Chapter 3
Broken Not a halal love story Complete · about 14 min read
found myself out in the cold again, the chilly wind seeping into my
insulated winter jacket. Glancing at the parked cars in the visitor’s
parking lot, I saw a girl a little bit taller than me; I recognized her wide
smile and high cheekbones from her WhatsApp display picture; she had on
a white Canada goose parka jacket with black boots perched outside the
passenger side of a white Porsche Cayenne. Her hair was wrapped with a
white pashmina in a turban-like style, which shifted a little as she waved
excitedly. It was Afreen.
I smiled and waved back. “Afreeeeen!!” I managed to say. My lips were
so frozen and numb that I could barely feel them.
“Yadai, Fa’iza?” she greeted me with a quick hug as I approached the
car. The car trunk popped open, and she helped put my luggage in the trunk.
I was removing my backpack when I lost my balance in the wet snow and
almost fell on my back. She caught me, steadying me as she held my hand
and helped me open the door to the backseat. “Ki shiga. Get in. Let’s get
you warm,” she said.
I got into the car, relieved at how warm it was. It smelled like home:
leather and oud. I rubbed my hands together as I inhaled deeply. I heard her
door close gently as she got into the passenger seat. It was only then that I
noticed the gentleman wearing a white T-shirt and denim trousers in the
driver’s seat. He looked like he was in his late twenties, dark-skinned with a
trimmed beard.
“Fa’iza, meet Zafar. Zafar, this is Fa’iza, my cousin that I’ve been
telling you about,” she smiled as she introduced us, then started buckling
her seatbelt.
“Yadai, Fa’iza? How are you doing?” he pressed the ignition button, and
the car started with a gentle hum. “Ya sanyi? How’s the cold?”
“Akwai sanyi fa. It’s really cold,” I said, and they both laughed.
“This isn’t your first time in Canada though, right?” He kept his eyes on
the road as he asked me.
“No, we were here in the summer,” I replied, thinking back to when
Umma and I came on a campus tour. It was in June last year, and it was
much warmer then.
“Are you hungry?” Afreen asked me, but before I could reply, she
added: “Let’s get some food. I’m hungry.”
“What do you wanna eat, babe?” Zafar asked her with a low voice as we
were driving slowly through the University gates. Her left hand grabbed his
right hand, and he squeezed her fingers. This – affection, or is it love?
Whatever it is, it must be nice; I thought to myself as I looked out the
window at the white flurries falling so lightly. It was beginning to snow
again.
“Let’s go to Miku.” Her reply, too, was almost a whisper.
I tried to pay attention to the music playing lightly. It was a Nasheed, an
old favorite of mine, with Maher Zain thanking Allah for his partner and the
beautiful thing their love was.
“Do you like sushi, Fa’ee?” She asked.
I looked away from the window and shrugged, “sure.”
“Alright, let’s do it!” she beamed at me with a slight twinkle in her eye.
It felt good being with Afreen, especially when she introduced me to
everyone as her cousin, even though we were not actually related. After
sushi, we drove past a Golf and Country club to a gated community in the
suburbs, and Zafar parked in the driveway and helped us get my luggage
out of the car. We bade him goodbye, and we walked up the stone stairs and
into Afreen’s house. A two-storey building with two double attached
garages.
“Don’t tell me this is filled with books,” she teased as I dragged my
luggage up.
“I packed all of my textbooks.” I joked. She opened the door, and we
muttered salams under our breaths as we entered the house. White walls and
a black grand piano on the main floor that was brightly lit by the light from
the suspended multi-globe pendant chandelier. In front of me, two curved
staircases led to the upper level. This was my first time at the house. I
looked around at the luxury wallpaper, high pillars and gold accents. It was
elegant.
“What do you want to do tonight?” she asked. “We can watch a movie.”
I noticed that when she asked questions, she answered them herself. It
reminded me of my mother and made me miss her.
“There you are!” Aunty Mami’s voice broke our quiet chatter. I looked
up and saw her leaning on the silver railing of the stairs. A tall Fulani
woman with a graceful demeanor, her smooth and even-toned skin glowed
from the lights above her. She was wearing a boubou made out of pink
Swiss voile, and she looked exactly the same way she usually did in Abuja
– with her signature headtie style, which showed a hint of her hair and
framed her face perfectly. It was a headtie style many women tried to
replicate; you could tell by the comments on Instagram and articles in
Arewa magazine columns. She held out her hands as I walked up the stairs
to hug her.
