by Amal Awad
“Fair enough,” said Lara, “but I wouldn’t say the same about your mum.”
“Well …” I was stumped.
“See?” she said, a little more gently. “Samira, this is what Hakeem meant by you being too trusting. You’re smart and all but when it comes to your own life you’re so naive!”
Honestly, what was wrong with everyone? I wasn’t too trusting. I was actually rather cynical most of the time. Of course, that was mainly when it came to general things. The public transport system. Mid-year sales. Politicians. Doorknock appeals.
I sighed, suddenly feeling very tired again. I resumed playing with the grass and considered. Nothing seemed to make sense in my mind just then.
“Now take it easy on Hakeem. Be gentle,” warned Lara in mocking tones.
“Very funny. You’re wrong,” I said, this time looking directly at her.
“Sure. Okay. So what’s this new guy’s name again?” she said, sitting up and dusting off her hands.
“Menem,” I replied.
“Stats? Give me deets.”
The quiet confidence, first. Menem had it and it stood out. Then I remembered that he seemed rather dashing in his blue suit. Not that I paid a great deal of attention to that. Just a minor observation really. But definitely, the self-confidence was noticeable. It made for a stark difference to many of the men I’d met over the years through doorknock appeals or at social functions.
Hakeem was also a very confident man, but in an intense sort of way. I had nothing against his shyness, particularly when it was bundled with such a sound level of humility. Either way, confidence was a highly attractive feature in a man.
“He’s unlike a lot of the guys we generally meet,” I summarised.
“What does that mean?”
I shrugged. “I can’t explain it. He was confident but not overly so. But more than that, he just didn’t seem to have any hang-ups.”
“You saw all that in five minutes?”
I shrugged. “Yes. I just sensed it about him.”
“Are you sure he’s Arab?”
“I know. But yes, definitely. He’s Lebanese.”
“Well. Your life is certainly getting exciting,” observed Lara.
I was having none of it though. My mind already felt uncomfortably full. There was my strange conversation with Menem, Hakeem’s reaction to my strange conversation, and now Lara’s hypothesis about it all. It was all too convoluted for me to comprehend. A little too daytime TV. And I hated daytime TV. There were only so many break-ups and people returning from the dead that I could handle on one show.
Anyway, it was oh so typical really. When it rains it storms. Something about tangled webs being weaved. He who pays the piper calls the tune. Actually, wait, that means something else. Whatever.
“Come on, let’s get some ice cream!” said Lara interrupting my moment of intellectual pathos.
She dragged me by the hand. “My treat.”
9
When I returned home, Omar’s car was parked in the driveway. As soon as I opened the door, my nieces eagerly greeted me.
“Aunty, aunty!” Layla squealed. I had my arms ready for her, bouncy curls framing her sweet face. I held her up and gave her a big kiss and a hug.
“Look at my new Barbie!” Layla held up a doll in hijab.
“Wow!” I said. “But sweetie, are you sure this is a Barbie? I don’t think Barbie wears hijab.” Last I checked, anyway. We were getting terribly PC nowadays though, so you just never know.
Layla nodded emphatically, grinning. “Oh, you’re getting heavy!” I said in exaggerated tones. I put her down and examined the doll. The clothing looked legit, not like the makeshift veils Sahar used to put together for her Barbie doll.
“It’s a Fulla,” interrupted my sister-in-law Rabia as we walked into the sitting room. “It’s a doll from OS for Muslim girls,” she explained, plopping down onto the couch with a sigh.
“No kidding,” I said, still looking at the doll. Fulla looked exactly like Barbie from the made-up face to the abnormal body proportions. Well, actually, she was perhaps a little less generously proportioned than her “Western” counterpart. Thank goodness for that. A bit of realism didn’t hurt. But this doll was, well, Muslim. A Muslim Barbie doll!
Mum bought me my first, well, non-Muslim(!) Barbie doll when I was five. She was blonde, blue-eyed, ridiculously proportioned and was dressed in a very cool glittery outfit with faux leather jacket. I would have loved a Fulla to go alongside her. I could have set up my own little feminista UN.
