Chapter 6
Broken Not a halal love story Complete · about 8 min read
laire and I started shopping for our groceries together recently, and we
dedicated Sundays to it. Like most first-year students in the residence,
we had a meal plan for the cafeteria, but we also enjoyed snacks and since
none of us had a car, we would take a cab to and from the store once a
week. I was in the refrigerated section picking out halal turkey bacon when
I saw Zafar and started walking towards him him, happy to see a familiar
face. As I moved closer, I noticed a small boy a little over a year old, who
looked like a younger version of his – dark skin, clear bright eyes and
dimples – running towards him.
“Daddy, Chase and Marshal,” he said as he pointed to the fridge.
“Okay, let’s get your Paw Patrol yogurt,” he replied.
“Zafar, Indillah. Let’s go,” a female voice said in Fulfulde.
I stood still. A beautiful lady with a button nose and dimples was
walking towards him. She was wearing a black abaya, her hair and ears
covered with a black chiffon scarf wrapped around her head.
“Mi do wara, Maryam,” he replied. “I’m coming.”
“Mummy, Chase.” The little boy was still pointing at the refrigerator,
and I watched as Zafar grabbed a small case of a dozen yogurt pouches.
Before I could turn away, he looked up, and our eyes met. I looked away
immediately and started walking away as fast as I could, my head buzzing
with questions. Afreen’s Zafar is married? And he has a kid? Oh, poor
Afreen, she doesn’t deserve this. I met Claire picking out gluten-free bread
and we used self-checkout to pay for our groceries. As we bagged them, I
silently prayed not to run into Zafar and his family before leaving the store.
“Is tofu halal?” Claire asked as we walked out of the grocery store,
pushing our carts full of organic juice, fruits, and boxed dinners.
“It’s soybean,” I answered, distracted. “All grains are halal.”
“Right,” she said as she pondered over my reply. “So, you can’t even
have a tiny piece of bacon, right?”
“Right.”
“You aren’t missing much. It is too greasy, anyway,” she said.
Being roommates has introduced Claire to Islam. I appreciated that she
asked for clarification whenever she stumbled upon information she didn’t
quite understand. The other day, I was washing my lunch plates when she
came back from lectures with a scowl on her face as she showed me her
phone. “It says here that Muslim men can have more than one wife.”
I dried my hands on the kitchen towel as I answered. “Polygamy existed
before Islam,” I explained to her. “Men could be with as many women as
they wished and these women had no financial security for themselves or
their children when they weren’t on good terms with the man” I dropped the
towel, and turned around to look at her. “When Islam came, it put a cap on
the number of women a man can marry and ensured that the women are
properly cared for.”
“Patriarchy is messed up,” she said, processing the new information.
“But do all Muslim men have to marry more than one wife?”
“Oh no.” I answered truthfully. “Polygamy exists, but there are a lot of
monogamous marriages in Islam.” I did not add that sentiments around
polygamy differed culturally around the world, some of my friends whose
parents were in polygamous marriages vowed never to marry into one.
On the taxi ride back to the residence, my mind was jumbled with
thoughts of Zafar and Afreen. I had never been in that kind of situation
before – one where I stumbled upon sensitive information that could hurt
my friend.
“Claire, if your boyfriend had another –” I hesitated. “If your boyfriend
had another woman in his life and your friend knew about it, would you
want to know?”
She looked up from her phone and tried to make sense of the question.
“So, like, if my hypothetical boyfriend was cheating?” She made air quotes
when she said boyfriend.
Married, actually. “Yeah, something like that.”
“Would I expect my friend to tell me? Of course, Fa’iza; that’s what a
good friend would do,” her attention went back to her phone. “Heck, I
would cut ties with the friend who knew and didn’t tell me,” she muttered
under her breath as she continued swiping.
I sighed as I looked out the window. I didn’t want to be the bearer of
bad news, but I didn’t seem to have a choice. I got my phone out and typed:
Hey, Afreen. Are you home? Later that evening, I took a cab to the
ambassador’s house, and as I rang the doorbell, I remembered how in love
they seemed to me – how happy she was to introduce me to him, their
holding hands as he drove, the way they looked at each other. And on his
birthday, too – the joy on his face when he saw her and the cake from his
favorite bakery. Should I tell her?
Afreen squealed as she opened the door for me. “Fa’iza am” – “my
Fa’iza” – a term of endearment. She was wearing a big purple hijab that
covered her body all the way to her feet. “Did you see the funny Harlem
shake videos I sent you?” She’d sent me about five videos on the viral
Harlem shake challenge that was flooding the internet, and I never replied. I
nodded yes as I came into the house and started removing my shoes, before
giving her a quick hug.
“Hmm, you smell nice,” she said, closing the door. “Have you had
dinner? Let’s eat, there’s jollof rice,” she answered her questions as usual,
and I smiled sadly. Afreen was such a ray of sunshine, I didn’t want to
break her heart with the news I’d brought.
“No, I’m not hungry,” I said, my voice dropping down a notch. “I really
wanna talk to you about something.”
“Is everything okay, Fa’ee?”
