Chapter 7
Broken Not a halal love story Complete · about 24 min read
fter what felt like the longest weekend in my life, Monday finally
arrived. I was in class twelve minutes early for my 8 am class with a
Venti Starbucks cup to give me a false sense of productivity. I was snacking
on almonds when my phone buzzed. I knew who it was from even before I
opened the message. Did you make it to class on time, Insomniac? It was
from Ahmad. We were on the phone until 4:30 this morning. Time didn’t
seem to exist when we talked on the phone, and we never ran out of things
to talk about – the worst meals we’ve had, places we wanted to visit, or our
hobbies. He loved books as much as I did. We’d even read the same authors
– Brandon Sanderson, Khalid Hossein, Margaret Atwood and John
Grisham. Like me, he wanted to ask Chimamanda what happened to
Kainene in Half of a Yellow Sun. We argued about Gatsby’s obsession with
Daisy Buchanan; I argued that it was true love, but Ahmad believed Gatsby
just loved the idea of being in love with her. I didn’t understand his thought
process sometimes. Like, why would anyone choose DC over Marvel?
Apart from Batman, what else was holding up that franchise?
I replied back, with a smile on my face. I will have you know I was the
first person to come to class. I hit send just as our teaching assistant, Mike,
walked in. I watched as he settled in, connecting his laptop to the projector.
Nerd. Another buzz. I’ll call you after my meeting. Wish me luck.
I replied: Break a leg!
After our lecture, the class gradually emptied. Sara went to the cafeteria
to get coffee, and I was left alone in the brightly-lit class. Suddenly, my
phone started buzzing. He was calling on Facetime. I looked at my
reflection, suddenly aware of the fact that I wasn’t wearing any makeup, not
even lip balm. I wanted to hear about his meeting though, so I answered.
His face filled my screen, and a smile spread across it when he saw me.
“So, how did it go?” I asked.
“Better than I expected,” he beamed. He seemed better looking than the
last time I saw him. Or maybe it was the camera?
“That’s good. Where are you?”
“Grabbing a bite,” he answered. “How was class?”
“Went well. The next one is –” I looked at my wristwatch, " – in 45
minutes.”
There was a look on his face I couldn’t quite place, the same one he had
when he picked me up for the movie. Like that time, it disappeared quickly.
“What time are you done with lectures today?”
“After my next one. I’ve got Torts at 3:45, and will be done at 4:30.”
He nodded. “And after that?”
“Back to my room,” I said. I’d planned on going to the gym for yoga
afterwards, but I didn’t mention it.
He smiled as he nodded. “Can I come see you?”
I felt a grin trying to form on my face, but I suppressed it. “Oh, are you
coming back today?”
“That wasn’t the plan, but the biggest hurdle is over. My team will
handle the rest.”
“Oh, okay.” I heard the door open and saw Sara walk back with a Tim
Hortons coffee cup. She was on her phone, looking distracted as she usually
did when replying to her YouTube comments.
“Is that an answer?” He probed.
“Yeah, sure,” I answered, smiling now.
“Great, see you later, insomniac,” he laughed.
“Definitely not an insomniac,” I corrected him.
“Gotta change your name on my phone to –” he pretended to think for a
second. “Insom,” he laughed.
“Insom?” I exclaimed, “isn’t that a Calabar name?”
“Hey! People from Calabar are the most selfless friends you can find.
My best bud Edet? Upstanding man, I tell you.”
“Kai ka sani, na you know,” I mused. “You and this Edet.”
Much like our banter from the night before, our conversation was
effortless. It was hard to believe that this was the same guy I thought had an
attitude just a few months before. After my last lecture for the day, I went
back to the residence, prayed, and half an hour later, I was trying to hold a
pose at yoga, but the muscles in my right calf were beginning to sting. My
outstretched hands were straight and tense as I tried to balance myself on
one knee, and my other outstretched leg was wobbling dangerously close to
the ground. I slowly inhaled and exhaled, aware of the sting that was
beginning to turn into pain.
“Hold – and release,” the yogi instructed as the whole room let out a
collective sigh as we gently moved into child’s pose.
I took a sip of water from my bottle and tucked my knees under my
chest, then I brought my head flat to the ground, with my forehead and the
tip of my nose touching my yoga mat. It almost felt as peaceful as sujood,
when we Muslims put our foreheads to the ground in prayer.
“Breathe in and out slowly,” her voice urged in the dim room.
I cleared my mind and focused on my breathing. It was finally getting
quiet in my head – no overbearing thoughts and inner monologues. I
exhaled, basking in the quiet and darkness for seconds that stretched into a
minute or two.
“Thank you all for coming, ladies,” the yogi said. The lights flickered as
they came back on. I sat on my mat, stretching my neck to the left. “Don’t
forget to sign up for Friday’s class,” she reminded us, pointing at the sheet
of paper taped to the door of the residence’s yoga studio.
I folded my mat, grabbed my purple water bottle, and walked out of the
studio, leaving about a dozen other girls in the room. I went past the
elevators, and as I walked up the stairs, I dialed Abba’s number and put the
phone to my ear as it started to ring.
“Assalamu alaikum,” he said after three rings. “Mama?” His gentle
voice filled my heart with serenity. Sometimes, he called me Mama because
I was named after his mother, my grandmother.
“Na’am, Abba,” I said, the biggest grin filling my face. “Ina wuni. Good
evening.” I could hear Sudais, a renowned Quranic reciter, reading Suratul
Baqarah, one of the longest chapters in the Qur’an, in the background.
“Hope I’m not interrupting?”
“Not at all, my dear,” he answered, and I found myself trying to
calculate the time back home. It was late, probably past 9 pm, and I knew
he read the Quran before settling in for the night. It was a time he accepted
no interruptions, yet he had picked up my call. “How’s school?” he asked
gently. I could hear the slight worry in his voice. “How was your midterm?”
“Aced it, Abba,” I couldn’t help but brag. “Everything’s fine, wallahi. I
just wanted to say goodnight,” I reassured him.
“Na gode. Thank you. Allah ya miki albarka, Mama. May Allah bless
you.”
“Amin, Abba,” I said, “Goodnight.” I felt my chest tightening. I missed
him. I missed home.
