Chapter 4
Broken Not a halal love story Complete · about 20 min read
t was just after 6 pm, and I was sitting on the ottoman in Afreen’s room
watching her apply lip gloss to her red lips. She was wearing a rose-
colored jacquard off-shoulder midi dress, and small pearl earrings, with her
hair in a tight bun.
“Oh, but you have to come.” Afreen gushed as she looked at herself in
the mirror. She turned around and held my hand, still pleading. “I feel bad
leaving you here by yourself when we should be watching movies together
like we said we would do this weekend.”
“Walahi, it’s fine. I swear. I don’t want to be a third wheel,” I smiled.
“He doesn’t mind,” she said, looking at herself in the mirror. She looked
absolutely stunning.
“No, I’m going to rewatch old episodes of Gossip girl,” I was relieved
that I didn’t have to dress up to do that. “Go, please. Have fun. Don’t worry
about me.”
“Okay, babe,” she said, giving me a hug. “Oh, and by the way, thank
you for keeping my secret and for coming with me to get the cake.” She
smiled at me, and I smiled back. It was easy to keep the secret because
Aunty Mami had gone to pick up the Ambassador from the Airport, and
they were going to meet with a Tanzanian Diplomat before coming home.
Zafar called to say he was outside, and I helped Afreen carry the
wrapped present in a paper bag and her clutch as we walked out of her room
and towards the front door. I was utterly amazed at how she walked
graciously in the highest stilettos I’d ever seen while carrying a box of cake.
Zafar was leaning on his car, wearing a brown shirt tucked into dark
trousers when we came out and when he saw her, his eyes glistened.
“Surprise,” her voice was quiet, but the twinkle in her eye was hard to
miss.
“Bobette and Belle,” he sounded surprised as he helped her with the
cake box. “But babe, you didn’t have to.”
“Of course, I did,” Afreen smiled, “It’s your favorite bakery!” The
admiration between these two was so evident from the way they looked at
each other, and it was amazing just watching them.
“Happy birthday,” I said, passing the brown paper bag to Afreen to give
to him.
“Thank you, Fa’iza,” he said, opening the door for her.
Afreen blew me a kiss as they drove off. When the car was safely out of
the driveway, I walked back into the house, into the living room on the
ground floor and turned on the television. Netflix on a big screen was
luxurious after weeks of watching all my favorite shows on my laptop.
Looking back, this was the highlight of that first weekend – Netflixing
alone in the quiet house, a break from student accommodation and uptight
educationists. I was in a comfortable position on one of the white leather
sectionals when the door flung open, and my eyes met Ahmad’s.
“Hey,” he said. And although the greeting was perfectly polite, the
manner in which he said it seemed rude. Hey. Like I was some
inconsequential extra human being in their house. He did not even wait for
a reply as he walked into the room.
I pretended to be deeply engrossed in the fight between Serena and
Blair on the 75-inch television mounted above the glass-walled electric
fireplace in front of me, but I was suddenly conscious of the grey slacks and
grey hoodie I’d changed into after praying Asr. I wished I was wearing
something nicer. Why do I care about what I was wearing? I thought to
myself.
He cleared his throat, “Are you alone?” He asked as he looked around
the room. Where’s Afreen?” From the corner of my eye, I saw that he’d
changed into a white T-shirt and blue denim.
I glanced up briefly and tried to keep my expression neutral, “She just
went out.” I hated how timid my voice sounded.
He sat down on one of the white leather couches – not close to me, but I
was painfully aware of his presence. I found myself trying to identify his
perfume as he typed into his phone, and from the corner of my eye, I could
see he raised the phone to his ear. A few seconds later, Afreen’s
unmistakable chipper, hello, what’s up? could be faintly heard.
“Ya kika bar kawar ki a gida, ta zauna ita kadai, kaman wata
marainiya?” he chuckled to himself, looking away from me as he asked
‘Why did you leave your friend at home, sitting all alone, like a deserted
orphan?’ I could feel my toes digging into the soft green carpet and my eyes
falling to the white orchid arrangement on the glass centre table. He was
talking about me like I was not right there. I looked up at him, and from the
smile on his face as he spoke into the phone, I immediately understood that
he did not know that I understood Hausa. At the University, sometimes,
people of other ethnicities mistook me for Somali or Eritrean, but Nigerians
can always recognize other Nigerians in any space – except this one.
“Tana nan –” I heard him say into the phone again. “She’s here –” I
watched the smile fade slowly from his face, I had no doubt that at the end
of the line, she was telling him that I understood everything he’d just said. I
waited for him to end the call before getting up to leave the living room.
“Um – wait… what’s your name again?” he asked in Hausa as he tried
to stop me.
I let myself out.
“Fa’iza?” I heard him call out behind the closed door.
I made my way to Afreen’s room and decided to watch my show there
instead, but I couldn’t concentrate. I didn’t want to go back to the
guestroom just yet because I didn’t want to risk running into him again.
Kaman wata marainiya, he’d said. Like a poor little orphan. He didn’t
even remember my name.
* * *
The following day, I went upstairs to the upper level which was divided into
two bedrooms, a reading nook, an indoor office and another living room.
