by Amal Awad
“Yes, I’m pretty sporty in general,” he said, glancing up at the cliff.
Oh, well, excuse me. Sporty indeed. I can be sporty, I thought.
Well, I watched those adrenaline sports shows once in a while. That ought to count. I usually watched them with Dad, who would comment throughout.
“Crazy people! What’s he doing?” Dad would shout when we watched Bear Grylls. Or he’d lampoon them, saying “This is not sport. This easy peasy stuff.” Of course with the Arab accent it was “easy beasy”.
I was tempted to tell Menem I hadn’t always been this unfit and non-sporty. But I didn’t think mentioning I was a champion runner in the sixth grade would count for much.
“So where do you work?” said Menem.
I hesitated. Well, he could find out easily enough, I suppose. But instilled in me were the stranger danger rules: Don’t accept lollies from strangers. Don’t get into a car with people you don’t know. Don’t give blonde Arab Muslim men work details.
Okay, yes, I made that last one up.
“I see we have trust issues,” said Menem.
“It began in the third grade when my best friend became BFF with another girl.”
“BFF?”
“Best friends forever.”
“Would you want a best friend who will betray you so easily?”
“True. I’m not quite sure I ever recovered.”
“There’s help available for that sort of thing,” he continued.
I still wasn’t going to give him my work information. Ha. How do you like them apples? (Obscure Good Will Hunting reference. Really only works when said out loud.)
6
The next day Mum woke me up at 8.30. I was feeling the consequences of Friday’s team building exercises. My body wasn’t just sore, it was crying. I whimpered as I stretched. I was so cosy in bed and I didn’t want to get up. My body was begging me not to.
Getting up to pray the sunrise prayer a couple of hours earlier had proven exceptionally difficult, and I didn’t quite make it.
“Zahra’s mother needs our help today,” Mum said. “You have to pick up some things.”
I curled up under my covers and whimpered again. Today was going to hurt on so many levels.
“Yallah, Samira, quick. We have a lot to do,” she said, by now close enough to yank the covers off me.
“Mum!”
Not surprisingly, Mum gave me The Look. Feeling empowered after the flying fox, I stared back with a courageous “I’m 27 now so I’m not afraid of you” look. Mum won though.
“Go to Zahra’s house first,” Mum instructed in Arabic. “Do whatever your aunt Shaimaa asks. Quickly.”
When she’d finally left my room, I grabbed my covers and pulled them back over me. I wasn’t going to get out of helping Zahra today. I didn’t even care. But right now I just wanted ten more minutes of rest. I closed my eyes and thought of door locks.
An hour later I was driving to Zahra’s place, which was about twenty minutes from my house. We’d all lived in the same suburb for most of our lives, but Zahra’s family moved a few years ago.
My recently acquired sense of empowerment was short-lived as I was already in a sullen mood, unable to contemplate a day of errands when pushing down on the accelerator was an effort for my muscles. I hadn’t realised how unfit I was.
Note to self: go to gym.
Further note to self: invest in actual gym membership.
I should have been berating myself since the beginning of winter to join the gym; after all, getting fit in winter was the thing to do, especially when you worked in the CBD and every five metres a gym junkie was handing you a flyer to join up.
The truth is, gyms never appealed to me. I was a good runner at school and I loved the way it felt when my feet pounded against the grass, the sun on my face. A treadmill never felt quite right. It made that annoying whirring noise and there was always the danger of slipping.
As I continued driving along, I found myself contemplating the previous day’s team building exercises.
And thinking about Menem.
As soon as Cate was done talking to her friend yesterday, I’d politely said goodbye to him and walked off with Cate to find the rest of our team. That was it. It wasn’t outside the realm of possibility that I might see him around in the city. It was quite conceivable that I wouldn’t. We hadn’t even left the conversation anywhere in particular. He made fun of my sporting abilities then I had to go.