“Allah ya tashe mu da rai da lafiya,” he said as he ended the call. In the
Hausa language, “goodnight” was always followed with a prayer like the
one my father said – may God wake us up in good health. Ameen, I thought
to myself as I held the phone against my chest and opened the door that led
to my floor. I missed Abuja so very much and since I couldn’t go home, I
started looking forward to seeing my mom at Kaltume’s wedding, which
was taking place in a month’s time.
My phone vibrated and I checked to see a message from Ahmad:
Touchdown. See you in a bit. I started typing a reply as I moved closer to
my room but stopped dead in my tracks when I saw someone waiting
outside my door. She was wearing an oversized brown wool coat over blue
denim jeans and brown leather brogues and was fumbling with her phone.
As I approached the door, she looked up, and our eyes met.
“Afreen?”
“Hi,” her eyes traveled over my purple Lululemon capris and long
sleeve top before glancing at the door behind her. “Your roommate said you
were at yoga.”
I nodded.
“My phone died when I got here,” she held up the phone without even a
smile on her usually cheerful face.
“Oh,” I forced a smile and fumbled with my fob before opening the
door for her. “After you.”
She had no expression on her face as she went into the shared common
space and looked around. The door to Claire’s room was closed; she
probably left for her evening lectures already. I looked back at Afreen, who
avoided my eyes, I honestly hated how painfully awkward it had gotten
between Afreen and me in just a few days. Since I left her house that
evening, we have not even exchanged one text message or funny
screenshot. As I closed the door, I dropped my keys and water bottle on the
small table in the shared kitchenette.
“Water?” I asked, moving towards the fridge.
“No, thank you,” she answered, placing a gift bag on the table. “Mum
brought this back from Abuja for you.”
Shoot me. This was a nightmare. She was looking at everywhere else
but my face.
“Thank you,” I said, making a mental note to call Aunty Mami
tomorrow to thank her. We stood there for a moment, saying nothing. Then
she turned around to leave. “Listen,” I started, hoping she could hear the
sincerity in my voice as I spoke. “I had no right to judge you. I’m sorry.”
She stopped at the door and slowly turned around, and we stared at each
other in silence. Suddenly, her eyes started getting misty and she looked
away as a single tear fell down her cheek. “Fa’iza, it’s just so hard – the
creeping around, the secrets, the lying,” she managed to say in between
sobs.
I rushed to her side and gave her a hug.
“I didn’t plan for this,” she was crying uncontrollably now.
I passed her a box of tissue from the counter and she nodded gratefully.
“Oh gosh, I’m such a mess. Everything is a mess! And now, with Adnan
in the mix –”
“Adnan?” I asked, as I pulled out a chair at the table for her, led her to it
and sat down next to her.
“His son,” she said, looking up at me. I put my palms over hers as she
continued. Maryam doesn’t deserve this.” I remembered that Maryam was
the name the called the the lady I saw at the store with him. “None of us
deserve this.”
“You know her?” I asked.
“Yeah, she’s his cousin,” she sniffed. “About three years ago, he came
to ask for my hand in marriage,” she said, dabbing her eyes with the tissue.
I raised my eyebrows, trying to connect the dots together.
“Yes, in Abuja. Dad and some uncles turned him down. Wai he was too
young, that he didn’t have enough to start a family, I needed to finish
school…” I could see the pain in her eyes as she listed the reasons and felt
bad for her. “His mum felt insulted and that same year, retaliated by getting
him married off to Maryam.”
“What about his dad?”
“He passed away when Zafar was young,” her eyes were beginning to
well up with tears again. She took a deep breath and confessed:
“Sometimes, I feel like they rejected him because he isn’t from a well-
known family.”
I held my breath and slowly exhaled. I could understand her anger and
helplessness. Our religion advocates for marriage when a girl finds a suitor,
and our culture advocates for the best suitor, not just anyone. Depending on
the girl’s family, the best suitor had to have a lot of things – wealth, lineage,
family status, and so on. How well marriages in that family had fared were
also issues that were usually considered, as opposed to love and definitely
not wishes, hopes and promises.
“Then he got the PTDF scholarship to come here for his Masters,” she
continued. “Fa’iza, wallahi we tried to fight it. But we – we –” her voice
trailed off.
I opened the fridge, got the bottle of water she’d rejected earlier and
placed it in front of her, avoiding eye contact. I was in no position to have
an opinion and I was afraid my eyes would betray me. I could understand
her anger, but I was raised to believe that adults knew best. And until that
moment, I had never realized how dangerous that rationale was.
“Thanks,” she smiled, then started laughing in between her sobs. “If
someone had told me when I was younger that I would be head over heels
in love with a married man, I would’ve smacked them right in the face.”
I nodded, realizing that she was right; it was quite complicated. She was
barely a year older than me, and this was the card she was dealt. This was a
love story destined to burn right from the beginning. I sighed, “Afreen, if
this relationship isn’t heading anywhere… what are you doing in it?” I sat
down opposite her and held her hands in mine. “I don’t want you to get
hurt.”
“The heart wants what it wants. Love is…” she paused as she thought of
the right word, squeezed my hands and smiled, “stupid.” We both burst out
laughing as she wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. “Who knows?
Maybe when Ahmad finally gets married – and I’m still single – my parents
will get tired of me being in their house and allow Zafar and I to get
married.”
My heart did this weird tingle thing when she said Ahmad. I wondered
if he was already on his way.
She exhaled out loud, “it feels good finally talking to someone about
this.”
“Thanks for telling me,” I said, and we sat in silence for a minute. “I’m
gonna make some tea. Would you like some?”
She looked at her wristwatch, and her eyes widened, “No, no, no, no,
no,” she said, getting up, “Mum’s back now. I can’t be outdoors after Isha.”
She smiled as she reached for the door. “You should come over for the
weekend.”
“I have my study group meeting Friday evening.” I said. “Maybe
Saturday?”
“We’re having a birthday dinner for Ahmad on Friday,” she explained.
“His birthday was last week Friday, but he was busy, so we’re celebrating
this week.”
“Oh.”
“I can come pick you up after your study group,” she offered.