“Aunty, ina wuni. Good evening,” I greeted her.
“Fa’iza, wow. Look how beautiful you are!” she widened her eyes as
she looked at me, “you look more and more like your Umma every time I
see you, masha Allah.”
Growing up, I picked up a strange rule – that one didn’t respond to
praises about his or her appearance; it was considered tactless in our culture
to do so. In such circumstances, all one did was smile and hope the
conversation would move to another topic. If it didn’t, one tried to change it
as subtly as possible. In my culture, subtlety was always key in everything
we did.
“Umma sent something for you,” I said as I brought out the gold-and-
red wrapped package I had brought from Nigeria.
“Oh ikon Allah. My goodness. She went through all this trouble?”
Aunty Mami asked as she held up the heavy square package. “Your mum
always spoils me with the best gifts.”
Gift exchanging was Sunnah, a Prophetic tradition. In Islam, the prophet
encouraged it, and our mothers were constantly trying to outdo one another
with the act. It was not about how expensive it was; it was the
thoughtfulness that mattered. Umma never visited anyone empty-handed,
and she made sure my first visit to Aunty Mami’s house in Canada would
be the same.
“Nan gidan ki ne. Feel at home here,” she smiled at me. “Afreen’s dad
is still in Ottawa, but he will be back tomorrow, insha Allah.” I hadn’t seen
the ambassador in years since one of his visits to our house in Abuja. Like
most of my parent’s guests, I only caught a glimpse of him as he arrived at
the house through the windows of our section in the compound, away from
the entrance he used to enter my father’s section.
Afreen was dragging my considerably light box to the guest room on
the ground floor. When I got there, she was going through TV channels
with the remote in her hand. “My room is next door,” she announced, still
looking at the TV screen. I nodded despite her being too distracted to
notice. I looked around the brightly lit room with a queen-sized bed with
plush pillows with a screen door that opened to a garden outside. She didn’t
look away from the screen until her phone started ringing, and a picture of
Zafar flashed on the phone screen. To give her some privacy, I walked into
the bathroom to perform my ablution, as it was time to pray Maghrib, the
fourth prayer of the day, even though I could still hear her as I washed my
hands. “Did I forget it?” Pause. “I can get it tomorrow then.” Long pause,
and then, “can’t come today–” Just as the door closed shut.
After I prayed and freshened up, I decided to go to Afreen’s room to
work on my assignment, checking my text messages on my phone as I left
the guest room. The first message was from my cousin, Aisha Batagarawa,
asking me to like and comment on the picture she had just posted to her
Instagram feed. I went to her profile and typed multiple love-struck emojis
while knocking on the door across the hallway.
“Salam Alaikum,” I opened the door opposite mine. The dark curtains
prevented any amount of light from entering the room, so I could barely see
the figure on the bed. “Afreen…?” I asked as I approached the bed. “Are
you up?”
“Wrong room!” a gruff voice said as the bedside lamp came on,
flooding the room with a dull yellow glow. There was somebody on the
bed, and by the state of the room and the look on his face, I had just woken
him from his sleep, and he didn’t seem too pleased about it. I found my
apologies stumbling out of my mouth in an incoherent monologue filled
with embarrassment when I realized he was shirtless. I stumbled out of the
room and closed the door a little louder than I intended.
“Fa’ee?”
I turned around and found Afreen standing in the doorway. Next door to
the room I was in, not opposite. I had walked into someone else’s room, and
he was half naked; all he had on was a pair of boxers. I felt so stupid and
embarrassed, but she looked like she was about to burst out laughing.
“My goodness!” she laughed. “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”
“I –um, I thought you said. Sorry, I –”
“Don’t apologize,” she laughed it off as she led me into her room. After
she closed the door, she asked: “He wasn’t sleeping half-naked, was he? He
does that a lot.”
I didn’t answer her. I was trying to remember where I’d seen his face. I
knew that I’d seen that face somewhere, and then it hit me. How could I
forget that face? It was the guy on his phone at the bookstore who bumped
into me at CDG Airport during my layover. Oh, the horror!