I shook my head. I felt horrible to be the one to do this to her. She
suddenly looked serious, a solemn look settling on her face. “Let’s go to my
room,” she said, moving towards it. I followed behind, my head beginning
to hurt. When we got to the room, she removed the hijab, tossed it on her
bed, revealing the knee-length pink silk robe with black trimmings she wore
underneath, and sat on the tufted chair in front of her vanity facing her
mirror. I closed the door and sat on the ottoman at the foot of her bed. I
looked at her black hair, which fell to the middle of her back, and she
watched me through the mirror.
“I don’t know how to say this, Afreen,” I started. As I spoke, she
grabbed a facial serum tube and slowly applied it to her face. The room felt
cold and uncomfortable. I just have to rip the band-aid off. There’s no easy
way to go about this, I thought. “I saw Zafar at the grocery store today,” I
said slowly. Her eyes were on mine through the mirror. She grabbed her
moisturizer and started applying it. Her movements were slow. Judging by
the number of tubes in front of her, I figured she was in the middle of her
five-step bedtime facial routine. “I think he’s married, Afreen,” I blurted
out, “I’m sorry.”
She looked away and closed the serum in front of her, avoiding my
eyes. The room was silent; the gentle hum of the air conditioner was all I
could hear. I suddenly started remembering her words from months ago:
“his birthday is tomorrow… but we have to celebrate today”, “Mum, we
are going to the central library… I have a book to return”, “Thank you for
keeping my secret…” Her eyes met mine reluctantly, and then it hit me.
“You already knew,” I gasped quietly.
She averted her eyes from mine. Of course, she knew! He was spending
his birthday with his family – that’s why they had to go out the night before.
If her parents were anything like mine, they wouldn’t want their daughter to
be a second wife. That’s why she couldn’t tell her mum about him. It all
made sense now.
“Fa’iza, it’s more complicated than you think,” she said quietly as she
finally looked at me.
“You knew why I was here.” It wasn’t a question.
“Yes,” she glanced at her phone. “He texted me from the store.”
I nodded slowly, then sighed. It was weird, but I was strangely relieved
that she wasn’t heartbroken and crying right now. “Well, um – good to
know you weren’t being played, or something.” I brought out my phone and
started looking for the Uber app to request a ride.
“Fa’iza, I’ve known him since I was fourteen,” she tried to explain.
“You really don’t owe me an explanation,” I said, glancing at my phone.
My ride was two minutes away.
“I feel like I do,” she looked up at me, a sad smile crossing her face.
“You’re the only one who knows about us.”
“Don’t worry,” I said curtly. “Your secret is still safe with me.”
A
dedicated Sundays to it. Like most first-year students in the residence,
we had a meal plan for the cafeteria, but we also enjoyed snacks and since
none of us had a car, we would take a cab to and from the store once a
week. I was in the refrigerated section picking out halal turkey bacon when
I saw Zafar and started walking towards him him, happy to see a familiar
face. As I moved closer, I noticed a small boy a little over a year old, who
looked like a younger version of his – dark skin, clear bright eyes and
dimples – running towards him.
“Daddy, Chase and Marshal,” he said as he pointed to the fridge.
“Okay, let’s get your Paw Patrol yogurt,” he replied.
“Zafar, Indillah. Let’s go,” a female voice said in Fulfulde.
I stood still. A beautiful lady with a button nose and dimples was
walking towards him. She was wearing a black abaya, her hair and ears
covered with a black chiffon scarf wrapped around her head.
“Mi do wara, Maryam,” he replied. “I’m coming.”
“Mummy, Chase.” The little boy was still pointing at the refrigerator,
and I watched as Zafar grabbed a small case of a dozen yogurt pouches.
Before I could turn away, he looked up, and our eyes met. I looked away
immediately and started walking away as fast as I could, my head buzzing
with questions. Afreen’s Zafar is married? And he has a kid? Oh, poor
Afreen, she doesn’t deserve this. I met Claire picking out gluten-free bread
and we used self-checkout to pay for our groceries. As we bagged them, I
silently prayed not to run into Zafar and his family before leaving the store.
“Is tofu halal?” Claire asked as we walked out of the grocery store,
pushing our carts full of organic juice, fruits, and boxed dinners.
“It’s soybean,” I answered, distracted. “All grains are halal.”
“Right,” she said as she pondered over my reply. “So, you can’t even
have a tiny piece of bacon, right?”
“Right.”
“You aren’t missing much. It is too greasy, anyway,” she said.
Being roommates has introduced Claire to Islam. I appreciated that she
asked for clarification whenever she stumbled upon information she didn’t
quite understand. The other day, I was washing my lunch plates when she
came back from lectures with a scowl on her face as she showed me her
phone. “It says here that Muslim men can have more than one wife.”
I dried my hands on the kitchen towel as I answered. “Polygamy existed
before Islam,” I explained to her. “Men could be with as many women as
they wished and these women had no financial security for themselves or
their children when they weren’t on good terms with the man” I dropped the
towel, and turned around to look at her. “When Islam came, it put a cap on
the number of women a man can marry and ensured that the women are
properly cared for.”