The white walls had huge portraits of the family, and the carpeted floors
were lined with big green plants and begonia flowers in white pots.
“You have to come back every weekend, Fa’iza,” Aunty Mami said
when I told her I was leaving for the residence. She was sitting next to
Uncle on the black leather couch. They had a medical kit on the glossy
white side table next to them.
“Absolutely. This is home,” Uncle agreed, checking his blood sugar
while Aunty Mami helped him with the level reading. “Our door is open for
you anytime.”
“That’s a beautiful scarf,” Aunty referred to the purple Kate Spade scarf
wrapped around my head; it matched my purple turtleneck sweater that I
was wearing over black denim pants.
“Thank you, Aunty.”
“Ina Afreen? Where’s Afreen?” Uncle asked, looking behind me. “She’s
taking you back, right?”
“She took her car to the dealership. I’ll drop her.” It was Ahmad’s voice.
I turned around to see him zipping up the brown leather jacket he was
wearing over a T-shirt and black jeans.
“Oh, perfect,” Aunty gushed. “It’s a good thing you’re home now.”
His dad looked up at him. “Ahmad, you should be helping Afreen with
things like oil changes, winter tyres and everything else.”
“Dad, she needs to learn to be self-sufficient,” he leaned down to give
his mom a kiss on the cheeks.
“Well, you’re here now. At least before you leave again, she should feel
like her big brother is around.”
When we said our goodbyes and went down the stairs, I put on my
winter jacket, his phone rang and he answered the call while gesturing for
me to go ahead and sit in the black Audi. He opened the door that led to one
of the two-car garage, and as I approached his car, the lights blinked as the
doors opened. I huffed as I sat alone in the passenger’s seat, watching him
in a heated conversation. A few seconds later, he joined me, and the scent of
his oud filled the car.
“Sorry. That was work,” he said, his hands on the gearshift. He put the
car in reverse, and even though there was a backup camera, he didn’t look
at the screen. Instead, he put his hand over my headrest as he reversed. I
was so uncomfortable with our close proximity, suddenly aware of how
small I was next to him.
A few seconds later, we were on the road with a French song I’d never
heard before playing softly through the speakers. “So about yesterday –” he
started.
“Don’t worry about it.”
His eyes glanced at me and then back at the road, “no. You need to
know that what I said to Afreen was just curiosity; I was just wondering
why you were alone.”
I said nothing.
“Wrong choice of words on my part, I admit,” he glanced back at me
and smiled. His right hand was resting on the gearshift. As he moved it, it
came closer to my thigh.
I swallowed.
“I just didn’t know that you were Hausa. My sister’s friends from
school come over fairly often and none of them is Hausa.”
“So, you just assumed I was Canadian?”
“I thought you were East African,” he said as the car slowed down. We
were stuck in traffic now.
How long was this ride going to take? I thought to myself. The car was
quiet except for Wizkid’s song now playing.
“I should’ve taken another route. I completely forgot about how bad
northbound traffic is on Sunday evenings.”
It sounded to me like he was trying to fill the uncomfortable silence
with filler talk. The car hadn’t moved for a whole minute. I knew because I
was counting my breath. Sitting this close to him, I could see the faint
waves in his hair and his full lips; he also had Aunty Mami’s straight nose
and perfect dentition.
“So, how’s school?” Before I could answer, I caught him looking at me
again with his eyes squinted like he was trying hard to remember
something. “Wait. I’ve seen you somewhere before.”
Uh oh. This is not the time to go down memory lane, sir.
He made a fist with his left hand and put it over his mouth, shaking his
head slightly from side to side, “Wait a minute, was it Paris?” He asked.
“I’ve been trying so hard to recall since I saw you at breakfast yesterday.”
“You bumped into me.” My accusatory tone was hard to miss.
“So, it was you?” His eyes widened. “You’re the 50 shades girl.”
Hold up. What did he just call me? “What?”
“You were reading the blurb at the back of that 50 shades book when
you bumped into me,” he laughed. “Wow, what a small world.”
So maybe I didn’t mention that I was reading the back of the book in the
bookstore when the infamous bump occurred, but, in my defense, Mr.
Darcy here was also on his phone.
“Well, you were also on your phone,” I was defensive.
“No. When you bumped into me, you spilled my bottle of water on my
phone,” he explained gently.
“I remember it quite differently,” I said stubbornly, even though I could
feel a smile forming at the corners of my lips.
“I bet you do. So, how was the book?” he smiled, then shook his head.
He glanced back at me, and our eyes met. “Was it worth it?” The words
rolled off his tongue slowly, deliberately. Maybe I imagined it, but it felt
like his eyes were piercing into mine. I swallowed my words and looked
back at the road, not understanding why it suddenly felt hard to breathe.
Luckily, the traffic started moving just then.
* * *
A few days after my eighteenth birthday in March, I was in the student
laundry room sorting out my whites from my colored clothes while talking
on the phone with Umma. She was already asking about my summer plans.
“Will you be flying back through Lagos or Abuja?”
“Umma, I won’t be coming home this summer, I want to take a bridge
semester.” I explained to her that taking two courses in the summer would
reduce my course load for the fall semester. I was getting my laundry out of
the drying machine and almost gasped out loud when I realized my favorite
white top had shrunk two sizes smaller.
