Kemi organized a photo shoot through a local design agency, which created sample poster boards with Jonny and two other models, a fuller Eritrean girl and a skinny Portuguese guy. Jonny had been out of his element, twitching nervously and fidgeting with his hands. But they had made it through the test shoot, and Kemi was satisfied with the spreads. This was what she did best.
Björn barely spoke to her on the entire flight down to Frankfurt. Frankly, she didn’t care. She reviewed her notes and pitch angle, including rebuttals for potential questions that could arise. The last four months had been a blur of work meetings, lunches, several daily fika breaks, and more meetings as follow-ups to the previous meetings. She finally had a chance to prove why she’d won National Marketing Executive two years in a row back in the States.
The States…Andersen & Associates felt like a lifetime ago. Besides occasional emails from her former assistant, Nicole, no one else kept in touch. She missed having a personal assistant. Here in Sweden, she hadn’t been assigned one, though some of the other directors, mostly the men on her team, all had assistants. She’d broached the subject with Ingrid, but Ingrid had brushed it aside, turning it into a feminist spiel.
“You know how guys need all the help they can get,” Ingrid said, laughing it off.
After a chauffeured ride from the airport, they arrived in an austere conference room filled with six white men and one woman who looked mixed race, though by Kemi’s estimation, she seemed to be passing as white in the room. She shared no covert smile or nod affirming sisterhood with Kemi. The team from von Lundin settled in. Kemi pulled out easels and placed the posters backward so their big reveal wasn’t ruined.
Jonny introduced the team and then spent a few minutes stressing the importance of this account and why he was personally there. He handed it off to Björn, who discussed the business aspect of the campaign they were proposing, how inclusive it was, and how well it would go over in various Asian markets.
Then they turned to Kemi.
Taking a deep anchoring breath, she walked up to the easels and spun all three posters around to audible gasps and a wow!
In one of the samples, Jonny was dressed in a simple V-neck, wheat-colored sweater with a crisp white collar popping over its rim and tan trousers. He was holding a mug of coffee and sitting with his feet clad in high-top Bachmann B:GEMs, legs crossed on a table. Next to his legs was a plate bearing cinnamon buns. In the photo, Jonny was reaching for the lone chocolate muffin on the plate. DARE TO BE DIFFERENT was blazed beneath the imagery.
Kemi explained the multiple layers of the photo to the team. The cinnamon buns represented Sweden and homogeneity. His minimalist clothing paired with screaming shoes and him reaching for the muffin represented diversity and inclusion.
The room listened with bated breath as she deconstructed the idea behind her proposed marketing campaign. Each poster would depict stereotypes from a certain culture, while the model representing that culture would engage in an action that would break those stereotypes.
“Finally,” Kemi was winding down her presentation. “Jonny is…different. Many people who know him know this, and there’s nothing wrong with him,” she continued. “Dare I say it, this may very well be his superpower.”
Jonny stood like a frozen statue, hands balled at his sides, listening intently.
“His way of looking at the world hasn’t limited him from running one of the largest marketing companies in the world. Having Jonny von Lundin as the face of this campaign, wearing shoes people would never associate with him, is a public statement. Dare to be different, and own it!”
When she was done, a round of applause roared from around the table, and two people stood up in ovation. One was the woman who now seemed to shed the distance she had walked in with.
The other was her teammate, Björn Fältström.
* * *
“How did it go?” Malcolm asked, hopping off the stage during intermission of his show a couple nights later. Earlier, she had been tapping her feet and bobbing her head to Malcolm’s jazz band on stage, sometimes standing up and fully dancing, thrusting her hips side to side in sync with the jazz rhythm. Their beginning Swedish class was over, and she was now registered in the next level. Despite the antagonism between Malcolm and their teacher, José, he passed Malcolm with flying colors.
“Nailed it!” she sang. “Nailed it, nailed it, nailed it!” Malcolm gave her a hug. Then he reached for a mug of Carlsberg beer that the bartender had slid his way.