Rihanna’s We found love was playing in the background as I walked
further into her room. The walls were covered with pale green wallpaper. In
the middle of the room was a Queen sized bed that was covered in a cream
and burgundy duvet, flanked by floating bedside tables, one of which had a
burning scented candle that filled the room with the scent of jasmine and
lily. Opposite the bed was a vanity table and a tufted stool on a white
shaggy rug. Her pashmina scarf was draped on the ottoman by the foot of
the bed, and her unfolded hijab was still on her mat where she had just
prayed.
I got under the duvet covers, propped my laptop open on the pillows
and was bringing out my notebook when Afreen asked: “Are you
studying?”
“I have an assignment due at midnight.”
“Wana course ne? Which course is it?” she picked up my notebook and
started going through it without waiting for a response.
“LS103,” I started explaining, “Res –”
“Research methods in Law, right?”
I nodded.
“Who’s the lecturer?” she asked.
“McCain.”
I can’t believe I still remember that name. He had a thing for midnight
deadlines.”
“I didn’t know you studied Law,” I said, genuinely surprised. To be
honest, I didn’t know much about Aunty Mami’s children, as they’d always
lived outside Nigeria.
“No, I didn’t. Ahmad did, and he was always complaining about it.”
“Who’s Ahmad?” I asked.
“My older brother – the one in the other room,” she walked to her
prayer mat and folded her hijab. “Is the music bothering you? I can turn it
off.”
“No, it’s okay. I can study with music,” I said as I thought of my two
unfortunate encounters with the guy next door – her brother. I let it sink in
while I worked on my essay. Once I started typing, I allowed myself to get
consumed by it, forgetting everything else about my personal life – about
missing my home, my parents, unanswered Instagram DMs, my upcoming
quizzes and the shirtless guy in the next room who happened to be the
good-looking, well-dressed but rude man at the bookstore and Aunty
Mami’s son. It was only when I finished that I started thinking of ways to
avoid him this weekend until I returned to the residence on Sunday. How I
was going to achieve that became my biggest dilemma for the weekend.
* * *
The next morning, the breakfast table had a spread of delicacies – quiche,
croissants, and everything one would expect for breakfast in a Nigerian
home: yam, scrambled eggs, akara, pap, masa, and tea. Now, I understood
why Aunty Mami insisted on taking her chef from Nigeria to every country
they got assigned to. I had missed masa so much! I had a little bit of
everything before I got full. As much as I wanted to eat more, I simply
couldn’t.
“Are you okay?” I asked Afreen. Her phone had kept buzzing
throughout breakfast, and she was replying non-stop, leaving her plate
untouched.
Before she could answer, the door opened, and Ahmad walked in. Our
eyes met, and I couldn’t look away from his chiseled face, strong angular
jawline, and beard that was kept short. He looked like a man who worked
out, with broad shoulders and muscular forearms that were covered in a
crisp white shirt and dark blue pants with brown Oxford shoes that matched
his brown belt. Quite similar to how he was dressed in Paris, the only thing
missing was the brown trench coat. He caught my stare, and his thick
eyebrows furrowed over deep brown eyes as they narrowed.
Afreen turned around as soon as he walked in. “Good, you’re awake.
Can I borrow your car? Just for an hour.”
“No, take yours,” he said as he held my gaze and slowly buttoned up his
cuffs. The deep baritone of his voice was just like I remembered –
confident, and his British accent made even the simplest of sentences sound
arrogant. I quickly looked away as I brought an empty cup to my lips in an
attempt to seem occupied.
“I haven’t switched to winter tyres yet,” she whined. It almost sounded
like conversations I would have with my older brothers back home
whenever I needed their help with something. If there was any wisdom I
could pass on to Afreen, it was that whining never helped with older
brothers.
“Then you should,” he made himself some coffee. She saw him looking
in my direction and pouted.
“Oh, this is Fa’iza,” she introduced us. “She’s staying with us for the
weekend.”
“Hi,” he nodded in my direction as he sat opposite me before addressing
his sister: “Call the dealership and make an appointment to have your tyres
changed.”