“Ko for a few weeks?” She didn’t sound too pleased. There was a short
pause on the other end, then, “well, you can meet us in Milan in June.
We’re going for Kaltume’s wedding.” Kaltume was the daughter of a family
friend and a childhood friend of mine.
“Toh, Umma.”
After I hung up the call, I headed back to my room, where Claire was
warming up a pop tart in the microwave above the kitchen sink. She was
sitting on the counter, looking at the empty box as she bit into an apple. “I
should probably stop eating these,” she said, reading the nutrition fact label.
“I remember you saying the same thing last week,” I laughed.
“170 calories!” she exclaimed. “And look at all that sugar! This is bad.
This is so bad.”
I rolled my eyes as I grabbed a glass of water. Claire was the skinniest
girl I knew. She ate like a junkie, and when she wasn’t eating, she was
complaining about how unhealthy everything was.
“You haven’t touched half of the fruits we got over the weekend,” I
said, looking at all the berries we had in the fridge. I grabbed an apple too.
“Do you know that 28 percent of berries have pesticide residue?”
I didn’t know this and resorted to mulling over it as I ate my apple, our
loud chewing filling the silent dormitory room. Needless to say, these were
the kind of conversations that occupied my mind those days. Between my
super health-conscious roommate, who was on a new diet every other week,
there was also Sara and Ada; the three of us made up the most efficient
study group. We met four times a week at 4 pm to work on essays and
review notes.
Later that evening, I made my way to the second floor of the University
to the study room we had reserved for our meet-ups.
“Okay, here’s Fa’iza. Let’s hear what she thinks,” I heard them say as I
walked closer to our study table. It looked like I was walking into an
argument.
“Let’s ask her then,” Sara was saying. She was wearing a beautiful pink
scarf, and her face was contoured so perfectly. “Musk or Besos – who do
you think will rule the next decade?”
“Oh, that’s a tough one,” I said as I sat down and brought out my books.
“Not just Tesla. Think of SpaceX, too. Technology for the future,” Ada
was saying. She was a smart, fast-witted, natural-hair-wearing Nigerian
who was so easy to hang out with. Our little study group was fast becoming
my favorite part of school because of her.
“I agree with that,” I said, “Elon Musk is a force to be reckoned with,
but Jeff Besos has dominates not just ebook platforms, but also online
shopping, TV, music and film,” I said, counting on my fingers as I spoke.
“Exactly!” Sara said, as if somehow my opinion validated hers.
Two hours, five mugs of coffee and three chapters of public and
constitutional law later, we were all hungry. “I’m gonna order us pizza,” I
said, pulling up the delivery app on my phone. We always took turns
ordering dinner. It was a little pact of sorts that we never really talked
about, yet we handled it with an almost precise rotation.
“Wallahi, I am sick of eating out of boxes,” Sara groaned. “Let’s go to a
restaurant. It’s Friday.”
“We can check out that Italian place we walked by the other day,” Ada
suggested. A new restaurant had opened up in the shopping square across
from the University. It was only a five-minute walk, and with the weather
getting nicer and warmer, I didn’t mind at all.
“Ah yes. Terroni,” I said. “Let’s go.”
We packed up our notes and laptops, and in half an hour, we were
seated in the beautiful upscale restaurant glancing through the menu. I
ordered seafood pasta and was halfway through when Ada, who was sitting
opposite me, said: “Fa’iza, don’t look up, but there’s a gentleman on the
table behind you who’s been staring at you since we came in.” I wiped the
tasty Alfredo sauce from the corner of my mouth.
“Wow,” whispered Sara, “He is handsome, Masha Allah.” She bit into
her mozzarella stick in a naughty manner, and we all laughed.
“He’s probably looking at one of you,” I said just as the waiter dropped
by our table to refill our cups with water.
When we were done with dinner, just after 7 pm, we split the bill and
said our goodbyes outside the restaurant, and I started walking back to the
residence. It was such a beautiful evening. The cool breeze was better than
the winter chill, that’s for sure.
“Fa’iza.” I heard a familiar voice call out.
Ahmad?
“I thought it was you,” I heard him say as I turned around. I wasn’t
prepared for the sight that met my eyes when I did – for how good he
looked in the light of the setting sun. It had been a few months since he
dropped me off at the residence and helped me with my luggage to the
elevator. I didn’t know what he had been up to since then, but whatever it
was, it was working for him; he looked terrific.
“Um, what’s your name, again?” I asked, and he burst out laughing. We
had inside jokes now.
“Touché,” he put his hands in the pocket of the trousers. He wore a tan
blazer over a cotton buttoned-up shirt. “Ya kike? How are you?”
Not to sound like a brat, but I honestly hate it when people say ya kike,
instead of yadai. Sure, they mean the same thing, but I think ya kike should
be reserved for kids. Wait, he doesn’t think I’m a kid, does he? I shook my
head to dispel the thoughts from my head as I answered, “I’m okay.”
He mock-frowned, “Are you, really? Because you’re saying you are, but
you’re shaking your head. Which one is it?”