“It’s okay. I can Uber.” I said, giving her a hug. She held on to me
longer than usual, and with a smile, she was gone.
* * *
“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me it was your birthday!” I said as soon as I
saw him. He was standing in the lobby, wearing a light blue buttoned-down
shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He had this subtle smile that only touched a
corner of his lip that added to his charm and appeal, he didn’t look like he
was tired or like he just drove straight from the airport after a long day.
I saw his eyes travel down my body and quickly back to my eyes. He
smiled as I covered the distance between us, but he remained quiet.
“There was a birthday cake that day at Terroni!” I had to keep talking to
distract myself from his eyes and the way he was looking at me. I couldn’t
believe he left his own birthday dinner to walk me back to the residence.
“You seem all riled up for someone who just got out of yoga,” he
laughed.
“How did –” I looked down, then realized that I was still in my yoga
clothes. I hadn’t even taken a shower. I pulled the top of my headscarf
suddenly feeling a little self-conscious.
“I’m guessing Afreen told you about this dinner that I’m being forced to
attend on Friday.”
I nodded. “But why did you not tell me? I would have gotten you a gift,
or something.”
He shrugged. “Eh, birthdays are overrated. Oh, by the way, look what I
found.” He pointed towards a brown parcel on the barstool next to the
fireplace, picked it up and gave it to me. “Open it,” he said with a twinkle in
his eye.
I slowly moved towards it, aware of his eyes on my every movement as
I opened it. When I finally unwrapped it, I gasped: “Mistborn!” I couldn’t
believe I finally had this book in my hands. “I was looking for this in
Paris,” I was almost squealing in delight. Brandon Sanderson had a way
with world-building that no one else had, and I was so excited to finally
read this book.
“You mentioned,” he said. Every time someone passed the lobby, they
glanced at us. I saw them linger for a second or two at him but if he was
aware of the stares he was getting, he did not show it. I smiled at the
thought that he must be used to the attention. “What are you doing
tomorrow?” He asked after I’d calmed down from my excitement.
“I just have one lecture at 11 am,” I said, as my fingers ran over the
burnt orange and yellow glossy cover of the book, “and then I am diving
into this.”
He looked around us and back at me, like there was something on his
mind, but he was holding himself back. It was so weird standing with him
in this lobby because apart from Afreen, I never had visitors; yet, I felt like
I could stand here talking to him for hours. I wondered if he felt the same, if
bringing me the book was just an excuse to see me or if this was just a stop
on his way home.
“Um –” he started, and right at that moment, my athan went off.
“Isha,” I mumbled, gesturing to the phone.
He nodded. “I should let you go,” his voice sounded like he didn’t really
want that, and I felt the same way. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight,” I said, holding the book to my chest as I walked into the
elevator, wishing our little rendezvous did not have to end.
The next day, I had just gotten out of bed when his message came in: Insom.
It would help if you’d stop calling me that, I typed back.
Do you hate it?
I wouldn’t say I like it.
Because you’re not an insomniac or because it sounds like you’re from
Calabar?
Both.
Oh my. Edet will be displeased.
Smh.
And he was just beginning to like you.
I was in the middle of brushing my teeth when I read that, and I paused.
I spat out into the sink. Was he talking to his friend about me? I texted back:
Too bad.
You good?
Not really.
Why? What happened?
Class got canceled.
So?
I hate it when things don’t go according to schedule.
Wow, control freak much?
Just organized, that’s all.
His call came in as soon as my last message got delivered. I rinsed my
mouth and walked out of the bathroom as I answered. “You’re probably the
first person in the history of students who gets upset about a canceled
class,” he said. I could hear Kanye West playing in the background.
“I was supposed to go to the library after class,” I said, laying flat on my
bed, looking up at the ceiling, “and now because the class is canceled, Sara
isn’t coming to campus, so there’s no study group, either.”
“Well, come study at mine.” There was a pause as the invite hung heavy
between us.
“Okay,” I said, hoping that I didn’t sound too eager.
“Great. I’ll come get you in 5 minutes.”
“Wait, what? No, come in like 30 minutes,” I was still in my pyjamas.
“Cool,” he said, and I hung up.
I thought about what to wear while I showered and decided on black
tights and an oversized fuzzy sweater; the combo gave me the look I wanted
– like I wasn’t trying too hard. As I got dressed. I lazily draped my scarf
over my head, lined my eyes with dark kohl, then dabbed my favorite
perfume – which was Rosabotanica by Balenciaga – on my neck and wrists.
I packed my backpack and was finishing my spinach and feta wrap when
my phone buzzed. I grabbed my chai latte and went downstairs.
“Good morning,” I said as I walked out of the elevator. There was
something about the way I was dressed that made me feel immensely
powerful today. I would be lying if I said I didn’t like how his eyes lingered
as he looked up from his phone appreciatively.
“Is that Starbucks?” He asked about my two-tailed mermaid cup when
we got into the car.
I nodded. “Want some?”
He looked at me and for a moment, I thought he was going to take my
cup to his lips, but instead, he laughed and said: “Not unless it’s a double-
double.”
“What’s a double-double?”
“A double-double from Tim Hortons.” He watched me shake my head
slowly to admit I didn’t know what he was talking about, and he raised his
dark and full eyebrows in disbelief. “You’ve never had a double-double?”
“No,” I wondered what the big deal was. I knew Tim Horton’s was
Canada’s answer to Starbucks, but I just never tried it.
“Oh, we have to change that. It’s a matter of national pride.”
“The Starbucks on the residence is a lot easier to get to than the Tim
Hortons in the food court at school,” I said, suddenly feeling the need to
explain why I’d never tried it. He swerved as he changed lanes and made a
sharp right, obviously taking a detour.
I glanced at the car behind us and back at him, “Where are we going?”
The car slowed down at a brown and red building, and we drove into its
drive-through. “Welcome to Tim Hortons. May I take your order?” A voice
asked through the static.
“Hello. Can I get two medium double-doubles and a box of twenty
Timbits?” he asked. I had never heard that combination of words being used
in a single sentence before.
“Assorted?” They were talking in English, and I understood nothing.
“Yes, please,” he said, laughing at the look on my face.