Afreen raised her hands in defeat, “I know, I know. I’ve just been
occupied. But I really need to borrow your car, pretty pleaseeeee.”
“No, I have an interview today and after that, I’m meeting with the
boys,” he said as he looked at his watch.
“What kind of interview takes place on a saturday?” Afreen asked.
“It’s my company. I schedule interviews whenever the hell I want.” He
chuckled as he took a sip of his black coffee. Aha – there it was! I thought
to myself. The self-righteous superiority was not a figment of my
imagination. He never apologized for spilling water on me at the airport,
never even acknowledged that he did it. And here he was with the attitude
again.
He stood up, and his eyes caught mine again. To avoid eye contact, I
quickly picked up my phone and started opening random apps – anything to
seem occupied. I didn’t look up until I heard the door close.
“Fa’iza, lafiya? Is everything okay?” Afreen was looking at me.
“I’m fine.” I gestured to her plate. “You haven’t touched your
breakfast.”
She sighed. “Tomorrow is Zafar’s birthday.”
Oh, Zafar. I guess we’re talking about boyfriends now. Is this what
having a sister would feel like? I wondered. Out loud, I said: “Nice. What
are you planning for him?”
“Well, he’ll be busy tomorrow, so we kinda have to celebrate today,”
she said, scratching the back of her hand nervously.
“Aww,” I said awkwardly, unsure of what to say. I was not used to this
kind of conversation. My brothers never talked about the girls they dated
with me. They never discussed anything personal with me.
She looked at the wall clock, then continued. “I got him a cake and a
few things. He’s coming to pick me up later, but I need to go pick up the
cake before he gets here so that I can surprise him.”
“Why don’t you take a taxi to the bakery?” I suggested hesitantly. I was
not sure if she wanted advice or if she just wanted to confide in me.
She looked at me as she considered it. “Will you come with me?” she
finally asked, and I nodded without thinking. “You will? Oh, you’re the
sweetest, Fa’iza. Thank you!”
“I don’t mind,” I said.
We were out within an hour. In the Taxi to the bakery, I couldn’t stop
thinking about Afreen telling Aunty Mami we were going to the Central
Library to return a book. Why would she lie?
I
insulated winter jacket. Glancing at the parked cars in the visitor’s
parking lot, I saw a girl a little bit taller than me; I recognized her wide
smile and high cheekbones from her WhatsApp display picture; she had on
a white Canada goose parka jacket with black boots perched outside the
passenger side of a white Porsche Cayenne. Her hair was wrapped with a
white pashmina in a turban-like style, which shifted a little as she waved
excitedly. It was Afreen.
I smiled and waved back. “Afreeeeen!!” I managed to say. My lips were
so frozen and numb that I could barely feel them.
“Yadai, Fa’iza?” she greeted me with a quick hug as I approached the
car. The car trunk popped open, and she helped put my luggage in the trunk.
I was removing my backpack when I lost my balance in the wet snow and
almost fell on my back. She caught me, steadying me as she held my hand
and helped me open the door to the backseat. “Ki shiga. Get in. Let’s get
you warm,” she said.
I got into the car, relieved at how warm it was. It smelled like home:
leather and oud. I rubbed my hands together as I inhaled deeply. I heard her
door close gently as she got into the passenger seat. It was only then that I
noticed the gentleman wearing a white T-shirt and denim trousers in the
driver’s seat. He looked like he was in his late twenties, dark-skinned with a
trimmed beard.
“Fa’iza, meet Zafar. Zafar, this is Fa’iza, my cousin that I’ve been
telling you about,” she smiled as she introduced us, then started buckling
her seatbelt.
“Yadai, Fa’iza? How are you doing?” he pressed the ignition button, and
the car started with a gentle hum. “Ya sanyi? How’s the cold?”
“Akwai sanyi fa. It’s really cold,” I said, and they both laughed.
“This isn’t your first time in Canada though, right?” He kept his eyes on
the road as he asked me.
“No, we were here in the summer,” I replied, thinking back to when
Umma and I came on a campus tour. It was in June last year, and it was
much warmer then.
“Are you hungry?” Afreen asked me, but before I could reply, she
added: “Let’s get some food. I’m hungry.”