“I’m okay. Just a little tired,” I chuckled, suddenly pleased with myself
that I had my green Ted Baker trench coat on. I was also glad I’d put some
makeup on, albeit minimal, but at least I didn’t look like a homeless girl
standing next to someone who looked so well put together.
I figured he was the “handsome” man seated at the table next to ours
and turned back to glance at his party. Through the huge glass windows of
the brightly lit restaurant, two other men and some blonde ladies were
laughing at a shared joke. It looked like an outing with a group of friends.
As I looked, one of the ladies looked in our direction, her hand going
through her shoulder-length bob as she tried to get his attention. She had the
kind of face that I was used to seeing on the cover of magazines – light-
colored eyes and pale skin. Was she his girlfriend? Wait, why did I feel a
pang of uneasiness at the thought of her being his girlfriend? Her attention
went back to the table when a group of waiters carrying a cake moved
towards them, singing a birthday song.
I looked back at him. “What’s the occasion?” Was it his girlfriend’s
birthday?
“Nothing major,” he shrugged, looking away from the window and back
at me. “It’s really good to see you. I, um– " He cleared his throat, “I never
got your number.”
You never asked, I thought to myself but instead, said: “Oh haka fa.
That’s right.”
“So, what are you doing tonight?”
“Heading back to my room, pray Isha, watch a movie, have some tea,
then go to sleep,” I said without thinking. That was my daily evening
routine.
“In that order? You follow a schedule?” He looked amused.
“I like being organized, that’s all.”
He nodded, his eyes searching mine.” How about we go watch a
movie?”
“Which movie?” My reply sounded cool – nonchalant even, as if my
heart didn’t just skip a beat.
He brought his phone out of his pocket, typed on the screen and handed
it to me. It was the Cineplex app displaying a list of movies showing in
nearby theatres. “I’m sure there’s a movie you would like that’s showing
tonight,” he said as I scrolled through the choices.
There were many choices I really didn’t care to watch as I scrolled. The
two I was interested in – The Vow and Jump Street – were movies I’d
already watched with Claire. Fast and Furious 5 it is. “Oh, there’s Fast 5,”
I finally said.
He leaned closer to look at the phone screen. “Yeah, we can watch that,
if you want.” He was standing so close to me I could smell his perfume
around his neck: Creed Aventus. I could tell because years of living with
my brothers had gotten me unnecessarily well-versed in male cologne. Why
did he always smell so damn good? More importantly, why did I like this
attention he was giving me?
Without thinking about it, I took a step backwards. “Um – I need to pray
Isha,” I handed his phone back to him.
“Of course,” he said, putting the phone back into his pocket. “We can go
after you pray. I’ll drop you at your residence and wait for you while you
do.”
“Don’t you need to pray as well?” I wasn’t sure if there was a mosque
around the shopping square. The closest one I knew was the one at the
University, in the Student Affairs building.
“I will, whenever I get home,” he shrugged.
I was getting worried that going to watch a movie at this time might not
be a wise idea, so like I always did when I had second thoughts, I readjusted
my scarf and tightened the ends around my neck while he looked at me with
a half-smile on his face like he knew I was about to come up with an
excuse.
“It’s getting late,” I swallowed. Why is my swallow sound so loud? Did
he hear it? “By the time I pray and we drive all the way there, it would be
dark.” Since I got to Canada, this is the latest I have been outdoors, and it
was only a few minutes to seven.
“Oh, yeah. I guess you’re right,” he smiled, looking at his watch. “It is
getting late. “How about tomorrow afternoon, instead?”
I nodded.
“Can I walk you to your residence?”
I nodded again, and we started walking down the deserted stony
pedestrian pathway in the shopping square and towards the looming brick-
walled 20-storey building with the word ‘residence’ spelled out in red. The
walk was quiet for the most part, but he eventually broke the silence with
small talk. “So, how do you like it here?” his eyes lingered on mine for a
second.
“I like it a lot,” I answered truthfully. It was my first time living away
from home, and the experience had been scary yet exciting so far.
“I never really liked school dorms, never stayed in one.” We were at the
junction now, waiting for the pedestrian sign to turn green.
“Ya gida? How’s home?” I asked. I inwardly rolled my eyes,
disappointed at what I could come up with to keep the conversation going.
“Fine, I guess. Haven’t you spoken to Afreen?” The light turned green,
and we crossed the road.
“We talk almost every day.” We send each other funny memes or
screenshots of bizarre tweets. Not much of a conversation, but he didn’t
need to know that.
His head turned as he watched a car drive past us so I couldn’t see his
expression and wondered how he felt about my friendship with his little
sister. “You didn’t say goodbye to your friends,” I finally said.
“So?” he answered like it wasn’t rude to leave without saying bye.
“They’ll understand.”
Or you just lack basic manners. At the entrance of the residence, we
watched as a loud group of friends walked past us, slightly inebriated. Then
he asked: “What time can I pick you up tomorrow?” He was looking at me,
and I could tell he expected me to come up with another excuse.
“After Asr.”
“So, can I get your phone number?” he smiled.
I nodded, and he handed me his phone. I dialed the number so I could
have his, too. “Thanks for walking me back,” I said, giving him back the
phone.