“What are Timbits?” I asked as we started driving towards the pick-up
window and stopped behind a black sedan. “Donut holes,” he explained.
“Why don’t they just sell donuts?” I asked, still confused.
“There shall be no Timmies slander around me,” he said and with that
accent, it was hard not to laugh. He paid when we got our order, and we
drove to his apartment.
When we got there, he had set up a study station for me in his home
office. I got settled in quickly while he went into his room to take calls. I
had never been more comfortable during a study session; I had snacks,
coffee and natural light. I even Facetimed Sara, and we discussed and
reviewed our notes and had a mini-review session with Ada. It was honestly
the most productive morning I’d had in weeks.
When I got tired of sitting, I would take a walk around to look at the
books on the shelves. The religious texts were all arranged according to
Mushaf or collections. He read authors from every corner of the globe –
Rabindranath Tagore, Adeline Yen Ma, Salman Rushdie, Steve Biko. I took
out some books and realized he’d written notes on the margins and
highlighted specific chapters. He didn’t just read these books; he studied
them and kept them as part of a growing collection. I was going through the
notes he’d made on the pages of ‘The Age of Reason’ by Thomas Paine,
scribbling about skepticism of miracles in holy scriptures to the concept of
free will and arguments against the idea of written destiny when he came
into the study.
“Ya karatun? How’s the studying?” he asked, and I immediately closed
the book with a snap. Reading his thoughts about religious institutions
being societal constructs and their constraints on spirituality on the pages
felt like I was eavesdropping on a private conversation. If he’d noticed my
abrupt action, he spared me the embarrassment by not acknowledging it.
His eyes fell on my open books and laptop on his desk. “I got us some
lunch,” he said as he looked at my schedule. “What’s this?”
“My planner,” I answered. My neon-green yearly planner had lots of
stickers and colored pens circling words I found important. It almost looked
like a scrap journal.
“I can see that,” he pointed at the line I’d written in purple gel pen. “11
am to 1 pm: Study, 1 pm to 1:30 pm: lunch, 1:30 pm to 3:00 pm: watch
something.” It amused him, but I cringed as he read out loud from the open
page. “You schedule a time to watch TV?” He laughed, looking up at me.
“Seriously?”
“I just like being organized, that’s all.”
“Right, you’ve said that before,” he suddenly looked serious, “so do you
set an alarm or a timer?”
“Sometimes,” I admitted.
“So if your alarm goes off mid-episode, do you finish the episode or do
you stop watching immediately?” His facade cracked as a chuckle escaped
him.
“It’s not funny,” my lips formed a thin line on my face.
He dropped my planner on the table and put his hands up: “Okay, I’ll
stop.” But he didn’t stop laughing as he watched me unplug my laptop and
walk out of the door.
On his kitchen island were two brown paper bags. I hadn’t realized I
was hungry until I got closer to the bags; the aroma wafting in from them
was tantalizing. He opened the cabinet as he brought out plates, his white T-
shirt lifted up and I could see the black band of his Calvin Klein boxers just
below his taut six-pack. I quickly looked away as he turned around.
“Can you get us cutlery?” he asked, pointing to the drawer on my right.
I nodded as I dropped my laptop on the island and moved towards it,
silently praying he didn’t catch me ogling earlier. That would have been
embarrassing.
“Are you okay?” he asked, interrupting my thoughts. I looked up, and
there was a concerned look on his face.
“Y –Yes.”
“It’s halal, if you’re wondering,” he said, bringing out a platter of rice
and potatoes. The other bag had fresh pita, garlic sauce, shredded chicken
and beef.
“So,” he started as he fetched some tabouli salad, “what are you
scheduled to watch today?”
“Gossip Girl,” I answered unashamedly.
“Hell no,” he walked to the front of the TV in the living room in protest.
“There shall be no Gossip Girl watching on this TV.” He turned it on as he
sat down, and the HBO logo came on the big screen. I was already sitting
on the sofa when I realized that I’d forgotten my laptop, “Do you watch
Game of Thrones?” He asked.
I shook my head.
“No way. You have to watch Game of Thrones,” he said as he clicked
buttons on the remote without looking at it. “Try it. If it’s not for you, you’ll
know in the first episode.”
I ended up watching half of the first season that day. I only got up to
pray or to get more water to drink. Later in the evening, when I got cold,
Ahmad turned on the fireplace and got me a blanket. I stayed there until
after Isha, and then he drove me back to the residence, with Joe’s I wanna
know playing from the car speakers as he pulled into the last available
empty parking spot in the Visitor’s Parking area.
“You know, you can always come over, right?” he said as we sat quietly
in the car. “I’m just a few minutes away, if you ever want a break from…
this.” He gestured towards the building in front of us.
I nodded as I looked straight ahead. “I just hope Ned gets back to his
family.” I was still thinking about the show I was now very invested in – the
lies, the politics, and the incest.
“I’m not in the business of giving away spoilers,” he laughed.
“A simple yes or no would suffice,” I opened the door and let myself
out of the car.
“Tough luck,” he said, coming out and standing next to me. He was now
by my side, and we walked side by side toward the residence. His hands
were in his pocket, but our arms slightly brushed against each other as we
walked. I was enjoying his company, and I didn’t want the day to end.
He held the door open for me, and I entered the deserted lobby. As we
waited by the elevators, Ahmad brought out his phone, sent a message and
put it back in his pocket.
“Alright,” I said, looking up at him as I heard the elevator nearing the
lobby.
He was biting his lip distractedly like he wanted to say something but
was thinking against it. “I just sent you the login details for my viewing
account, so you can continue the show anytime you want,” he said, looking
into my eyes and gauging my facial expression. He had the most beautiful
brown eyes I’d ever seen. “Or we could watch it at my place tomorrow? I
can pick you up after class.”
Without waiting for an answer, his hand reached for mine. As I looked
up at him, his hand went to my lower back and he pulled me into him. The
hug just lasted for 2 seconds, yet it got me so disorientated that I couldn’t
even place the name of his cologne, even though it smelt so familiar.
“Goodnight, beautiful,” he winked and he began walking away, his
hands back in his pocket.