“Patriarchy is messed up,” she said, processing the new information.
“But do all Muslim men have to marry more than one wife?”
“Oh no.” I answered truthfully. “Polygamy exists, but there are a lot of
monogamous marriages in Islam.” I did not add that sentiments around
polygamy differed culturally around the world, some of my friends whose
parents were in polygamous marriages vowed never to marry into one.
On the taxi ride back to the residence, my mind was jumbled with
thoughts of Zafar and Afreen. I had never been in that kind of situation
before – one where I stumbled upon sensitive information that could hurt
my friend.
“Claire, if your boyfriend had another –” I hesitated. “If your boyfriend
had another woman in his life and your friend knew about it, would you
want to know?”
She looked up from her phone and tried to make sense of the question.
“So, like, if my hypothetical boyfriend was cheating?” She made air quotes
when she said boyfriend.
Married, actually. “Yeah, something like that.”
“Would I expect my friend to tell me? Of course, Fa’iza; that’s what a
good friend would do,” her attention went back to her phone. “Heck, I
would cut ties with the friend who knew and didn’t tell me,” she muttered
under her breath as she continued swiping.
I sighed as I looked out the window. I didn’t want to be the bearer of
bad news, but I didn’t seem to have a choice. I got my phone out and typed:
Hey, Afreen. Are you home? Later that evening, I took a cab to the
ambassador’s house, and as I rang the doorbell, I remembered how in love
they seemed to me – how happy she was to introduce me to him, their
holding hands as he drove, the way they looked at each other. And on his
birthday, too – the joy on his face when he saw her and the cake from his
favorite bakery. Should I tell her?
Afreen squealed as she opened the door for me. “Fa’iza am” – “my
Fa’iza” – a term of endearment. She was wearing a big purple hijab that
covered her body all the way to her feet. “Did you see the funny Harlem
shake videos I sent you?” She’d sent me about five videos on the viral
Harlem shake challenge that was flooding the internet, and I never replied. I
nodded yes as I came into the house and started removing my shoes, before
giving her a quick hug.
“Hmm, you smell nice,” she said, closing the door. “Have you had
dinner? Let’s eat, there’s jollof rice,” she answered her questions as usual,
and I smiled sadly. Afreen was such a ray of sunshine, I didn’t want to
break her heart with the news I’d brought.
“No, I’m not hungry,” I said, my voice dropping down a notch. “I really
wanna talk to you about something.”
“Is everything okay, Fa’ee?”
I shook my head. I felt horrible to be the one to do this to her. She
suddenly looked serious, a solemn look settling on her face. “Let’s go to my
room,” she said, moving towards it. I followed behind, my head beginning
to hurt. When we got to the room, she removed the hijab, tossed it on her
bed, revealing the knee-length pink silk robe with black trimmings she wore
underneath, and sat on the tufted chair in front of her vanity facing her
mirror. I closed the door and sat on the ottoman at the foot of her bed. I
looked at her black hair, which fell to the middle of her back, and she
watched me through the mirror.
“I don’t know how to say this, Afreen,” I started. As I spoke, she
grabbed a facial serum tube and slowly applied it to her face. The room felt
cold and uncomfortable. I just have to rip the band-aid off. There’s no easy
way to go about this, I thought. “I saw Zafar at the grocery store today,” I
said slowly. Her eyes were on mine through the mirror. She grabbed her
moisturizer and started applying it. Her movements were slow. Judging by
the number of tubes in front of her, I figured she was in the middle of her
five-step bedtime facial routine. “I think he’s married, Afreen,” I blurted
out, “I’m sorry.”
She looked away and closed the serum in front of her, avoiding my
eyes. The room was silent; the gentle hum of the air conditioner was all I
could hear. I suddenly started remembering her words from months ago:
“his birthday is tomorrow… but we have to celebrate today”, “Mum, we
are going to the central library… I have a book to return”, “Thank you for
keeping my secret…” Her eyes met mine reluctantly, and then it hit me.
“You already knew,” I gasped quietly.
She averted her eyes from mine. Of course, she knew! He was spending
his birthday with his family – that’s why they had to go out the night before.
If her parents were anything like mine, they wouldn’t want their daughter to
be a second wife. That’s why she couldn’t tell her mum about him. It all
made sense now.
“Fa’iza, it’s more complicated than you think,” she said quietly as she
finally looked at me.
“You knew why I was here.” It wasn’t a question.
“Yes,” she glanced at her phone. “He texted me from the store.”
I nodded slowly, then sighed. It was weird, but I was strangely relieved
that she wasn’t heartbroken and crying right now. “Well, um – good to
know you weren’t being played, or something.” I brought out my phone and
started looking for the Uber app to request a ride.
“Fa’iza, I’ve known him since I was fourteen,” she tried to explain.
“You really don’t owe me an explanation,” I said, glancing at my phone.
My ride was two minutes away.
“I feel like I do,” she looked up at me, a sad smile crossing her face.
“You’re the only one who knows about us.”
“Don’t worry,” I said curtly. “Your secret is still safe with me.”
A