But I couldn’t quite get him out of my head. It was such a strange meeting. I wondered if I would see him again. It’s not every day you meet a male Muslim in the workplace. And for our teams to be at the same team building centre on the same day was just a bit of a coincidence, I felt.
And he’d seemed rather nice. And normal! The value of which should never be underestimated. And for those very reasons, I concluded that I’d never run into him again.
I finally reached Zahra’s house and parked on the driveway. The air was a little humid, and the smell of freshly mowed grass hit me as soon as I stepped out of the car. They were obviously going all out for tonight’s party.
Zahra’s mother opened the door and smiled.
“Assalamu’alaykum, khaltou,” I said, as she ushered me inside.
“Wa’alaykum assalam, Samira,” she replied, ever so softly.
I spoke in Arabic to her. “Congratulations on Zahra. This was unexpected.”
And I knew what was coming next. Like in a slow motion scene of terror, I wanted to scream “Nooooo!”, but it would be too late. Aunt Shaimaa was going to respond with the Arabic phrase feared by Muslim singletons everywhere: “May it be your turn next”. One loathed expression contained in just a few syllables.
“O’balik,” she said, to be precise.
I smiled weakly in response, and said, “Insha’Allah”. God willing. It didn’t sound desperate when you said that to an elder. Oh well, I was going to hear it all night anyway. I suspected some people even took pleasure in it, searching for singletons in order to rib them about their marital status.
I wished a blanket regulation could be enforced at all social functions: “Attention, guests! Welcome. Please beware of the singletons in the room. For your own safety, do not approach them. Do not offer them wishes that it be their turn next. We thank you for your sensitivity in this matter.”
Zahra appeared in the hallway. “Samira!”
I’d shed the moroseness by now so I managed a smile. Teambuilding had dusted off any excess baggage I’d been lugging around about the time I found myself swinging from an abseiling rope. It really had. A humbling experience it was. And kudos to the team at True Blue.
Zahra met me halfway and we kissed each other on the cheeks. As usual, she didn’t kiss me properly; she just pressed her face against mine.
“How can I help you, khaltou?” I said turning back to Zahra’s mother.
“You’re such a good girl to help us,” she said.
Aunt Shaimaa pulled out a sheet of paper with a list of things to do. I just wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible and fulfil my familial duties. A rapid scan of the list told me I could get it all done in a couple of hours.
“I have my mobile phone if you remember anything else,” I told them.
After picking up the dress, of all things, I was off to my final stop: the sweet shop. The smell of pistachio and syrup hit me as soon as I entered the store. Perhaps there was time for a quick snack, I thought, as I eyed the fresh kanafeh. But an assistant broke my haze by asking if he could help me. It was probably best to forgo the kanafeh given my rude fitness reminder. The amount of fat and sugar in it would be incalculable. Scientists could study trays and trays of the delicious, sugar-filled, syrupy treat and be left scratching their heads.
Just as I was directing one of the assistants at the sweet shop to my car, several trays of pastries and cakes between us, my mobile phone rang. I was balancing my back boot door, two boxes and the phone all at once.
“Hello?”
“Samira!” It was Lara. “Heya, gorgeous!”
“Lara! How are you?” I said, feeling relieved to hear her voice. We hadn’t communicated as often lately. Work had been so crazy that my conversations with Lara had dwindled to little more than quick snatches here and there. Of course, that was more than enough time to find out who the latest doctor to ask her out is, and what happened when the junior at the canteen short-changed her.
I hadn’t even chatted with Hakeem properly. He’d sent me a quote on Thursday: “Never let the future disturb you”, to which I sent a guess. He wasn’t greatly impressed by my response of “I know this! South Park”.
I smiled gratefully at the assistant when he finished loading the boxes and he went off with a polite smile. Leaning against my car, I turned my attention back to Lara.
“I can’t talk much. I’m designated pick-up person today.”
“I bet she wrote out a list for you,” said Lara in disgust.