I walked towards the elevator, with tiny little bells in my head ringing
Haram!
T
arrived. I was in class twelve minutes early for my 8 am class with a
Venti Starbucks cup to give me a false sense of productivity. I was snacking
on almonds when my phone buzzed. I knew who it was from even before I
opened the message. Did you make it to class on time, Insomniac? It was
from Ahmad. We were on the phone until 4:30 this morning. Time didn’t
seem to exist when we talked on the phone, and we never ran out of things
to talk about – the worst meals we’ve had, places we wanted to visit, or our
hobbies. He loved books as much as I did. We’d even read the same authors
– Brandon Sanderson, Khalid Hossein, Margaret Atwood and John
Grisham. Like me, he wanted to ask Chimamanda what happened to
Kainene in Half of a Yellow Sun. We argued about Gatsby’s obsession with
Daisy Buchanan; I argued that it was true love, but Ahmad believed Gatsby
just loved the idea of being in love with her. I didn’t understand his thought
process sometimes. Like, why would anyone choose DC over Marvel?
Apart from Batman, what else was holding up that franchise?
I replied back, with a smile on my face. I will have you know I was the
first person to come to class. I hit send just as our teaching assistant, Mike,
walked in. I watched as he settled in, connecting his laptop to the projector.
Nerd. Another buzz. I’ll call you after my meeting. Wish me luck.
I replied: Break a leg!
After our lecture, the class gradually emptied. Sara went to the cafeteria
to get coffee, and I was left alone in the brightly-lit class. Suddenly, my
phone started buzzing. He was calling on Facetime. I looked at my
reflection, suddenly aware of the fact that I wasn’t wearing any makeup, not
even lip balm. I wanted to hear about his meeting though, so I answered.
His face filled my screen, and a smile spread across it when he saw me.
“So, how did it go?” I asked.
“Better than I expected,” he beamed. He seemed better looking than the
last time I saw him. Or maybe it was the camera?
“That’s good. Where are you?”
“Grabbing a bite,” he answered. “How was class?”
“Went well. The next one is –” I looked at my wristwatch, " – in 45
minutes.”
There was a look on his face I couldn’t quite place, the same one he had
when he picked me up for the movie. Like that time, it disappeared quickly.
“What time are you done with lectures today?”
“After my next one. I’ve got Torts at 3:45, and will be done at 4:30.”
He nodded. “And after that?”
“Back to my room,” I said. I’d planned on going to the gym for yoga
afterwards, but I didn’t mention it.
He smiled as he nodded. “Can I come see you?”
I felt a grin trying to form on my face, but I suppressed it. “Oh, are you
coming back today?”
“That wasn’t the plan, but the biggest hurdle is over. My team will
handle the rest.”
“Oh, okay.” I heard the door open and saw Sara walk back with a Tim
Hortons coffee cup. She was on her phone, looking distracted as she usually
did when replying to her YouTube comments.
“Is that an answer?” He probed.
“Yeah, sure,” I answered, smiling now.
“Great, see you later, insomniac,” he laughed.
“Definitely not an insomniac,” I corrected him.
“Gotta change your name on my phone to –” he pretended to think for a
second. “Insom,” he laughed.
“Insom?” I exclaimed, “isn’t that a Calabar name?”
“Hey! People from Calabar are the most selfless friends you can find.
My best bud Edet? Upstanding man, I tell you.”
“Kai ka sani, na you know,” I mused. “You and this Edet.”
Much like our banter from the night before, our conversation was
effortless. It was hard to believe that this was the same guy I thought had an
attitude just a few months before. After my last lecture for the day, I went
back to the residence, prayed, and half an hour later, I was trying to hold a
pose at yoga, but the muscles in my right calf were beginning to sting. My
outstretched hands were straight and tense as I tried to balance myself on
one knee, and my other outstretched leg was wobbling dangerously close to
the ground. I slowly inhaled and exhaled, aware of the sting that was
beginning to turn into pain.
“Hold – and release,” the yogi instructed as the whole room let out a
collective sigh as we gently moved into child’s pose.
I took a sip of water from my bottle and tucked my knees under my
chest, then I brought my head flat to the ground, with my forehead and the
tip of my nose touching my yoga mat. It almost felt as peaceful as sujood,
when we Muslims put our foreheads to the ground in prayer.
“Breathe in and out slowly,” her voice urged in the dim room.
I cleared my mind and focused on my breathing. It was finally getting
quiet in my head – no overbearing thoughts and inner monologues. I
exhaled, basking in the quiet and darkness for seconds that stretched into a
minute or two.
“Thank you all for coming, ladies,” the yogi said. The lights flickered as
they came back on. I sat on my mat, stretching my neck to the left. “Don’t
forget to sign up for Friday’s class,” she reminded us, pointing at the sheet
of paper taped to the door of the residence’s yoga studio.
I folded my mat, grabbed my purple water bottle, and walked out of the
studio, leaving about a dozen other girls in the room. I went past the
elevators, and as I walked up the stairs, I dialed Abba’s number and put the
phone to my ear as it started to ring.
“Assalamu alaikum,” he said after three rings. “Mama?” His gentle
voice filled my heart with serenity. Sometimes, he called me Mama because
I was named after his mother, my grandmother.
“Na’am, Abba,” I said, the biggest grin filling my face. “Ina wuni. Good
evening.” I could hear Sudais, a renowned Quranic reciter, reading Suratul
Baqarah, one of the longest chapters in the Qur’an, in the background.
“Hope I’m not interrupting?”
“Not at all, my dear,” he answered, and I found myself trying to
calculate the time back home. It was late, probably past 9 pm, and I knew
he read the Quran before settling in for the night. It was a time he accepted
no interruptions, yet he had picked up my call. “How’s school?” he asked
gently. I could hear the slight worry in his voice. “How was your midterm?”
“Aced it, Abba,” I couldn’t help but brag. “Everything’s fine, wallahi. I
just wanted to say goodnight,” I reassured him.
“Na gode. Thank you. Allah ya miki albarka, Mama. May Allah bless
you.”
“Amin, Abba,” I said, “Goodnight.” I felt my chest tightening. I missed
him. I missed home.