“I knew you would,” he praised her after taking a swig. “With all that Black girl magic you got going ON!”
“You know I gotta represent.” She took a sip of her mojito, laughing, just as José walked up to them with a fluorescent cocktail in hand. He stretched up on his toes to give Malcolm a light kiss on the lips, catching Kemi off guard.
“Oh wow. Wow! Wow! Wow!” Kemi was stunned. The couple laughed. The way they’d gone at it in class, Kemi should have known it was due to a simmering attraction between them. José sipped from his straw with raised eyebrows and pursed lips.
“Wanna grab a late bite with us after the gig?” Malcolm offered.
Of course she wanted to, she beamed back at them. She had so much to celebrate. Not only had Bachmann awarded them the contract, they had somehow managed to find an extra million kronor for them. They were also insisting on launching the campaign in the spring. Back at the office, von Lundin Marketing had celebrated with champagne when the team returned. Ingrid and Maria apologized for doubting her.
“You have to understand,” Ingrid had explained. “It was too risky. It still is.”
“Well, it hasn’t launched yet,” Maria said. “And we may get a strong backlash. But Kemi…” She toasted her. “I respect you so much more now.” Kemi was left wondering how much respect Maria had initially had for her. The only director who had missed their celebrations was Greta. She had coughed lightly that morning and said she needed to take a sick day.
After Malcolm’s gig, they found a small pizza place on Södermalm. They dug into greasy kebab pizzas topped with garlicky crème fraîche, celebrating the fact that she was a sister making it in Sweden.
Kemi’s high didn’t last long, though. She snuffed it out herself the next day.
* * *
The escalators at Östermalmstorg station were out of order, and Kemi was stuck behind a heavyset woman who was making her way up the stationary steps. One foot at a time, the woman was willing her body to do what it wasn’t ready for. People overtook her impatiently. Kemi wanted to but feared using up all her own energy and becoming like this stranger who was stalling foot traffic. The helplessness of the woman’s breathing stirred something deep within Kemi. When she got home that evening, she decided to step on her scale.
Seven kilos. She did mental calculations. Fifteen pounds. Shit. She’d gained fifteen pounds in five months. She peered down at the scale in shock and promptly declared cinnamon buns the work of the devil.
On a date later that night, she opted for a goat cheese, honey, and fig salad to start her carb-free campaign. Her investment banker date wore a dark suit with golden cuffs and a white shirt with the top two buttons unfastened.
He went on to order the priciest five-course dinner at Restaurang Kött. She watched the thick flow of burgundy red cascade into her wine glass as he poured her wine, more entranced by the swirling drink than the man in front of her.
Turned out, he’d picked the most expensive Michelin-starred restaurant in town as well.
Kemi knew this when the bill arrived and Cheap Bastard—her nickname for him—suggested they split the bill…evenly. In Stockholm, dates regularly split bills to drive home their egalitarian point, but leaving her with the Swedish equivalent of two hundred dollars to pay when she only had a salad and one glass of wine—well, two glasses?
“I mean, you did drink their
most expensive wine in house,” Cheap Bastard geared up his argument.
“I had two glasses…you finished the whole damn bottle!” Kemi’s voice pitched higher. Other diners nearby cut them reprimanding looks. “I only had a salad too!” She lowered her voice.
“I guess that must have been some expensive goat cheese,” he retorted.
She hated having to bear that burden of not “causing a scene” because she was Black, so she quietly paid half, grabbed her bag, and bolted out of the restaurant.
“Wait! Wait!” Cheap Bastard gave chase. Catching up to her on the sidewalk, he rounded her and blocked her path. Expecting an apology, Kemi got truffle-laced breath in her face instead.
“So…how about a kiss?”
She planted her palm, with fingers splayed, straight onto his face and shoved him out of her way.
“Are you Shermmy?” a blond barista asked Kemi the next morning during her Espresso House run.