Now that would have been rewarding. And educational. Particularly given little girls’ aspirations to be Barbie. I didn’t care which Barbie I was when I was a kid, I just wanted to be like her because she was always smiling (obviously, being made of plastic, she had little choice, but you take my point).
I thought of the Barbie games I used to play when I was Layla’s age. Lara was the rock star, or actress, but always a star; Sahar was home-maker Barbie, complete with baking accessories; I changed every other day.
Rabia let out a deep breath and looked longingly ahead of her, probably recalling a time when she wasn’t carrying around something the size of a tiny watermelon.
“Are you okay, Rabs? You look a bit pale,” I said, sitting on the armrest beside her.
Sometimes I called her “Rabs”, which Dad didn’t like. “What’s this Rabs? Why you call her Rabs?” he’d asked the first time he heard me say it.
“It’s endearing,” I’d told him. Then I had to explain what endearing means and Dad got into a huff and lectured me on the importance of calling people by their proper names.
“I’m alright,” she replied. “This is what we call the joys of pregnancy,” she lamented. I was about to offer her some words of comfort when she grabbed my arm and swivelled around to face me, a look of desperation on her face.
“Listen to me! Stay single as long as you can. It’s too late for me, but you can save yourself! I used to have a waist!” she sobbed.
“Aw, honey. Morning sickness?” I felt for her, poor thing; it looked like such hard work to be pregnant. I rubbed her shoulder comfortingly.
Rabia smiled, the desperate look put to bed for now. She closed her eyes and said, “Yes, morning sickness. And afternoon sickness and evening sickness. I’m throwing up practically every meal.”
It was moments like these in particular where the benefits of being single weren’t lost on me. I didn’t have to worry about getting home on time to burn dinner. I had only my own dirty laundry to worry about. There was no one to hog the big TV. And I certainly didn’t have to agonise over the prospect of squeezing out a baby that would spend half the night crying and the rest of it eating. Cute didn’t make it any less exhausting.
“Um, let’s not do that thing where we tell each other everything,” I said.
She exhaled. “It’s the first trimester. This always happens in the first trimester.”
By now my other niece Haneen had joined Layla and was tugging at my dress. She looked up at me, delivering a goofy smile. “I kill you!” she said.
So this was this week’s phrase. Threat to my wellbeing aside, it was sort of cute how she said it, what with her girly voice. Very gutsy and heartfelt. Five stars.
“Aunty, look at my doll!” she said after a few more “I kill you!”s. She also had a Fulla doll but this one was dressed in hot pink prayer clothes.
I got up from the armrest and squatted down to their level.
“Hmm. I like her outfit, Haneen. Do you think I could fit into her prayer clothes?” I winked at Layla who was practically jumping with excitement.
They let out girlish giggles and replied with a barrage of protestations. Fulla’s prayer clothes would be too small, I was told authoritatively.
“Are you going to marry a prince, aunty?” demanded Haneen.
Oh God. I wasn’t quite sure what to say to that. A prince, no less. I wasn’t sure I was marrying anyone at this stage. Besides which, I didn
’t want to mess with their heads. It was all fairytale nonsense really. Looking back, I would actually have been very grateful if someone had pulled me aside when I was a little girl and dispelled the fairytale myth.
It might have helped a little had someone had the courage to say, “No, Samira. A prince is not going to awaken you with a kiss. He needs to be supervised while seeing you until the wedding so there’ll be nothing untoward beforehand.”
Now there was an idea! Muslim-friendly fairytales. I could make a mint. In any case, I chose not to shatter my nieces’ illusions. Lord knows there would be more than enough opportunities to come.
“No, my darlings, I’m not going to marry a prince. I’m going to take up full-time work as a consultant to boys in pain.” To which my nieces looked at me with silly grins and confused expressions on their faces.
“You’re funny, aunty!” said Haneen. “I kill you!”