“What do you wanna eat, babe?” Zafar asked her with a low voice as we
were driving slowly through the University gates. Her left hand grabbed his
right hand, and he squeezed her fingers. This – affection, or is it love?
Whatever it is, it must be nice; I thought to myself as I looked out the
window at the white flurries falling so lightly. It was beginning to snow
again.
“Let’s go to Miku.” Her reply, too, was almost a whisper.
I tried to pay attention to the music playing lightly. It was a Nasheed, an
old favorite of mine, with Maher Zain thanking Allah for his partner and the
beautiful thing their love was.
“Do you like sushi, Fa’ee?” She asked.
I looked away from the window and shrugged, “sure.”
“Alright, let’s do it!” she beamed at me with a slight twinkle in her eye.
It felt good being with Afreen, especially when she introduced me to
everyone as her cousin, even though we were not actually related. After
sushi, we drove past a Golf and Country club to a gated community in the
suburbs, and Zafar parked in the driveway and helped us get my luggage
out of the car. We bade him goodbye, and we walked up the stone stairs and
into Afreen’s house. A two-storey building with two double attached
garages.
“Don’t tell me this is filled with books,” she teased as I dragged my
luggage up.
“I packed all of my textbooks.” I joked. She opened the door, and we
muttered salams under our breaths as we entered the house. White walls and
a black grand piano on the main floor that was brightly lit by the light from
the suspended multi-globe pendant chandelier. In front of me, two curved
staircases led to the upper level. This was my first time at the house. I
looked around at the luxury wallpaper, high pillars and gold accents. It was
elegant.
“What do you want to do tonight?” she asked. “We can watch a movie.”
I noticed that when she asked questions, she answered them herself. It
reminded me of my mother and made me miss her.
“There you are!” Aunty Mami’s voice broke our quiet chatter. I looked
up and saw her leaning on the silver railing of the stairs. A tall Fulani
woman with a graceful demeanor, her smooth and even-toned skin glowed
from the lights above her. She was wearing a boubou made out of pink
Swiss voile, and she looked exactly the same way she usually did in Abuja
– with her signature headtie style, which showed a hint of her hair and
framed her face perfectly. It was a headtie style many women tried to
replicate; you could tell by the comments on Instagram and articles in
Arewa magazine columns. She held out her hands as I walked up the stairs
to hug her.
“Aunty, ina wuni. Good evening,” I greeted her.
“Fa’iza, wow. Look how beautiful you are!” she widened her eyes as
she looked at me, “you look more and more like your Umma every time I
see you, masha Allah.”
Growing up, I picked up a strange rule – that one didn’t respond to
praises about his or her appearance; it was considered tactless in our culture
to do so. In such circumstances, all one did was smile and hope the
conversation would move to another topic. If it didn’t, one tried to change it
as subtly as possible. In my culture, subtlety was always key in everything
we did.
“Umma sent something for you,” I said as I brought out the gold-and-
red wrapped package I had brought from Nigeria.
“Oh ikon Allah. My goodness. She went through all this trouble?”
Aunty Mami asked as she held up the heavy square package. “Your mum
always spoils me with the best gifts.”
Gift exchanging was Sunnah, a Prophetic tradition. In Islam, the prophet
encouraged it, and our mothers were constantly trying to outdo one another
with the act. It was not about how expensive it was; it was the
thoughtfulness that mattered. Umma never visited anyone empty-handed,
and she made sure my first visit to Aunty Mami’s house in Canada would
be the same.
“Nan gidan ki ne. Feel at home here,” she smiled at me. “Afreen’s dad
is still in Ottawa, but he will be back tomorrow, insha Allah.” I hadn’t seen
the ambassador in years since one of his visits to our house in Abuja. Like
most of my parent’s guests, I only caught a glimpse of him as he arrived at
the house through the windows of our section in the compound, away from
the entrance he used to enter my father’s section.