“Allah ya tashe mu da rai da lafiya,” he said as he ended the call. In the
Hausa language, “goodnight” was always followed with a prayer like the
one my father said – may God wake us up in good health. Ameen, I thought
to myself as I held the phone against my chest and opened the door that led
to my floor. I missed Abuja so very much and since I couldn’t go home, I
started looking forward to seeing my mom at Kaltume’s wedding, which
was taking place in a month’s time.
My phone vibrated and I checked to see a message from Ahmad:
Touchdown. See you in a bit. I started typing a reply as I moved closer to
my room but stopped dead in my tracks when I saw someone waiting
outside my door. She was wearing an oversized brown wool coat over blue
denim jeans and brown leather brogues and was fumbling with her phone.
As I approached the door, she looked up, and our eyes met.
“Afreen?”
“Hi,” her eyes traveled over my purple Lululemon capris and long
sleeve top before glancing at the door behind her. “Your roommate said you
were at yoga.”
I nodded.
“My phone died when I got here,” she held up the phone without even a
smile on her usually cheerful face.
“Oh,” I forced a smile and fumbled with my fob before opening the
door for her. “After you.”
She had no expression on her face as she went into the shared common
space and looked around. The door to Claire’s room was closed; she
probably left for her evening lectures already. I looked back at Afreen, who
avoided my eyes, I honestly hated how painfully awkward it had gotten
between Afreen and me in just a few days. Since I left her house that
evening, we have not even exchanged one text message or funny
screenshot. As I closed the door, I dropped my keys and water bottle on the
small table in the shared kitchenette.
“Water?” I asked, moving towards the fridge.
“No, thank you,” she answered, placing a gift bag on the table. “Mum
brought this back from Abuja for you.”
Shoot me. This was a nightmare. She was looking at everywhere else
but my face.
“Thank you,” I said, making a mental note to call Aunty Mami
tomorrow to thank her. We stood there for a moment, saying nothing. Then
she turned around to leave. “Listen,” I started, hoping she could hear the
sincerity in my voice as I spoke. “I had no right to judge you. I’m sorry.”
She stopped at the door and slowly turned around, and we stared at each
other in silence. Suddenly, her eyes started getting misty and she looked
away as a single tear fell down her cheek. “Fa’iza, it’s just so hard – the
creeping around, the secrets, the lying,” she managed to say in between
sobs.
I rushed to her side and gave her a hug.
“I didn’t plan for this,” she was crying uncontrollably now.
I passed her a box of tissue from the counter and she nodded gratefully.
“Oh gosh, I’m such a mess. Everything is a mess! And now, with Adnan
in the mix –”
“Adnan?” I asked, as I pulled out a chair at the table for her, led her to it
and sat down next to her.
“His son,” she said, looking up at me. I put my palms over hers as she
continued. Maryam doesn’t deserve this.” I remembered that Maryam was
the name the called the the lady I saw at the store with him. “None of us
deserve this.”
“You know her?” I asked.
“Yeah, she’s his cousin,” she sniffed. “About three years ago, he came
to ask for my hand in marriage,” she said, dabbing her eyes with the tissue.
I raised my eyebrows, trying to connect the dots together.
“Yes, in Abuja. Dad and some uncles turned him down. Wai he was too
young, that he didn’t have enough to start a family, I needed to finish
school…” I could see the pain in her eyes as she listed the reasons and felt
bad for her. “His mum felt insulted and that same year, retaliated by getting
him married off to Maryam.”
“What about his dad?”
“He passed away when Zafar was young,” her eyes were beginning to
well up with tears again. She took a deep breath and confessed:
“Sometimes, I feel like they rejected him because he isn’t from a well-
known family.”
I held my breath and slowly exhaled. I could understand her anger and
helplessness. Our religion advocates for marriage when a girl finds a suitor,
and our culture advocates for the best suitor, not just anyone. Depending on
the girl’s family, the best suitor had to have a lot of things – wealth, lineage,
family status, and so on. How well marriages in that family had fared were
also issues that were usually considered, as opposed to love and definitely
not wishes, hopes and promises.
“Then he got the PTDF scholarship to come here for his Masters,” she
continued. “Fa’iza, wallahi we tried to fight it. But we – we –” her voice
trailed off.
I opened the fridge, got the bottle of water she’d rejected earlier and
placed it in front of her, avoiding eye contact. I was in no position to have
an opinion and I was afraid my eyes would betray me. I could understand
her anger, but I was raised to believe that adults knew best. And until that
moment, I had never realized how dangerous that rationale was.
“Thanks,” she smiled, then started laughing in between her sobs. “If
someone had told me when I was younger that I would be head over heels
in love with a married man, I would’ve smacked them right in the face.”
I nodded, realizing that she was right; it was quite complicated. She was
barely a year older than me, and this was the card she was dealt. This was a
love story destined to burn right from the beginning. I sighed, “Afreen, if
this relationship isn’t heading anywhere… what are you doing in it?” I sat
down opposite her and held her hands in mine. “I don’t want you to get
hurt.”
“The heart wants what it wants. Love is…” she paused as she thought of
the right word, squeezed my hands and smiled, “stupid.” We both burst out
laughing as she wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. “Who knows?
Maybe when Ahmad finally gets married – and I’m still single – my parents
will get tired of me being in their house and allow Zafar and I to get
married.”
My heart did this weird tingle thing when she said Ahmad. I wondered
if he was already on his way.
She exhaled out loud, “it feels good finally talking to someone about
this.”
“Thanks for telling me,” I said, and we sat in silence for a minute. “I’m
gonna make some tea. Would you like some?”
She looked at her wristwatch, and her eyes widened, “No, no, no, no,
no,” she said, getting up, “Mum’s back now. I can’t be outdoors after Isha.”
She smiled as she reached for the door. “You should come over for the
weekend.”
“I have my study group meeting Friday evening.” I said. “Maybe
Saturday?”
“We’re having a birthday dinner for Ahmad on Friday,” she explained.
“His birthday was last week Friday, but he was busy, so we’re celebrating
this week.”
“Oh.”
“I can come pick you up after your study group,” she offered.