“Enjoy your tea,” he said and walked away.
Was that a wink, or did I imagine it?
I
watching her apply lip gloss to her red lips. She was wearing a rose-
colored jacquard off-shoulder midi dress, and small pearl earrings, with her
hair in a tight bun.
“Oh, but you have to come.” Afreen gushed as she looked at herself in
the mirror. She turned around and held my hand, still pleading. “I feel bad
leaving you here by yourself when we should be watching movies together
like we said we would do this weekend.”
“Walahi, it’s fine. I swear. I don’t want to be a third wheel,” I smiled.
“He doesn’t mind,” she said, looking at herself in the mirror. She looked
absolutely stunning.
“No, I’m going to rewatch old episodes of Gossip girl,” I was relieved
that I didn’t have to dress up to do that. “Go, please. Have fun. Don’t worry
about me.”
“Okay, babe,” she said, giving me a hug. “Oh, and by the way, thank
you for keeping my secret and for coming with me to get the cake.” She
smiled at me, and I smiled back. It was easy to keep the secret because
Aunty Mami had gone to pick up the Ambassador from the Airport, and
they were going to meet with a Tanzanian Diplomat before coming home.
Zafar called to say he was outside, and I helped Afreen carry the
wrapped present in a paper bag and her clutch as we walked out of her room
and towards the front door. I was utterly amazed at how she walked
graciously in the highest stilettos I’d ever seen while carrying a box of cake.
Zafar was leaning on his car, wearing a brown shirt tucked into dark
trousers when we came out and when he saw her, his eyes glistened.
“Surprise,” her voice was quiet, but the twinkle in her eye was hard to
miss.
“Bobette and Belle,” he sounded surprised as he helped her with the
cake box. “But babe, you didn’t have to.”
“Of course, I did,” Afreen smiled, “It’s your favorite bakery!” The
admiration between these two was so evident from the way they looked at
each other, and it was amazing just watching them.
“Happy birthday,” I said, passing the brown paper bag to Afreen to give
to him.
“Thank you, Fa’iza,” he said, opening the door for her.
Afreen blew me a kiss as they drove off. When the car was safely out of
the driveway, I walked back into the house, into the living room on the
ground floor and turned on the television. Netflix on a big screen was
luxurious after weeks of watching all my favorite shows on my laptop.
Looking back, this was the highlight of that first weekend – Netflixing
alone in the quiet house, a break from student accommodation and uptight
educationists. I was in a comfortable position on one of the white leather
sectionals when the door flung open, and my eyes met Ahmad’s.
“Hey,” he said. And although the greeting was perfectly polite, the
manner in which he said it seemed rude. Hey. Like I was some
inconsequential extra human being in their house. He did not even wait for
a reply as he walked into the room.
I pretended to be deeply engrossed in the fight between Serena and
Blair on the 75-inch television mounted above the glass-walled electric
fireplace in front of me, but I was suddenly conscious of the grey slacks and
grey hoodie I’d changed into after praying Asr. I wished I was wearing
something nicer. Why do I care about what I was wearing? I thought to
myself.
He cleared his throat, “Are you alone?” He asked as he looked around
the room. Where’s Afreen?” From the corner of my eye, I saw that he’d
changed into a white T-shirt and blue denim.
I glanced up briefly and tried to keep my expression neutral, “She just
went out.” I hated how timid my voice sounded.
He sat down on one of the white leather couches – not close to me, but I
was painfully aware of his presence. I found myself trying to identify his
perfume as he typed into his phone, and from the corner of my eye, I could
see he raised the phone to his ear. A few seconds later, Afreen’s
unmistakable chipper, hello, what’s up? could be faintly heard.
“Ya kika bar kawar ki a gida, ta zauna ita kadai, kaman wata
marainiya?” he chuckled to himself, looking away from me as he asked
‘Why did you leave your friend at home, sitting all alone, like a deserted
orphan?’ I could feel my toes digging into the soft green carpet and my eyes
falling to the white orchid arrangement on the glass centre table. He was
talking about me like I was not right there. I looked up at him, and from the
smile on his face as he spoke into the phone, I immediately understood that
he did not know that I understood Hausa. At the University, sometimes,
people of other ethnicities mistook me for Somali or Eritrean, but Nigerians
can always recognize other Nigerians in any space – except this one.
“Tana nan –” I heard him say into the phone again. “She’s here –” I
watched the smile fade slowly from his face, I had no doubt that at the end
of the line, she was telling him that I understood everything he’d just said. I
waited for him to end the call before getting up to leave the living room.
“Um – wait… what’s your name again?” he asked in Hausa as he tried
to stop me.
I let myself out.
“Fa’iza?” I heard him call out behind the closed door.
I made my way to Afreen’s room and decided to watch my show there
instead, but I couldn’t concentrate. I didn’t want to go back to the
guestroom just yet because I didn’t want to risk running into him again.
Kaman wata marainiya, he’d said. Like a poor little orphan. He didn’t
even remember my name.
* * *
The following day, I went upstairs to the upper level which was divided into
two bedrooms, a reading nook, an indoor office and another living room.
The white walls had huge portraits of the family, and the carpeted floors
were lined with big green plants and begonia flowers in white pots.