Afreen was dragging my considerably light box to the guest room on
the ground floor. When I got there, she was going through TV channels
with the remote in her hand. “My room is next door,” she announced, still
looking at the TV screen. I nodded despite her being too distracted to
notice. I looked around the brightly lit room with a queen-sized bed with
plush pillows with a screen door that opened to a garden outside. She didn’t
look away from the screen until her phone started ringing, and a picture of
Zafar flashed on the phone screen. To give her some privacy, I walked into
the bathroom to perform my ablution, as it was time to pray Maghrib, the
fourth prayer of the day, even though I could still hear her as I washed my
hands. “Did I forget it?” Pause. “I can get it tomorrow then.” Long pause,
and then, “can’t come today–” Just as the door closed shut.
After I prayed and freshened up, I decided to go to Afreen’s room to
work on my assignment, checking my text messages on my phone as I left
the guest room. The first message was from my cousin, Aisha Batagarawa,
asking me to like and comment on the picture she had just posted to her
Instagram feed. I went to her profile and typed multiple love-struck emojis
while knocking on the door across the hallway.
“Salam Alaikum,” I opened the door opposite mine. The dark curtains
prevented any amount of light from entering the room, so I could barely see
the figure on the bed. “Afreen…?” I asked as I approached the bed. “Are
you up?”
“Wrong room!” a gruff voice said as the bedside lamp came on,
flooding the room with a dull yellow glow. There was somebody on the
bed, and by the state of the room and the look on his face, I had just woken
him from his sleep, and he didn’t seem too pleased about it. I found my
apologies stumbling out of my mouth in an incoherent monologue filled
with embarrassment when I realized he was shirtless. I stumbled out of the
room and closed the door a little louder than I intended.
“Fa’ee?”
I turned around and found Afreen standing in the doorway. Next door to
the room I was in, not opposite. I had walked into someone else’s room, and
he was half naked; all he had on was a pair of boxers. I felt so stupid and
embarrassed, but she looked like she was about to burst out laughing.
“My goodness!” she laughed. “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”
“I –um, I thought you said. Sorry, I –”
“Don’t apologize,” she laughed it off as she led me into her room. After
she closed the door, she asked: “He wasn’t sleeping half-naked, was he? He
does that a lot.”
I didn’t answer her. I was trying to remember where I’d seen his face. I
knew that I’d seen that face somewhere, and then it hit me. How could I
forget that face? It was the guy on his phone at the bookstore who bumped
into me at CDG Airport during my layover. Oh, the horror!
Rihanna’s We found love was playing in the background as I walked
further into her room. The walls were covered with pale green wallpaper. In
the middle of the room was a Queen sized bed that was covered in a cream
and burgundy duvet, flanked by floating bedside tables, one of which had a
burning scented candle that filled the room with the scent of jasmine and
lily. Opposite the bed was a vanity table and a tufted stool on a white
shaggy rug. Her pashmina scarf was draped on the ottoman by the foot of
the bed, and her unfolded hijab was still on her mat where she had just
prayed.
I got under the duvet covers, propped my laptop open on the pillows
and was bringing out my notebook when Afreen asked: “Are you
studying?”
“I have an assignment due at midnight.”
“Wana course ne? Which course is it?” she picked up my notebook and
started going through it without waiting for a response.
“LS103,” I started explaining, “Res –”
“Research methods in Law, right?”
I nodded.
“Who’s the lecturer?” she asked.
“McCain.”
I can’t believe I still remember that name. He had a thing for midnight
deadlines.”
“I didn’t know you studied Law,” I said, genuinely surprised. To be
honest, I didn’t know much about Aunty Mami’s children, as they’d always
lived outside Nigeria.
“No, I didn’t. Ahmad did, and he was always complaining about it.”
“Who’s Ahmad?” I asked.
“My older brother – the one in the other room,” she walked to her
prayer mat and folded her hijab. “Is the music bothering you? I can turn it
off.”
“No, it’s okay. I can study with music,” I said as I thought of my two
unfortunate encounters with the guy next door – her brother. I let it sink in
while I worked on my essay. Once I started typing, I allowed myself to get
consumed by it, forgetting everything else about my personal life – about
missing my home, my parents, unanswered Instagram DMs, my upcoming
quizzes and the shirtless guy in the next room who happened to be the
good-looking, well-dressed but rude man at the bookstore and Aunty
Mami’s son. It was only when I finished that I started thinking of ways to
avoid him this weekend until I returned to the residence on Sunday. How I
was going to achieve that became my biggest dilemma for the weekend.