“Yes?” She saw no point in correcting her.
“I think this is for you.” The lady bent low to pull out an envelope from beneath the counter and handed it to Kemi. Thanking her, Kemi slipped the envelope into her large bag, heart pounding. She hoped it was what she thought it was.
Once at her desk, she carefully opened the envelope to find a small piece of paper with the word “Tobias” and a ten-digit phone number scribbled on it.
Kemi’s heart soared with hope.
Part Three
Thirteen
MUNA
“I hate this place.”
When Khadiija said those words for the first time, she and Muna had been eating rice and lamb one evening in late January. Muna had listened quietly, waiting for Khadiija to continue. Since she and Yasmiin had fought, Khadiija had retracted back into her shell, only sharing what was necessary as she shuttled between her job, their apartment, and the Tensta community center.
Yasmiin, on the other hand, barely stayed at their place anymore, and they knew it was because of Yagiz.
When Khadiija dropped those words of hatred, Muna cherished them despite their gravity. It meant Khadiija was ready to start talking again.
“The boys at the center have been talking a lot,” Khadiija added before turning back to her rice and lamb in silence once more.
“What are they saying?” Muna asked.
“You know.” Khadiija shrugged.
“No, I don’t.” Muna’s interest was piqued. “What are the boys saying?”
On the few occasions Muna had followed Khadiija there, their conversations in Somali had been rife with emotion. The atmosphere always felt charged.
“They won’t even look at me,” one boy named Ibraahin said before breaking down in tears. He had just turned sixteen. “Who doesn’t look at another human being? Who doesn’t?”
Muna thought of Gunhild, who listened to her, eyes warming as she did. When Muna mentioned this to the group, they fell into an uncomfortable silence until Khadiija broke it.
“One Gunhild is not enough. One Gunhild will never be enough. We need millions of Gunhilds.”
Now Khadiija was telling her that the boys at the center had been talking…a lot.
“Is it Ibraahin?” Muna was grasping. “Is he the one talking?”
“They all are, and they are tired of staying silent, of not being accepted.” Khadiija shoveled rice into her mouth. She chewed while Muna waited for her to swallow. “Silence is poison, Muna,” Khadiija continued. “Silence is a slow, poisonous death.”
“Then tell me about the man who made you run,” Muna demanded, because her sister-friend’s own silence was poisoning her too.
Khadiija stopped chewing and locked eyes with the younger woman. Muna stared back, barely blinking. She had caught Khadiija off guard, and Muna saw the armor beginning to form around her once more like a snail seeking protection in its shell.
“Please?”
“Why don’t you mind your own business, eh?”
“What?”
“It’s the same thing with you and Yasmiin. You are always in her business. Always sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong,” Khadiija said, her tone heated. Muna blinked back tears. “Let Yagiz defile her body if she wants him to. It is none of your business!”
“But…” Muna stammered. “I care about you and Yasmiin. I am your sister.”
“You’re not my sister!”
This time, Muna lifted a hand to her chest, physically stunned by Khadiija’s outburst. She tried to say something, but her mouth remained dry, the words stuck on her tongue.
“Look,” Khadiija continued. “My family is back home in Somalia. I have many sisters and brothers. I didn’t want to leave them behind, okay?”
Muna remained silent. She was now staring down at the plate of food in her lap, holding back tears. Khadiija pushed her own half-eaten plate away and got to her feet. She paused as if to say something to Muna but then shuffled off to her room.
Muna’s shoulders bounced, startled by the slamming of Khadiija’s door.
* * *
“Johan von Lundin, CEO.”
Muna mouthed the name and title, reading it off a tag attached to the glass wall of the corner office she was about to clean the next day. This space belonged to the top boss, and it was the only one in the entire building she’d never seen anyone enter or exit. By now, she knew everyone who milled around those gray spaces: the directors, designers, managers, interns. Not that she should care, because she was a janitor working in the background. But she had never met the owner of this glass room. She wasn’t even sure it was in use. The desk was empty, the shelves were bare, and the cabinets remained locked. The sole pop of life was a vase of yellow and lilac tulips sitting on the desk, like they’d been freshly delivered.