“It’s okay. I can Uber.” I said, giving her a hug. She held on to me
longer than usual, and with a smile, she was gone.
* * *
“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me it was your birthday!” I said as soon as I
saw him. He was standing in the lobby, wearing a light blue buttoned-down
shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He had this subtle smile that only touched a
corner of his lip that added to his charm and appeal, he didn’t look like he
was tired or like he just drove straight from the airport after a long day.
I saw his eyes travel down my body and quickly back to my eyes. He
smiled as I covered the distance between us, but he remained quiet.
“There was a birthday cake that day at Terroni!” I had to keep talking to
distract myself from his eyes and the way he was looking at me. I couldn’t
believe he left his own birthday dinner to walk me back to the residence.
“You seem all riled up for someone who just got out of yoga,” he
laughed.
“How did –” I looked down, then realized that I was still in my yoga
clothes. I hadn’t even taken a shower. I pulled the top of my headscarf
suddenly feeling a little self-conscious.
“I’m guessing Afreen told you about this dinner that I’m being forced to
attend on Friday.”
I nodded. “But why did you not tell me? I would have gotten you a gift,
or something.”
He shrugged. “Eh, birthdays are overrated. Oh, by the way, look what I
found.” He pointed towards a brown parcel on the barstool next to the
fireplace, picked it up and gave it to me. “Open it,” he said with a twinkle in
his eye.
I slowly moved towards it, aware of his eyes on my every movement as
I opened it. When I finally unwrapped it, I gasped: “Mistborn!” I couldn’t
believe I finally had this book in my hands. “I was looking for this in
Paris,” I was almost squealing in delight. Brandon Sanderson had a way
with world-building that no one else had, and I was so excited to finally
read this book.
“You mentioned,” he said. Every time someone passed the lobby, they
glanced at us. I saw them linger for a second or two at him but if he was
aware of the stares he was getting, he did not show it. I smiled at the
thought that he must be used to the attention. “What are you doing
tomorrow?” He asked after I’d calmed down from my excitement.
“I just have one lecture at 11 am,” I said, as my fingers ran over the
burnt orange and yellow glossy cover of the book, “and then I am diving
into this.”
He looked around us and back at me, like there was something on his
mind, but he was holding himself back. It was so weird standing with him
in this lobby because apart from Afreen, I never had visitors; yet, I felt like
I could stand here talking to him for hours. I wondered if he felt the same, if
bringing me the book was just an excuse to see me or if this was just a stop
on his way home.
“Um –” he started, and right at that moment, my athan went off.
“Isha,” I mumbled, gesturing to the phone.
He nodded. “I should let you go,” his voice sounded like he didn’t really
want that, and I felt the same way. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight,” I said, holding the book to my chest as I walked into the
elevator, wishing our little rendezvous did not have to end.
The next day, I had just gotten out of bed when his message came in: Insom.
It would help if you’d stop calling me that, I typed back.
Do you hate it?
I wouldn’t say I like it.
Because you’re not an insomniac or because it sounds like you’re from
Calabar?
Both.
Oh my. Edet will be displeased.
Smh.
And he was just beginning to like you.
I was in the middle of brushing my teeth when I read that, and I paused.
I spat out into the sink. Was he talking to his friend about me? I texted back:
Too bad.
You good?
Not really.
Why? What happened?
Class got canceled.
So?
I hate it when things don’t go according to schedule.
Wow, control freak much?
Just organized, that’s all.
His call came in as soon as my last message got delivered. I rinsed my
mouth and walked out of the bathroom as I answered. “You’re probably the
first person in the history of students who gets upset about a canceled
class,” he said. I could hear Kanye West playing in the background.
“I was supposed to go to the library after class,” I said, laying flat on my
bed, looking up at the ceiling, “and now because the class is canceled, Sara
isn’t coming to campus, so there’s no study group, either.”
“Well, come study at mine.” There was a pause as the invite hung heavy
between us.
“Okay,” I said, hoping that I didn’t sound too eager.
“Great. I’ll come get you in 5 minutes.”
“Wait, what? No, come in like 30 minutes,” I was still in my pyjamas.
“Cool,” he said, and I hung up.
I thought about what to wear while I showered and decided on black
tights and an oversized fuzzy sweater; the combo gave me the look I wanted
– like I wasn’t trying too hard. As I got dressed. I lazily draped my scarf
over my head, lined my eyes with dark kohl, then dabbed my favorite
perfume – which was Rosabotanica by Balenciaga – on my neck and wrists.
I packed my backpack and was finishing my spinach and feta wrap when
my phone buzzed. I grabbed my chai latte and went downstairs.
“Good morning,” I said as I walked out of the elevator. There was
something about the way I was dressed that made me feel immensely
powerful today. I would be lying if I said I didn’t like how his eyes lingered
as he looked up from his phone appreciatively.
“Is that Starbucks?” He asked about my two-tailed mermaid cup when
we got into the car.
I nodded. “Want some?”
He looked at me and for a moment, I thought he was going to take my
cup to his lips, but instead, he laughed and said: “Not unless it’s a double-
double.”
“What’s a double-double?”
“A double-double from Tim Hortons.” He watched me shake my head
slowly to admit I didn’t know what he was talking about, and he raised his
dark and full eyebrows in disbelief. “You’ve never had a double-double?”
“No,” I wondered what the big deal was. I knew Tim Horton’s was
Canada’s answer to Starbucks, but I just never tried it.
“Oh, we have to change that. It’s a matter of national pride.”
“The Starbucks on the residence is a lot easier to get to than the Tim
Hortons in the food court at school,” I said, suddenly feeling the need to
explain why I’d never tried it. He swerved as he changed lanes and made a
sharp right, obviously taking a detour.
I glanced at the car behind us and back at him, “Where are we going?”
The car slowed down at a brown and red building, and we drove into its
drive-through. “Welcome to Tim Hortons. May I take your order?” A voice
asked through the static.
“Hello. Can I get two medium double-doubles and a box of twenty
Timbits?” he asked. I had never heard that combination of words being used
in a single sentence before.
“Assorted?” They were talking in English, and I understood nothing.
“Yes, please,” he said, laughing at the look on my face.