* * *
The next morning, the breakfast table had a spread of delicacies – quiche,
croissants, and everything one would expect for breakfast in a Nigerian
home: yam, scrambled eggs, akara, pap, masa, and tea. Now, I understood
why Aunty Mami insisted on taking her chef from Nigeria to every country
they got assigned to. I had missed masa so much! I had a little bit of
everything before I got full. As much as I wanted to eat more, I simply
couldn’t.
“Are you okay?” I asked Afreen. Her phone had kept buzzing
throughout breakfast, and she was replying non-stop, leaving her plate
untouched.
Before she could answer, the door opened, and Ahmad walked in. Our
eyes met, and I couldn’t look away from his chiseled face, strong angular
jawline, and beard that was kept short. He looked like a man who worked
out, with broad shoulders and muscular forearms that were covered in a
crisp white shirt and dark blue pants with brown Oxford shoes that matched
his brown belt. Quite similar to how he was dressed in Paris, the only thing
missing was the brown trench coat. He caught my stare, and his thick
eyebrows furrowed over deep brown eyes as they narrowed.
Afreen turned around as soon as he walked in. “Good, you’re awake.
Can I borrow your car? Just for an hour.”
“No, take yours,” he said as he held my gaze and slowly buttoned up his
cuffs. The deep baritone of his voice was just like I remembered –
confident, and his British accent made even the simplest of sentences sound
arrogant. I quickly looked away as I brought an empty cup to my lips in an
attempt to seem occupied.
“I haven’t switched to winter tyres yet,” she whined. It almost sounded
like conversations I would have with my older brothers back home
whenever I needed their help with something. If there was any wisdom I
could pass on to Afreen, it was that whining never helped with older
brothers.
“Then you should,” he made himself some coffee. She saw him looking
in my direction and pouted.
“Oh, this is Fa’iza,” she introduced us. “She’s staying with us for the
weekend.”
“Hi,” he nodded in my direction as he sat opposite me before addressing
his sister: “Call the dealership and make an appointment to have your tyres
changed.”
Afreen raised her hands in defeat, “I know, I know. I’ve just been
occupied. But I really need to borrow your car, pretty pleaseeeee.”
“No, I have an interview today and after that, I’m meeting with the
boys,” he said as he looked at his watch.
“What kind of interview takes place on a saturday?” Afreen asked.
“It’s my company. I schedule interviews whenever the hell I want.” He
chuckled as he took a sip of his black coffee. Aha – there it was! I thought
to myself. The self-righteous superiority was not a figment of my
imagination. He never apologized for spilling water on me at the airport,
never even acknowledged that he did it. And here he was with the attitude
again.
He stood up, and his eyes caught mine again. To avoid eye contact, I
quickly picked up my phone and started opening random apps – anything to
seem occupied. I didn’t look up until I heard the door close.
“Fa’iza, lafiya? Is everything okay?” Afreen was looking at me.
“I’m fine.” I gestured to her plate. “You haven’t touched your
breakfast.”
She sighed. “Tomorrow is Zafar’s birthday.”
Oh, Zafar. I guess we’re talking about boyfriends now. Is this what
having a sister would feel like? I wondered. Out loud, I said: “Nice. What
are you planning for him?”
“Well, he’ll be busy tomorrow, so we kinda have to celebrate today,”
she said, scratching the back of her hand nervously.
“Aww,” I said awkwardly, unsure of what to say. I was not used to this
kind of conversation. My brothers never talked about the girls they dated
with me. They never discussed anything personal with me.
She looked at the wall clock, then continued. “I got him a cake and a
few things. He’s coming to pick me up later, but I need to go pick up the
cake before he gets here so that I can surprise him.”
“Why don’t you take a taxi to the bakery?” I suggested hesitantly. I was
not sure if she wanted advice or if she just wanted to confide in me.
She looked at me as she considered it. “Will you come with me?” she
finally asked, and I nodded without thinking. “You will? Oh, you’re the
sweetest, Fa’iza. Thank you!”
“I don’t mind,” I said.
We were out within an hour. In the Taxi to the bakery, I couldn’t stop
thinking about Afreen telling Aunty Mami we were going to the Central
Library to return a book. Why would she lie?
I