“You have to come back every weekend, Fa’iza,” Aunty Mami said
when I told her I was leaving for the residence. She was sitting next to
Uncle on the black leather couch. They had a medical kit on the glossy
white side table next to them.
“Absolutely. This is home,” Uncle agreed, checking his blood sugar
while Aunty Mami helped him with the level reading. “Our door is open for
you anytime.”
“That’s a beautiful scarf,” Aunty referred to the purple Kate Spade scarf
wrapped around my head; it matched my purple turtleneck sweater that I
was wearing over black denim pants.
“Thank you, Aunty.”
“Ina Afreen? Where’s Afreen?” Uncle asked, looking behind me. “She’s
taking you back, right?”
“She took her car to the dealership. I’ll drop her.” It was Ahmad’s voice.
I turned around to see him zipping up the brown leather jacket he was
wearing over a T-shirt and black jeans.
“Oh, perfect,” Aunty gushed. “It’s a good thing you’re home now.”
His dad looked up at him. “Ahmad, you should be helping Afreen with
things like oil changes, winter tyres and everything else.”
“Dad, she needs to learn to be self-sufficient,” he leaned down to give
his mom a kiss on the cheeks.
“Well, you’re here now. At least before you leave again, she should feel
like her big brother is around.”
When we said our goodbyes and went down the stairs, I put on my
winter jacket, his phone rang and he answered the call while gesturing for
me to go ahead and sit in the black Audi. He opened the door that led to one
of the two-car garage, and as I approached his car, the lights blinked as the
doors opened. I huffed as I sat alone in the passenger’s seat, watching him
in a heated conversation. A few seconds later, he joined me, and the scent of
his oud filled the car.
“Sorry. That was work,” he said, his hands on the gearshift. He put the
car in reverse, and even though there was a backup camera, he didn’t look
at the screen. Instead, he put his hand over my headrest as he reversed. I
was so uncomfortable with our close proximity, suddenly aware of how
small I was next to him.
A few seconds later, we were on the road with a French song I’d never
heard before playing softly through the speakers. “So about yesterday –” he
started.
“Don’t worry about it.”
His eyes glanced at me and then back at the road, “no. You need to
know that what I said to Afreen was just curiosity; I was just wondering
why you were alone.”
I said nothing.
“Wrong choice of words on my part, I admit,” he glanced back at me
and smiled. His right hand was resting on the gearshift. As he moved it, it
came closer to my thigh.
I swallowed.
“I just didn’t know that you were Hausa. My sister’s friends from
school come over fairly often and none of them is Hausa.”
“So, you just assumed I was Canadian?”
“I thought you were East African,” he said as the car slowed down. We
were stuck in traffic now.
How long was this ride going to take? I thought to myself. The car was
quiet except for Wizkid’s song now playing.
“I should’ve taken another route. I completely forgot about how bad
northbound traffic is on Sunday evenings.”
It sounded to me like he was trying to fill the uncomfortable silence
with filler talk. The car hadn’t moved for a whole minute. I knew because I
was counting my breath. Sitting this close to him, I could see the faint
waves in his hair and his full lips; he also had Aunty Mami’s straight nose
and perfect dentition.
“So, how’s school?” Before I could answer, I caught him looking at me
again with his eyes squinted like he was trying hard to remember
something. “Wait. I’ve seen you somewhere before.”
Uh oh. This is not the time to go down memory lane, sir.
He made a fist with his left hand and put it over his mouth, shaking his
head slightly from side to side, “Wait a minute, was it Paris?” He asked.
“I’ve been trying so hard to recall since I saw you at breakfast yesterday.”
“You bumped into me.” My accusatory tone was hard to miss.
“So, it was you?” His eyes widened. “You’re the 50 shades girl.”
Hold up. What did he just call me? “What?”
“You were reading the blurb at the back of that 50 shades book when
you bumped into me,” he laughed. “Wow, what a small world.”
So maybe I didn’t mention that I was reading the back of the book in the
bookstore when the infamous bump occurred, but, in my defense, Mr.
Darcy here was also on his phone.
“Well, you were also on your phone,” I was defensive.
“No. When you bumped into me, you spilled my bottle of water on my
phone,” he explained gently.
“I remember it quite differently,” I said stubbornly, even though I could
feel a smile forming at the corners of my lips.
“I bet you do. So, how was the book?” he smiled, then shook his head.
He glanced back at me, and our eyes met. “Was it worth it?” The words
rolled off his tongue slowly, deliberately. Maybe I imagined it, but it felt
like his eyes were piercing into mine. I swallowed my words and looked
back at the road, not understanding why it suddenly felt hard to breathe.
Luckily, the traffic started moving just then.
* * *
A few days after my eighteenth birthday in March, I was in the student
laundry room sorting out my whites from my colored clothes while talking
on the phone with Umma. She was already asking about my summer plans.
“Will you be flying back through Lagos or Abuja?”
“Umma, I won’t be coming home this summer, I want to take a bridge
semester.” I explained to her that taking two courses in the summer would
reduce my course load for the fall semester. I was getting my laundry out of
the drying machine and almost gasped out loud when I realized my favorite
white top had shrunk two sizes smaller.
