by Amal Awad
As per usual, Omar sat opposite me at dinner and threw questions at me, each one followed by his customary look of assessment. The fun part was having the extended family around to witness it all. Tonight’s topic wasn’t marriage though, thank the Lord.
“Have you spoken to your boss about career progression?” began Omar.
“No, Omar.”
“Why not?”
“Because we’re assessed at the end of the year.”
“Have they given you a pay rise yet?”
“No, Omar. They do that at the beginning of the year.”
“Have you looked for other opportunities?”
“No, Omar.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t know what I should be looking for.”
Before Omar could pounce on my lack of aspiration, I bailed to the kitchen. I was getting tired of McCarthyesque trials at every dinner.
I decided I’d be useful without being asked, by preparing dessert, which primarily involved unwrapping the trays of kanafeh and baclawa Abu Ibrahim and Hakeem had brought with them.
“Did you put on the kettle?” said Mum as she walked into the kitchen.
“Not yet.”
“Then put on the kettle.”
“Yes, Mum.” I put on the kettle.
“They brought an awful lot of sweets,” I said.
“Yes, masha’Allah. They always do.”
“Why are they here tonight? What’s the goss?”
“Samira,” said Mum in her stern tone, and I also got the matching look free of charge.
“What? Is there an occasion? Is something happening?” I persisted.
“No. We just invited them since your aunt Kareema was coming.”
“Well, that’s disappointing.”
More sternness. I wondered if Mum was holding back. It wasn’t entirely unusual for both families to come over on the one night, but I didn’t like to dismiss the possibility that something juicy was about to unfold. Who knew what I could uncover? Another engagement? Someone moving overseas? Spoilt for choice on the possibility front.
Aunt Kareema walked in and I gave her the customary hug and three-cheek kiss as I hadn’t done so earlier. She was the one who’d sent me a Manga boy. I should’ve been affronted by the set-up, but the sensible side of me knew that she meant well. She merely wanted to free me from the shackles of singledom censure. An honourable mission, even if it was one doomed to failure.
“Now why didn’t this boy work out, Samira?” she said, in Arabic. Easing me into the conversation, you understand.
My mum smiled knowingly as she brought out some tea cups from the cupboard.
What was I to say? He has better hair than me? He probably attends comic conventions? He most likely owns a bottle of black nail polish?
“Um, he wasn’t interested, khaltee,” I said, smiling humbly. It was a smile that said I could handle rejection, that despite the trauma of the rebuff, I’d be okay.
“And your mother told me another boy asked to see you and you said no,” said aunt Kareema, waving a hand, gold bangles jangling all over the place.
Damn it. Was nothing private in this family?
“Mmm. Yes, but. Mmm,” I said, nodding.
“I don’t understand what you young people want these days,” sighed aunt Kareema, as she went over to Mum, who was putting tea bags into a pot. Mum nodded, still smiling.
Betrayed!
“When I was younger, we met someone at our house and made a decision straight away,” she continued in a poignant “those were the days of war and hardship but at least the men were all gentlemen” tone.
I bit my tongue and smiled politely. Please don’t start talking about how you met and fell for your husband, I thought frantically. I always hated those conversations. I didn’t like thinking about my older relatives as once being young and carefree.
“These young men nowadays have much more to offer, too,” she said.
“Yes, khaltee, but I think he’s a bit different to what I need.” Yes, he has a bigger hair products collection than me, I thought, perhaps a little meanly.
I was still waiting for my mother to jump to my defence. After all, she hadn’t been thrilled with the family either.
“All these new ways of communicating,” said Mum. “We never had computers. Email. Chat.”
Any minute now.
“Yes, I can’t get Jamal off the computer half the time. I checked his history once, but it was all cars and Islamic pages.” Our parents needed our help setting up outdoor tables, but checking internet histories they could do.
Aunt Kareema had six children (praise Allah): Salah, Salha, Hassan, Hussein, Jamal and Jameeleh. Two lived overseas, three were still here and married, and Jamal was the remaining singleton. He was an IT nerd and mechanic to boot, and was the only one we ever really saw these days.
You might have noted the matching names? Given in accordance with the grand tradition of Arab naming conventions. For example, my mother’s name was Salmah and one of her brothers was Salim. Thankfully my parents spared us this particular convention within the immediate family, diversifying so far as Samira, Zahra, Lara. We coped admirably well with it. Aunt Kareema’s husband was named Kareem, but the name similarity there was purely coincidental.
“To be honest, the family weren’t really our type,” acknowledged Mum finally. I knew my mother wouldn’t let me down. This was about truth. And the truth was we didn’t like Manga boy’s emo-ness.
“I don’t know them that well,” said aunt Kareema. “But they came highly recommended and the son seemed nice.”
“Oh well, these things happen,” said Mum diplomatically, as though she was talking about a poorly functioning toaster.
Perhaps this recommendation system was the problem. This wasn’t The Movie Show. Shouldn’t we have a more stringent entry test than the word of the highly recommended family’s closest friends?
“The boy was a bit strange,” added Mum more softly as she dropped some sage into the teapot. She wasn’t a gossip by any means, so to hear her cuss someone out besides me was a bit delicious.