“What are Timbits?” I asked as we started driving towards the pick-up
window and stopped behind a black sedan. “Donut holes,” he explained.
“Why don’t they just sell donuts?” I asked, still confused.
“There shall be no Timmies slander around me,” he said and with that
accent, it was hard not to laugh. He paid when we got our order, and we
drove to his apartment.
When we got there, he had set up a study station for me in his home
office. I got settled in quickly while he went into his room to take calls. I
had never been more comfortable during a study session; I had snacks,
coffee and natural light. I even Facetimed Sara, and we discussed and
reviewed our notes and had a mini-review session with Ada. It was honestly
the most productive morning I’d had in weeks.
When I got tired of sitting, I would take a walk around to look at the
books on the shelves. The religious texts were all arranged according to
Mushaf or collections. He read authors from every corner of the globe –
Rabindranath Tagore, Adeline Yen Ma, Salman Rushdie, Steve Biko. I took
out some books and realized he’d written notes on the margins and
highlighted specific chapters. He didn’t just read these books; he studied
them and kept them as part of a growing collection. I was going through the
notes he’d made on the pages of ‘The Age of Reason’ by Thomas Paine,
scribbling about skepticism of miracles in holy scriptures to the concept of
free will and arguments against the idea of written destiny when he came
into the study.
“Ya karatun? How’s the studying?” he asked, and I immediately closed
the book with a snap. Reading his thoughts about religious institutions
being societal constructs and their constraints on spirituality on the pages
felt like I was eavesdropping on a private conversation. If he’d noticed my
abrupt action, he spared me the embarrassment by not acknowledging it.
His eyes fell on my open books and laptop on his desk. “I got us some
lunch,” he said as he looked at my schedule. “What’s this?”
“My planner,” I answered. My neon-green yearly planner had lots of
stickers and colored pens circling words I found important. It almost looked
like a scrap journal.
“I can see that,” he pointed at the line I’d written in purple gel pen. “11
am to 1 pm: Study, 1 pm to 1:30 pm: lunch, 1:30 pm to 3:00 pm: watch
something.” It amused him, but I cringed as he read out loud from the open
page. “You schedule a time to watch TV?” He laughed, looking up at me.
“Seriously?”
“I just like being organized, that’s all.”
“Right, you’ve said that before,” he suddenly looked serious, “so do you
set an alarm or a timer?”
“Sometimes,” I admitted.
“So if your alarm goes off mid-episode, do you finish the episode or do
you stop watching immediately?” His facade cracked as a chuckle escaped
him.
“It’s not funny,” my lips formed a thin line on my face.
He dropped my planner on the table and put his hands up: “Okay, I’ll
stop.” But he didn’t stop laughing as he watched me unplug my laptop and
walk out of the door.
On his kitchen island were two brown paper bags. I hadn’t realized I
was hungry until I got closer to the bags; the aroma wafting in from them
was tantalizing. He opened the cabinet as he brought out plates, his white T-
shirt lifted up and I could see the black band of his Calvin Klein boxers just
below his taut six-pack. I quickly looked away as he turned around.
“Can you get us cutlery?” he asked, pointing to the drawer on my right.
I nodded as I dropped my laptop on the island and moved towards it,
silently praying he didn’t catch me ogling earlier. That would have been
embarrassing.
“Are you okay?” he asked, interrupting my thoughts. I looked up, and
there was a concerned look on his face.
“Y –Yes.”
“It’s halal, if you’re wondering,” he said, bringing out a platter of rice
and potatoes. The other bag had fresh pita, garlic sauce, shredded chicken
and beef.
“So,” he started as he fetched some tabouli salad, “what are you
scheduled to watch today?”
“Gossip Girl,” I answered unashamedly.
“Hell no,” he walked to the front of the TV in the living room in protest.
“There shall be no Gossip Girl watching on this TV.” He turned it on as he
sat down, and the HBO logo came on the big screen. I was already sitting
on the sofa when I realized that I’d forgotten my laptop, “Do you watch
Game of Thrones?” He asked.
I shook my head.
“No way. You have to watch Game of Thrones,” he said as he clicked
buttons on the remote without looking at it. “Try it. If it’s not for you, you’ll
know in the first episode.”
I ended up watching half of the first season that day. I only got up to
pray or to get more water to drink. Later in the evening, when I got cold,
Ahmad turned on the fireplace and got me a blanket. I stayed there until
after Isha, and then he drove me back to the residence, with Joe’s I wanna
know playing from the car speakers as he pulled into the last available
empty parking spot in the Visitor’s Parking area.
“You know, you can always come over, right?” he said as we sat quietly
in the car. “I’m just a few minutes away, if you ever want a break from…
this.” He gestured towards the building in front of us.
I nodded as I looked straight ahead. “I just hope Ned gets back to his
family.” I was still thinking about the show I was now very invested in – the
lies, the politics, and the incest.
“I’m not in the business of giving away spoilers,” he laughed.
“A simple yes or no would suffice,” I opened the door and let myself
out of the car.
“Tough luck,” he said, coming out and standing next to me. He was now
by my side, and we walked side by side toward the residence. His hands
were in his pocket, but our arms slightly brushed against each other as we
walked. I was enjoying his company, and I didn’t want the day to end.
He held the door open for me, and I entered the deserted lobby. As we
waited by the elevators, Ahmad brought out his phone, sent a message and
put it back in his pocket.
“Alright,” I said, looking up at him as I heard the elevator nearing the
lobby.
He was biting his lip distractedly like he wanted to say something but
was thinking against it. “I just sent you the login details for my viewing
account, so you can continue the show anytime you want,” he said, looking
into my eyes and gauging my facial expression. He had the most beautiful
brown eyes I’d ever seen. “Or we could watch it at my place tomorrow? I
can pick you up after class.”
Without waiting for an answer, his hand reached for mine. As I looked
up at him, his hand went to my lower back and he pulled me into him. The
hug just lasted for 2 seconds, yet it got me so disorientated that I couldn’t
even place the name of his cologne, even though it smelt so familiar.
“Goodnight, beautiful,” he winked and he began walking away, his
hands back in his pocket.
I walked towards the elevator, with tiny little bells in my head ringing
Haram!
T