“Ko for a few weeks?” She didn’t sound too pleased. There was a short
pause on the other end, then, “well, you can meet us in Milan in June.
We’re going for Kaltume’s wedding.” Kaltume was the daughter of a family
friend and a childhood friend of mine.
“Toh, Umma.”
After I hung up the call, I headed back to my room, where Claire was
warming up a pop tart in the microwave above the kitchen sink. She was
sitting on the counter, looking at the empty box as she bit into an apple. “I
should probably stop eating these,” she said, reading the nutrition fact label.
“I remember you saying the same thing last week,” I laughed.
“170 calories!” she exclaimed. “And look at all that sugar! This is bad.
This is so bad.”
I rolled my eyes as I grabbed a glass of water. Claire was the skinniest
girl I knew. She ate like a junkie, and when she wasn’t eating, she was
complaining about how unhealthy everything was.
“You haven’t touched half of the fruits we got over the weekend,” I
said, looking at all the berries we had in the fridge. I grabbed an apple too.
“Do you know that 28 percent of berries have pesticide residue?”
I didn’t know this and resorted to mulling over it as I ate my apple, our
loud chewing filling the silent dormitory room. Needless to say, these were
the kind of conversations that occupied my mind those days. Between my
super health-conscious roommate, who was on a new diet every other week,
there was also Sara and Ada; the three of us made up the most efficient
study group. We met four times a week at 4 pm to work on essays and
review notes.
Later that evening, I made my way to the second floor of the University
to the study room we had reserved for our meet-ups.
“Okay, here’s Fa’iza. Let’s hear what she thinks,” I heard them say as I
walked closer to our study table. It looked like I was walking into an
argument.
“Let’s ask her then,” Sara was saying. She was wearing a beautiful pink
scarf, and her face was contoured so perfectly. “Musk or Besos – who do
you think will rule the next decade?”
“Oh, that’s a tough one,” I said as I sat down and brought out my books.
“Not just Tesla. Think of SpaceX, too. Technology for the future,” Ada
was saying. She was a smart, fast-witted, natural-hair-wearing Nigerian
who was so easy to hang out with. Our little study group was fast becoming
my favorite part of school because of her.
“I agree with that,” I said, “Elon Musk is a force to be reckoned with,
but Jeff Besos has dominates not just ebook platforms, but also online
shopping, TV, music and film,” I said, counting on my fingers as I spoke.
“Exactly!” Sara said, as if somehow my opinion validated hers.
Two hours, five mugs of coffee and three chapters of public and
constitutional law later, we were all hungry. “I’m gonna order us pizza,” I
said, pulling up the delivery app on my phone. We always took turns
ordering dinner. It was a little pact of sorts that we never really talked
about, yet we handled it with an almost precise rotation.
“Wallahi, I am sick of eating out of boxes,” Sara groaned. “Let’s go to a
restaurant. It’s Friday.”
“We can check out that Italian place we walked by the other day,” Ada
suggested. A new restaurant had opened up in the shopping square across
from the University. It was only a five-minute walk, and with the weather
getting nicer and warmer, I didn’t mind at all.
“Ah yes. Terroni,” I said. “Let’s go.”
We packed up our notes and laptops, and in half an hour, we were
seated in the beautiful upscale restaurant glancing through the menu. I
ordered seafood pasta and was halfway through when Ada, who was sitting
opposite me, said: “Fa’iza, don’t look up, but there’s a gentleman on the
table behind you who’s been staring at you since we came in.” I wiped the
tasty Alfredo sauce from the corner of my mouth.
“Wow,” whispered Sara, “He is handsome, Masha Allah.” She bit into
her mozzarella stick in a naughty manner, and we all laughed.
“He’s probably looking at one of you,” I said just as the waiter dropped
by our table to refill our cups with water.
When we were done with dinner, just after 7 pm, we split the bill and
said our goodbyes outside the restaurant, and I started walking back to the
residence. It was such a beautiful evening. The cool breeze was better than
the winter chill, that’s for sure.
“Fa’iza.” I heard a familiar voice call out.
Ahmad?
“I thought it was you,” I heard him say as I turned around. I wasn’t
prepared for the sight that met my eyes when I did – for how good he
looked in the light of the setting sun. It had been a few months since he
dropped me off at the residence and helped me with my luggage to the
elevator. I didn’t know what he had been up to since then, but whatever it
was, it was working for him; he looked terrific.
“Um, what’s your name, again?” I asked, and he burst out laughing. We
had inside jokes now.
“Touché,” he put his hands in the pocket of the trousers. He wore a tan
blazer over a cotton buttoned-up shirt. “Ya kike? How are you?”
Not to sound like a brat, but I honestly hate it when people say ya kike,
instead of yadai. Sure, they mean the same thing, but I think ya kike should
be reserved for kids. Wait, he doesn’t think I’m a kid, does he? I shook my
head to dispel the thoughts from my head as I answered, “I’m okay.”
He mock-frowned, “Are you, really? Because you’re saying you are, but
you’re shaking your head. Which one is it?”