“That’s a pity,” said aunt Kareema. “But when I saw him, I thought he was very nicely dressed and presentable. Don’t you agree, Samira?”
“Yes, khaltee. In fact, I’d go so far as to say he was a better dresser than me.”
19
I was in the kitchen cleaning up after a game of Scrabble, which featured a lot of air-punching from Jamal after every play, and me saying “Oh my God, Dad, oh my God” each time he changed the rules. In the end, Dad won, even if his conduct was questionable.
Our parents had gone out to visit someone for something or other, but Omar and company were still around. Rabs was resting on my bed while my nieces watched a Disney DVD (theirs, I’d like to emphasise). Hakeem also remained, as did Jamal.
I loaded the dishwasher then moved on to the glasses and crockery. I hadn’t forgotten about the birthday gift. I was busy cleaning up as I was meant to and at the same time successfully procrastinating. Two birds with one stone.
A few minutes later I heard someone enter, and without looking up from the sink I knew it was Hakeem. Of course, this was mainly the result of reasonable deduction. It wasn’t likely to be anyone else. Still, I certainly sensed it was him, if you know what I mean.
“Sorry, where should I put this?” he said, holding a tray of teacups.
“Just on the table is fine,” I responded, wiping some soap from my face. Before he could leave, I said, “So how are you?”
“Fine. You?”
“Yeah, good. You know how it is,” I said. “I have something for you.” There, that wasn’t so hard, I thought. Except my face was already warm. And my nerves were nibbling away at my internal organs.
Hakeem looked surprised. “Why? What is it?”
“Ehm, it’s a birthday present,” I said, awkwardly. I washed my hands so that I could go and get it from my room.
“That wasn�
�t necessary.”
“I know.”
But I was already out the door before he could protest further.
All right. I had to concede that things were strange between us. Just when I needed my short, sassy one-liner responses the most, they’d deserted me. This was a new feeling, and I didn’t like or appreciate its sudden entrance.
But then, it dawned on me how this situation was actually classic me. I always said the wrong things to the wrong people at the wrong times when it mattered most. This is why I was such a hopeless mess! And this is why, just as my life had decided to show some flavour, just as it had put up its hand and said, “Here I am! Oi! Over here!”, I was horribly unprepared to meet the challenge.
I located the small package in my bedside table drawer, neatly wrapped, even if I do say so myself, in silver paper and a sheer ribbon, with a small card tucked under the bow. Looked fabbo. I could totally wrap presents for a living were communications to continue to prove unfulfilling.
Back in the kitchen I handed him the gift. Brief smile. No eye contact.
Yes, nonchalant. Unflappable. Insouciant. (Incidentally, isn’t insouciant a great word? Insouciant. Very Austenish.)
I went back to the sink and turned on the tap. I began rinsing the glasses and I heard Hakeem sigh. A wail of despair could easily have followed given the depth of it.
“Samira, how many times do I have to tell you that you shouldn’t be buying me gifts?”
“I know, I know. It’s just something small for your birthday. Something I thought you might like!”
I wasn’t concentrating and dropped the soapy glass cup that was in my hand. It cracked neatly down one side. Lovely.
“Are you okay?” he said.
“Fine!” I said, a little too brightly.
I think I’d actually cut myself when I caught the cup, but never mind. I was being silly. But, it was the snowball effect: the more I tried to act normal, the weirder it all got.
“What’s wrong with you tonight?” he said.
“Nothing.”
“You seem distracted.”
“I’m just preoccupied.”
“With?”
“You know. Work and stuff.”
Which reminds me: that was my new rule. In any awkward situation, blame work. I’d read somewhere that projection was healthy.
“Oh, right,” said Hakeem. He shrugged, and looked like he was about to leave. He stopped though and said, “Did you sort out your email crisis?”
I squeezed my eyes shut in embarrassment as I examined the sink. “Ahuh.”
“Good.”
“Thanks for your understanding about that, by the way,” I said.
Of course, a normal, self-assured person would have left it there, but naturally I kept going. “Funny thing, really.”
I laughed but it came out sounding a bit strange. Why could I never master merry laughter? What was merry laughter exactly?
Hakeem didn’t look amused. “Well, he’s certainly not shy. Has he asked for you yet?”
I dropped another glass and heard it crack. Damn it, my mother was going to kill me.
Projection! I would blame the glasses. They were cheap and therefore quick to break! Perfect. Unless they turned out to be expensive and therefore delicate and quick to break. But see how well projection worked?
“Samira, seriously, are you okay? You’re very clumsy tonight.”
“I’m fine!” Bordering on farcical now actually.
“Okay, look, why would you ask that?” I said, turning to face Hakeem. “Why would he ask for my hand? He doesn’t even know me.”
“That’s how it’s done, isn’t it? If he’s interested, his family will approach yours.”
“Yes, well, I guess he’s not interested then because, no, he hasn’t asked for my hand.”
He certainly seemed interested though, if his emails and general behaviour were anything to go by. I was seeing him more and more lately, and although I wasn’t making it a habit to sit and chat for too long, we managed snippets here and there. Just snippets. Just here and there.