“Yep. Numbered it, too.” She’d even underlined a couple of things. Lara unleashed a torrent of commentary that I only half-understood because a bus rushed by mid-stream. But I did pick up the words “evil”, “spawn” and “karma”.
“Just don’t say ‘o’balik’, Lara,” I begged.
“Puh-lease! I want you to have a shot at happiness in this life,” she replied. “Anyway, guess what? I’m not coming to the engagement!”
“What? No! You can’t desert me,” I protested.
“Sorry, hun. Work. I actually want to come for some twisted reason. But I’m in a bit of a bother at the hospital, so I have to be here tonight.”
“Well, okay,” I said, deciding it was better not to ask.
“Oh, and snot face actually emailed me,” reported Lara.
“No way!”
“Ahuh. Did you find out more about the fiancé?”
“Just that he works in the same building as her or something. Turns out they didn’t know they were both Muslim until they met at some fundraiser.”
Zahra didn’t wear the hijab, so the story made sense. Although, I was pretty sure this was the diluted, parent-friendly version. It was unlikely they hadn’t been emailing each other and “accidentally” running into each other around town.
I knew it. Lara knew it. The parents probably knew it deep down, in places they cared not to acknowledge. Had the boy in the sweet shop been brought up to speed on Zahra’s engagement, he’d know it too. It all came back to that thing I mentioned earlier about how sometimes these matters, understandably, progressed outside of the parental zone.
Remembering the time, I looked at my watch. I had to keep moving because the engagement started at six o’clock and I didn’t even know what I was going to wear.
“Sorry, Lara, I really have to go.”
“Okay, sweetie. I want all the info when you get back. Mwah.”
Slightly deflated, I got into my car. My body was still punishing me for yesterday’s workout, but I had a long day ahead of me.
While I wasn’t exactly in a rage to see Zahra get engaged, it was more the lead up that was bothering me. There was a reason I hated family functions. Barbeques in the park were the worst, but anything that involved us going out en masse was always a nightmare.
Mum and Dad would always squabble because Dad would insist on taking his beloved Falcon, but Mum knew it could break down on the way because it was a hundred years old. So she’d insist on taking my car, a more reliable Toyota Yaris.
This could go on for hours. Dad would milk his hurt for as long as he could. Delay everyone. Bring up the time twelve years ago when [insert family member’s name] didn’t do [insert something Dad wanted done]. Then he would later complain to me about it, and somehow the conversation would move towards my older brother Omar and how he hadn’t visited in the last three days.
But some things Dad couldn’t get out of – including engagements – so eventually he, and we, knew he’d have to get up from the couch.
While all of that was going on, I was inspecting my closet for a suitable outfit. I had scarves of several varieties, but clothing was more the problem. I didn’t want to wear anything too formal, because it wasn’t a huge party, but it wasn’t a denim affair either.
I could get away with a plain outfit if I paired it with a flashier headscarf. Something with light glittery threads perhaps. Or I could dress down a more formal outfit with a plain headscarf; a soft, plain fabric in a beautiful colour.
I toyed briefly with the idea of wearing my headscarf a bit differently for a change. I’d recently had a yearning to go gypsy – tying my scarf back, rather than all around my head. That way, I could wear gold hoops because my ears wouldn’t be totally covered. I missed wearing jewellery.
Half an hour later, I settled on an ensemble of an ankle-length black chiffon skirt and a black cashmere top, and a light blue headscarf in a sheer fabric. I pinned it up as I usually wore it. I wasn’t in the mood to deal with the potentially strained reactions.
It was a silly idea really. It would look stupid.
Just as I’d finished pinning up my headscarf, Mum slipped her head in my doorway.
“Samira, you’re driving us tonight.”
“Okay, no worries, Mum,” I replied, even though the arguing had kind of given it away.
“Yallah, Samira. And don’t frown. It doesn’t look nice.” Mum walked off and I let out an earth-shattering sigh. I wasn’t frowning; I was just concentrating while pinning my scarf, for goodness sake.