That name sounded familiar. Johan von Lundin. Johan… She mulled it over and over again in her mind until recognition rushed in. It couldn’t be the same man, could it? She remembered Mattias telling her about Solsidan’s benefactor—a man with the same name. His last name didn’t sound like a very common Swedish name. What if it really was him? What if this CEO was the one who had indirectly kept her and Ahmed and others safe in a paradise out in the middle of nowhere for two years?
If it really was him, then she needed to share her gratitude.
Muna pushed her cleaning cart into the echoing room and pulled out a damp cloth. She started wiping down the desk but then stopped, realizing how foolish it felt. She had already wiped it down earlier that morning. There had been no flowers then. She put the rag back and turned toward the tulips instead.
Their petals were large and vibrant, inviting her to caress them. She pulled out a yellow tulip, holding the bulb to her nose to sniff it. Flowers always reminded her of Ahmed and his exquisite gardening. She hoped Mattias was still tending to Ahmed’s rose garden and keeping his memory alive through those roses. She took a deep breath, trying to tease out its fragrance. She delicately placed it back and bent low to sniff the entire bunch. Then she straightened back up and let out an exaggerated sigh.
Muna grabbed her cleaning cart and spun around to find a tall, foreboding figure blocking the doorframe. She yelped, one hand flying to her mouth, startled by the man’s presence. She lowered her head, ashamed that she’d been caught. She wasn’t sure how long he had been standing there and watching her touch his flowers.
She closed her eyes and squeezed out a formal apology. “Jag ber om ursäkt.”
The room remained silent, and she slowly opened her eyelids. Yes, he was still standing there, peering at her intensely. And she instantly recognized him. The tall, hungry man from the elevator. The one who had been kissing the Black model so fiercely in public. She shifted her weight under his burning glare. His brows began to dip inward, and she deduced that she should never have touched his tulips.
She remembered Ibraahin’s word
s from the community center. “They won’t even look at me,” the boy had cried. But this Swede was looking at her. His clear eyes were burrowing into her as she stood in his office.
It couldn’t be the same man, Muna decided. The statuesque man currently gazing down at her with such spite for touching his tulips couldn’t be the same man donating thousands upon thousands of kronor every year to take care of refugees.
* * *
When Muna arrived home that evening, it was to a tense scene. After weeks of absence following the Naked Yagiz incident, Yasmiin had returned with the man to pack up her room and move out of their apartment. Khadiija and Muna watched as Yasmiin, sporting a new hairdo with layers of makeup and lips dyed in a rich plum color, wordlessly dragged bags out of her room.
When Yasmiin was about to walk out the door, Muna launched herself toward her and threw her arms around Yasmiin, crying.
“Why are you going?” Muna asked between sniffs. “Why, Yasmiin?”
The older girl put an arm around the younger, trying to console her, while Yagiz looked on, chewing his gum loudly, arms crossed.
“I’m going to miss you the most, Muna,” Yasmiin whispered into Muna’s ear beneath her hijab.
Then Yasmiin peeled Muna off her, turned to Yagiz, and reached out a hand to him. He took in the other girls; then he grabbed Yasmiin’s hand along with one of her suitcases and led her out of the apartment. Khadiija, who had been leaning against her bedroom door watching their grand departure, muttered “Good riddance” in Somali and retreated into her room, slamming the door.
Muna was left sobbing. She ran into her room, pulled out Ahmed’s sack, and started looking at his photos again. She’d been doing this weekly since she’d moved to Tensta, memorizing every face and expression. Sorting through those passport photos and promising them final rest. Those Kurdish strangers immortalized in photos had now become her invisible family.
In Every Mirror She's Black Page 20