These were not exactly fortuitous meetings. I had to concede that Menem knew my general coffee routine by now. I had to further concede that he knew I knew. But it was all very proper.
“It was just a question,” Hakeem said, an oh-so-subtle hint of amusement marking his face.
“Yes, well, it was a silly question. And there were only a couple of emails or so.” Or thirty. Ish. Not including the last couple of weeks. And no flagrant abuse of smilies.
And an indirect declaration of interest through his mother, which I wasn’t going to read into because even though Im Malek had a reason, it wasn’t unusual for parents to scout around and make enquiries before consulting their sons. It would probably explain the mood at more than a few of my doorknock appeals.
“That’s good. We don’t know them well, so you can’t be sure he’s trustworthy,” said Hakeem, adopting his paternal voice.
I sighed. I washed the soap off my hands so that I could clean up the broken glass. A couple of my fingers were sporting impressive little cuts. I also felt itchy, and had an awful sensation that tiny glass shards were piercing my skin. Might have to check up on that once bonding hour with Hakeem was over.
“Samira, you need to get away from the comfort zone you’re in. You should see what people are like. Life isn’t what you see in The Princess Bride,” he lectured.
“Oh God, Hakeem, give it a rest, please. Is it that bad I like the movie?”
“Not at all, but for such an intelligent girl, I’m surprised at how innocent you are at times,” he said.
“You think I’m intelligent?” I said, in surprise.
Yes, that’s the best response, I thought the moment it passed my lips. Never mind defending how I’d spend my time. It was practically my honour being dragged through the mud. Worst of all, Hakeem obviously thought I was an airhead.
“Samira.” He looked at me with disapproval.
“Look, you don’t know how I spend my time. Why are you so hard on me?” I asked a little desperately.
“Because I want more for you,” he said, forcefully.
It took me a moment to realise my mouth was open. He looked awkwardly away, as though he had been caught out on something.
I wasn’t quite sure where to look.
“Thanks for the present,” he said. He left the kitchen, tucking the package into his bomber jacket.
“It was my pleasure,” I said to the empty kitchen. I turned back to the sink, still feeling a bit stunned by what Hakeem said. And how he said it.
Jamal walked in as I was still enjoying my view of space. “Samira, I forgot to tell you my news,” he said.
I snapped out of my slight daze and turned to my cousin. “That’s great, Jamal.”
“I haven’t told you my news yet.”
Right. Good point. “Sorry,” I said, shaking my head. “I’m a bit out of it. So what’s the news?”
“The Muslim association asked me to be their spokesperson,” he said, proudly. “This means you may just see me on the news.” Given the number of times Muslims featured on the news, I estimated the chances of it being fairly high.
“You’ve got your work cut out for you,” I said, turning on the tap to wash my hands. Just a few rivulets of blood, nothing to be alarmed about.
“True,” said Jamal. “We’re going to be blamed for global warming soon enough.”
Before I could respond, he said, “What happened to your hands?”
As I lay in bed that night with bandaged fingers, I thought about Hakeem’s behaviour. He was certainly protective of me. But he didn’t seem jealous, as Lara had suggested. Granted, I didn’t have much experience in the jealousy department. But if anything, he was probably disgusted with the whole situation.
Pushing through my compounded thoughts was the dim hope he’d truly forgiven me for our “fight” after the engagement. And then for sending him an email meant for another guy, wh
ich sort of confirmed what he was warning me about in the first place.
That’s essentially what provoked me to include a birthday card. I wouldn’t do that usually because Hakeem was funny about things like that.
I wondered if he’d read my card yet. I already realised the gift was a mistake. Hakeem said he thought I was intelligent, which I guess shouldn’t have surprised me. Even though we clashed a lot of the time, he still seemed to enjoy speaking to me.
But I’d be reinforcing the more widely accepted Samira stereotype by giving him a movie. And not just any movie – the one movie he thought I based my existence on, which obviously was an irrational accusation. Liking a movie didn’t mean you expected the same to happen to you. After all, the movie was a spoof fairytale, not the real deal. There was also a giant in The Princess Bride. There were definitely no giants in my life. And Buttercup was totally a princess and a size eight, neither of which applied to me.
Anyway, the movie had just seemed appropriate at the time I bought it. He’d said he never watched The Princess Bride the night we “argued”, and I knew he would never go out and hire it. So I bought it for him, thinking it was a bit symbolic or something. And then I wrote him the card, putting only a single quote with a question mark below it: “My words fly up, my thoughts remain below: Words without thoughts never to heaven go”, which I’d chosen because it was about guilt and repentance.
My laptop sat beside me on the bedside table and I toyed with the idea of writing to him. Before I could decide, however, I received an email from Hakeem.
Subject: The quote
Hamlet, William Shakespeare.
P.S: Thank you for the gift. I’m curious about The Princess Bride now. I’ll let you know what I think.
I felt something release in me, and suddenly I was very sleepy. Just as I was about to shut down, I got a friend request from Menem on Facebook. It was something I’d been hoping for a while ago so I felt a tiny thrill of excitement that the moment had finally come. I’d accept him right now, but if I did, I just knew I wouldn’t be able to resist stalking him.