What was Mum on about? Maybe I’d been a little more petulant at home than usual lately. The other night I’d gotten into a bit of a huff when I realised there was no ice cream left in the freezer. Dad saw me on the verge of tears and told me not to worry as he’d go and get me some straight away.
In my defence, it had been an awfully long workday. I’d been given the joyful task of removing the sticky tape we used on the shoes for a shoot so that we could return them (it saved Bridal Bazaar a ton of money).
Anyway, Dad went off as promised. I felt a bit guilty, but he assured me that he felt like some ice cream too. He ended up buying the wrong brand and flavour, but I was grateful all the same, and we sat down and watched Mythbusters together.
But I was totally fine now. Really.
I shook my head then quickly applied some kohl and a light lashing of mascara.
I emerged to find Dad sulking by the door while Mum was switching lights on.
“Ready, baba?” I said in cheerful tones.
“Hmmph.”
I patted him consolingly on the arm.
“Yallah,” Mum said.
We got into my car, my father sitting in the front seat still looking affronted. I knew he’d be fine once we got to the party. In fact, it wasn’t long before he brightened up, taking out a hanky (he carried one with him everywhere) and wiping my dashboard.
“Don’t you clean your car, ya Samira?”
7
We were a bit late, but in line with Arab Standard Time, the party hadn’t started yet. Even though I’d bought everything this afternoon, I still hadn’t anticipated this many people. There must have been about 60 guests at least, all crammed into my uncle’s modest living room.
I spotted Zahra in one corner talking to an older man and woman, whom I presumed were her future parents-in-law because she had a plastic smile fixed on her face.
But she looked good. She was attractive, although perhaps not beautiful. Lara was always considered the beauty among us – a position she was only too happy to claim, by the way.
That didn’t stop Zahra from being competitive about it. When I put on the hijab six years ago, I knew it gave her some perverse pleasure because she thought guys wouldn’t look at me. “Much better!” she’d said the first time she saw me in a headscarf. Instead of congratulating me like everyone else, she’d told me covering up was an improvement.
But she did look pretty tonight with her hair straightened and her make up done nicely. She
wore a dusty pink chiffon dress down to her calves, leafy layers falling neatly over her shoulders.
Turning away, I looked around to see who I knew from the crowd and only recognised a few people. I picked out Hakeem and his father sitting to the side. I walked up to them and greeted Abu Ibrahim first, exchanging the usual enquiries: “Yes, work is good, thank you for asking. No, I’m not getting married yet.” Then Abu Ibrahim turned to his neighbour and resumed the discussion he’d been having before my arrival.
“How are you?” asked Hakeem.
“Alhamdulillah. You?”
“Alhamdulillah. Some turnout,” he commented. He looked bored or unimpressed, perhaps both. He didn’t like to attend parties. A social butterfly Hakeem was not.
“Yeah, I wasn’t expecting this many people,” I said, surveying the room.
Hakeem took a small bag out of his jacket. “By the way, this is for you,” he said, handing it to me.
“What’s this?”
“I told you I was going to bring you a book that required you to use your intellect, remember?”
“And I told you I have a very good Shopaholic book to read, remember?”
Hakeem gave me a stern look, which differed only slightly from Mum’s.
“Okay, well, this is very nice of you. Thank you.” I beamed.
“You’re very welcome. Make sure you actually read it though,” said Hakeem, a trace of amusement in his voice.
“Can I have a look now?”
“Discreetly, yes.”
I opened up the bag to see what was inside, expecting a book on religion, or perhaps something clichéd like Khalil Gibran because he was generally the favourite with these sorts of gifts. Instead I found a compilation of short stories I’d never seen before. It had a fancy cover with embossed lettering. I smiled, still grinning.
“Thank you,” I told him, just as I heard my mother call out my name. “Sorry, duty calls.”