
He is quiet for a while, then his voice drops: “Um – I told my parents.”
My heart skips a beat. A feeling that was like shame but not entirely it
overcame me, shame at what I had done in secret. What I had done with
Ahmad. What do they think of me now? Of us getting married secretly? I
know this is just the first hurdle; if anything, it’s the easiest hurdle. “What
did they say?”
Ahmad tells me how it went with his parents and I know I have to do
the same – to tell my parents the truth, too. The thought of it almost makes
me hope for the world to end right now.
“My dad is calling yours tomorrow,” he shuffles some papers, “and by
the end of the week, we’ll be coming to see him.”
I sigh as I think of all the implications. If only I waited a few more
weeks before saying yes to Umar, this would be easier. Now, I’m not just
breaking up with him; I’m breaking up with his family.
“I know this is sudden,” he says. It almost feels like he was next to me.
“How are you feeling about all of this?”
I scratch my forehead, looking for the right word. “Scared…?” I finally
said, even though it came out like a question.
His voice is hoarse when he speaks. “I’ll be by your side every step of
the way, okay? Put the blame on me; it was my idea. It was all my fault.”
“No, it’s not.” It felt like the right decision then – brilliant even; we
were going to keep our Canadian marriage a secret for a few months and
then get married in front of our family and friends in December with no sins
committed. But now the day of reckoning is finally here. Right behind it is
the gate to redemption and if Ahmad and I want to get through the gates and
be together, this is the price to pay. For Ahmad, I will pay it with interest.
The following day, after concluding a meeting I chaired with the legal
team on our cases for the week, the receptionist comes in to tell me that
someone wants to see me urgently; she is waiting in my office. I have an
open-door policy because I realized that some people didn’t want to wait in
the reception for fear of being followed or meeting people who know them.
Keeping up with appearances in this part of the world is a big thing. I nod to
her, excuse myself and go toward my office. To my surprise, I find Aunty
Mami sitting at my desk. My heart starts pounding, my mouth gets dry and
I feel faint.
“Goo – good morning,” my voice comes out as a whisper. I want to melt
to the floor and completely evaporate. I can’t look at her; all I can think
about is: She knows. She knows of what Ahmad and I did when we were
alone. What does she think of me? What does she think of the secret we hid
all these years?
“Ahmad said I would find you here,” The last time she was here was at
the opening ceremony; she came with the Ambassador and other dignitaries
to support the initiative. I remember how she hugged me that day as she
told me how proud she was of me. But looking at her now, I wonder if she
would say the same today. She gestures at the chair next to her and I sit. We
are now facing each other, but I’m looking down at the lines on my palms.
“Fa’iza,” she finally says.” Look at me.”
I drag my eyes from my hands and look into hers. She looks at me the
same way she always did – with kindness and tears begin to fill my eyes.
“Umma needs to hear about this from you,” she says, standing up. “I
called to let her know that I’m on my way to see her about something
important, but she needs to hear it from you. So, come. Let’s go.”
I nod. The day of reckoning. I might not even make it till the day the
trumpet blows. Today might just be my last day on Earth because Umma
will surely kill me. But I know that if anyone knows how to get through to
her, it’s Aunty Mami. She’s her oldest friend and even though they spent a
lot of time apart, they have always been there for each other when it
mattered.
The car ride is quiet, even the radio is silent. Forty-five minutes later,
I’m sitting on the carpet in Umma’s living room sobbing uncontrollably, my
blazer soaked with tears I didn’t know I still had left in me. What is killing
me was my mother’s silence – the way she’s covering her face with her
hands, her slow movement as she shakes her head. I want to run out of the
house and never return. Why isn’t she screaming at me? Why isn’t she
insulting me? Why isn’t she telling she’s disappointed? I cover my face with
my hands, too.
“She’s sorry,” Aunty Mami leans towards my mom and speaks in
hushed tones – the kind reserved for confidential matters that start with
telling none of the domestic helps to come into a particular section of the
house until they were called in. You would be surprised to know how often
this happened in conservative Northern households. “They were young and
stupid; they didn’t know better.” Umma is still quiet. “Ahmad’s father is
coming over in two days to talk to Abba about this situation,” she says to
Umma, who is cradling her cheek in her palm and staring into the distance.
“We have to put our heads together, so that the outcome will be in the
children’s best interest.”
“We have to know exactly what to say to Umar’s family so that it
doesn’t bring shame upon us,” she finally says. “If people find out –” she
can’t bring herself to finish the thought. She shakes her head and lowers it
to the ground.
Later that night, I look up from my father’s Shariah book to find my
phone ringing. It is Ahmad. When he asks, I start to tell him how everything
went and start crying as I tell him Umma has still not eaten dinner. I tell him
about how she cried because of me, how she didn’t look up at me when I
went into her room after Isha, and how I’m not sure she’ll ever forgive me.
“Fa’iza, I’m so sorry,” he says quietly, crying with me.
“It’s not like you forced me. I agreed to it,” I sniff. “I agreed to it,
without thinking. I didn’t think about the shame it would br –”
“You were innocent in all of this,” he insists. “I should never have
brought it up.”
“Did you print the documents?” I finally ask him, as I lay in bed. With
his parents backing us up and hopefully Umma forgiving me, we might
actually have a credible case to present to Abba. When that time comes, we
need to be well-prepared.
“Yes, everything.”
I open my mouth to reply but am interrupted by the sound of my phone
beeping. Umar is forwarding me something about the health benefits of
drinking lime water before bed, another generic message. I sigh.
“Are you okay?” Ahmad asks. Even after all these years, he can still tell
when there’s something on my mind.
“It’s Umar.”
“Are you worried your dad might not accept our marriage?” Ahmad
asks, like he knows what I was thinking. I know exactly how my dad thinks
and in this case, it’s going to be a blessing for us.
The two ‘yar Agadez sisters are already in Abuja and in Ahmad’s
parents’ guest house. They’re going to be part of the entourage coming to
see Abba. After Subh, I go over the drafts I wrote on presenting my case to
Abba. It is absolutely perfect. It’s as if the decisions we made while being
apart all through the years led up to this moment and it finally seems like
there’s a chance of me getting my Happily Ever After, after all.
W