“This is why I don’t ask you to babysit,” said Rabia.
“I’m doing them a favour. Would you have them go through what I’ve gone through?”
Before Rabia could answer, Layla grabbed my face with her pudgy little hands and turned it towards hers. “You look like Barbie, aunty!” She then pursed her lips into kiss mode. I cuddled and kissed her, and she giggled insanely.
And before you think me deceptive by not correcting my niece, I should clarify that I was aware I didn’t resemble Barbie or any of her counterparts. But who was I to shatter Layla’s childhood illusions? It would just be mean to shoot her down.
Mum summoned me to the kitchen and pointed to the cluttered small table in the centre (design circa 1985). There awaited the ingredients for a salad as well as a large jar of marinated olives.
“Yallah, Samira, I need your help,” said my mother, who was making kibbeh at the kitchen counter.
“Yes, Mum.”
She was making two kinds of kibbeh. She’d already prepared some football-shaped patties. They were filled with minced meat, onions and spices, and covered in a thick shell of crushed wheat germ and ground meat. They would then be deep fried and come out completely, deliciously fatty. I couldn’t make them, but I could talk about them.
Now Mum was on to the oven-baked version. She patted the mixture of minced meat and wheat germ into a casserole dish, dragging it out so that it covered the entire surface. Then she used her thumb to make little dents across the top.
“Why are you frowning?” said Mum in Arabic.
“I’m not.”
“You shouldn’t frown.”
“Yes, Mum.”
“You should always look happy and grateful. You have nothing to frown about,” Mum said, still punching the kibbeh efficiently with her thumb.
“I’m just tired, Mum.”
“You can help me. You need to practise your cooking.”
“Yes, for my non-existent husband.”
Mum probably gave me The Look, but I didn’t look up from the chopping board. I was sullen and in need of more sleep. Dinners with my brother Omar equalled energy suckage.
My broader understanding of family dinners was heavily influenced by two things: the set-up at Jennifer’s place and The Brady Bunch. In “normal” families, there would be casual banter and polite enquiries as the family sat down to eat their meal.
“Did you have a good day, son?” the father would ask. “How are you finding the public transport schedule these days?”
“Pass the salt, please,” someone would say.
“Here you go, dear,” would be the mother’s reply.
“Would anyone like the potatoes?” another would offer.
Maybe not in those exact words, but generally that’s how it was at Jennifer’s place whenever I’d go there for dinner when we were growing up. She married a dashing Irishman two years ago and moved away with him. They now lived in Cork, which was a lovely name but, apparently, a miserable place. I missed her.
The Brady household was like that too if I recalled correctly. And while it was a comedy, I found it funny for entirely different reasons to those intended. I kept waiting for the episode when Jan would get humiliated with an ear pull from Mr Brady for being half an hour late. Or when Mrs Brady would chase the boys through the house with a slipper because they answered back. Never happened.
After Maghreb prayer, we were all seated in the dining room. We each quietly said bismillah then dug in. We were taught to give thanks before the first bite and after the last from a very early age. That and two very important words when we were barely out of our diapers: ‘no’ and ‘haram’. Forbidden.
For a few moments we all quietly ate our food. Eventually Omar looked up and studied his daughters for a moment before turning his attention to me. My trial wasn’t going to wait until after dinner it seemed. All that was missing from the scene was a blindfold and a leaky tap for atmosphere.
He questioned me about Manga boy, who was already filed away in my memory of dud suitors.
“What was wrong with this one?” Omar said, assessing me while his wife scooped salad onto his plate.
I’m not sure I appreciated his choice of words to be honest. As though I spent the duration of these doorknock appeals looking for faults. That obviously wasn’t the case now, was it?
My brother was waiting for a response. I had two options. Lie (very bad), or simply tell the truth.
“He looked like a Manga character.”
Deafening silence. Cutlery ceased clattering. I smiled awkwardly and took a bite of my salad.
“A Manga character?” The critical look again.
“You know, those Japanese cartoon characters, with the exaggerated features and weird English,” I said, my voice trailing.