“I’m okay. Just a little tired,” I chuckled, suddenly pleased with myself
that I had my green Ted Baker trench coat on. I was also glad I’d put some
makeup on, albeit minimal, but at least I didn’t look like a homeless girl
standing next to someone who looked so well put together.
I figured he was the “handsome” man seated at the table next to ours
and turned back to glance at his party. Through the huge glass windows of
the brightly lit restaurant, two other men and some blonde ladies were
laughing at a shared joke. It looked like an outing with a group of friends.
As I looked, one of the ladies looked in our direction, her hand going
through her shoulder-length bob as she tried to get his attention. She had the
kind of face that I was used to seeing on the cover of magazines – light-
colored eyes and pale skin. Was she his girlfriend? Wait, why did I feel a
pang of uneasiness at the thought of her being his girlfriend? Her attention
went back to the table when a group of waiters carrying a cake moved
towards them, singing a birthday song.
I looked back at him. “What’s the occasion?” Was it his girlfriend’s
birthday?
“Nothing major,” he shrugged, looking away from the window and back
at me. “It’s really good to see you. I, um– " He cleared his throat, “I never
got your number.”
You never asked, I thought to myself but instead, said: “Oh haka fa.
That’s right.”
“So, what are you doing tonight?”
“Heading back to my room, pray Isha, watch a movie, have some tea,
then go to sleep,” I said without thinking. That was my daily evening
routine.
“In that order? You follow a schedule?” He looked amused.
“I like being organized, that’s all.”
He nodded, his eyes searching mine.” How about we go watch a
movie?”
“Which movie?” My reply sounded cool – nonchalant even, as if my
heart didn’t just skip a beat.
He brought his phone out of his pocket, typed on the screen and handed
it to me. It was the Cineplex app displaying a list of movies showing in
nearby theatres. “I’m sure there’s a movie you would like that’s showing
tonight,” he said as I scrolled through the choices.
There were many choices I really didn’t care to watch as I scrolled. The
two I was interested in – The Vow and Jump Street – were movies I’d
already watched with Claire. Fast and Furious 5 it is. “Oh, there’s Fast 5,”
I finally said.
He leaned closer to look at the phone screen. “Yeah, we can watch that,
if you want.” He was standing so close to me I could smell his perfume
around his neck: Creed Aventus. I could tell because years of living with
my brothers had gotten me unnecessarily well-versed in male cologne. Why
did he always smell so damn good? More importantly, why did I like this
attention he was giving me?
Without thinking about it, I took a step backwards. “Um – I need to pray
Isha,” I handed his phone back to him.
“Of course,” he said, putting the phone back into his pocket. “We can go
after you pray. I’ll drop you at your residence and wait for you while you
do.”
“Don’t you need to pray as well?” I wasn’t sure if there was a mosque
around the shopping square. The closest one I knew was the one at the
University, in the Student Affairs building.
“I will, whenever I get home,” he shrugged.
I was getting worried that going to watch a movie at this time might not
be a wise idea, so like I always did when I had second thoughts, I readjusted
my scarf and tightened the ends around my neck while he looked at me with
a half-smile on his face like he knew I was about to come up with an
excuse.
“It’s getting late,” I swallowed. Why is my swallow sound so loud? Did
he hear it? “By the time I pray and we drive all the way there, it would be
dark.” Since I got to Canada, this is the latest I have been outdoors, and it
was only a few minutes to seven.
“Oh, yeah. I guess you’re right,” he smiled, looking at his watch. “It is
getting late. “How about tomorrow afternoon, instead?”
I nodded.
“Can I walk you to your residence?”
I nodded again, and we started walking down the deserted stony
pedestrian pathway in the shopping square and towards the looming brick-
walled 20-storey building with the word ‘residence’ spelled out in red. The
walk was quiet for the most part, but he eventually broke the silence with
small talk. “So, how do you like it here?” his eyes lingered on mine for a
second.
“I like it a lot,” I answered truthfully. It was my first time living away
from home, and the experience had been scary yet exciting so far.
“I never really liked school dorms, never stayed in one.” We were at the
junction now, waiting for the pedestrian sign to turn green.
“Ya gida? How’s home?” I asked. I inwardly rolled my eyes,
disappointed at what I could come up with to keep the conversation going.
“Fine, I guess. Haven’t you spoken to Afreen?” The light turned green,
and we crossed the road.
“We talk almost every day.” We send each other funny memes or
screenshots of bizarre tweets. Not much of a conversation, but he didn’t
need to know that.
His head turned as he watched a car drive past us so I couldn’t see his
expression and wondered how he felt about my friendship with his little
sister. “You didn’t say goodbye to your friends,” I finally said.
“So?” he answered like it wasn’t rude to leave without saying bye.
“They’ll understand.”
Or you just lack basic manners. At the entrance of the residence, we
watched as a loud group of friends walked past us, slightly inebriated. Then
he asked: “What time can I pick you up tomorrow?” He was looking at me,
and I could tell he expected me to come up with another excuse.
“After Asr.”
“So, can I get your phone number?” he smiled.
I nodded, and he handed me his phone. I dialed the number so I could
have his, too. “Thanks for walking me back,” I said, giving him back the
phone.
“Enjoy your tea,” he said and walked away.
Was that a wink, or did I imagine it?
I