I suddenly felt like one of those trashy defendants on Judge Judy.
“What do you mean he looked like a Manga character?” Judge Judy would yell. And I’d be stammering and stuttering, pleading my innocence about still being single.
Then Judge Judy would lean forward and fix me with that penetrating gaze of hers – the one that said, “I’m on to you” – and I’d shakily pull out some papers that proved nothing beyond the fact that I was, as charged, guilty of being single.
Omar would be at the plaintiff’s stand, smirking because he was the high achiever in the family: successful engineer, 2.4 kids.
Then Judge Judy would tell Omar to stop smirking before indicating to that annoying court guard to come over and take the papers off me – bank statements filled with itemised single-girl purchases – and they would share that condescending laugh and eye-roll.
“Why did you buy these Robert Robert shoes?” Judge Judy would say, looking over her spectacles.
Would she understand if I told her they were on sale, 30 per cent off?
“I know what a Manga is,” Omar said.
Oh no, he didn’t. “Manga” was Arabic for “mango” so I was sure he thought I was talking about the fruit.
“Look, I don’t want to talk about it. Suffice it to say, he wasn’t right for me.”
As I’d predicted, Manga boy never did call, which made rejecting him infinitely easier. Enough dud suitors and you developed a sixth sense about these things, a gift I wish I could transfer into other aspects of my life.
Following a doorknock, Mum and Dad wouldn’t say anything, their approach always being “Let’s see what happens”. They would switch on the Dubai channel and go about watching their late evening programs. Usually, I didn’t really need to see what would happen. In Manga boy’s case, I knew already. A big fat nothing was what was going to happen.
Anyway, despite a slightly bruised ego, I was happy when they didn’t call because it meant I didn’t have to debate the issue with my parents. I suspected that in some ways, despite the lacklustre choices, Mum and Dad lamented having a daughter who rejected all her suitors, possibly even the lamer ones.
Although I should probably give them more credit; they were kind enough not to burden me constantly with speeches about marriage despite being remarkabl
y diligent in the area of Arab Guilt. Unlike Lara’s mum, who would often bemoan having a daughter who was beautiful but troublesome.
“Who is going to take her?” she’d say to my mother.
Once, Lara overheard (okay, we were listening at the door of my room). She thought it was hilarious, of course.
“Oh for-, bloody hell! Like there isn’t more to life than getting married!” she’d cried.
Dad simply felt it his duty to remind me that I was “only getting older”.
“Never mind,” Dad would say. “Still, you’re only getting older, baby.” Of course “baby” would sound like “beebee”, which kind of took the edge off his warning, so I would simply nod sagely in agreement.
“Enough of this, Samira,” said Omar. “When are you going to realise life isn’t like those romantic movies you watch and get that nonsense out of your head?”
Frustratingly I felt tears prick my eyes. And my nose began to tingle. Then on cue followed the lump in my throat.
“Leave her alone,” piped in Dad. “He was no good for her.”
“Thanks, Dad.” I looked up gratefully, like a humiliated contestant on a reality show, thankful for the one kind judge on the panel.
“But remember, you’re only getting older, beebee.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
I couldn’t explain to my dad without sounding disrespectful that I hadn’t been under the illusion that I was only getting younger. But I suppose it was good to be reminded that the years were flying by and I still wasn’t married, in the same way someone without an ounce of singing talent should be paraded in front of The X- Factor judges for public humiliation.
“None of them have been right,” persisted Omar. “That’s the problem.”
“So what’s your point?” I said.
Omar put down his fork.
“Samira, you’ve rejected guys for every reason imaginable.”
A slight exaggeration. I’m sure, given the opportunity, I could find many more reasons to reject dud suitors.
“That’s unfair. I always have good reasons.”
“You rejected a guy because of the shoes he was wearing.”
“Who wears tassels?” I looked around expecting a wave of support. Surely this was something we could all agree on. Tassels belonged on curtains and military uniforms not shoes.