In Every Mirror She's Black

by Lolá Ákínmádé Åkerström

  Through Louise, Jonny had registered her for private, late-­term prenatal care. He’d organized for a yoga teacher to come work out with her at home three times a week along with a private language instructor so she could start learning Swedish. Her first three months in Sweden, Brittany von Lundin lacked for nothing.

  Fifteen

  MUNA

  “Muna!”

  The sound of someone calling her name startled her as she was refilling paper towels in the kitchen at the von Lundin offices. She turned to see Kemi trotting up to her.

  “Tack så mycket!” Kemi stopped in front of Muna, breathless with excitement.

  “Why are you saying thank you?” Muna asked in Swedish, unsure of what was causing Kemi to thank her so cheerfully.

  “De afrikansk affärer!” Kemi said, struggling in Swedish. The African stores. “The ones you recommended to me. Thank you! I went to two of them and found goat meat and spices I have been looking for,” Kemi finished in English, her Swedish still weak.

  Then she began to ramble. “I did find some fermented melon. We call it egusi in my language. You know I’m from Nigeria, right? You’re from Somalia, not Sudan, aren’t you? Anyways, it ended up being rotten when I brought it home,” Kemi continued. “It made me sad though. Maybe there just aren’t enough Africans to meet the supply. So sad. That something fermented to actually last for months rotted due to lack of demand.”

  Muna could barely follow Kemi’s stream. She only picked out “Nigeria, Somalia, Sudan, home, Africans,” and the word “sad” twice.

  “Sorry, my English no good,” Muna apologized.

  “Oh no, please. I am the one who should be better by now in Swedish,” Kemi noted. “Can I practice my Swedish with you? Får jag träna svenska med dig?”

  Muna looked at her, not knowing what to say. She would love to help Kemi with her Swedish, but her mind wasn’t at von Lundin right now. Tensta and the aftermath of its riots had swallowed her whole. She was unsure of what remnants of herself it would spit out once done. Her apartment felt like a graveyard. The daily silence was unnerving. No wafts of spices coming from Khadiija, who had loved to cook. No random banter coming from Yasmiin, who had talked incessantly.

  All she was left with were photos of ghosts in her room.

  “Är du okej, Muna?” Kemi asked. Are you okay, Muna? It was when Muna felt Kemi’s hand on her arm that she realized she had been staring absentmindedly for a couple of seconds.

  “Ja. Tack,” Muna said softly before turning back to her task of refilling paper towels. She felt Kemi still looming around.

  “Vill du prata?” Kemi was offering her ears if Muna needed to talk to someone. Albeit in painfully grating Swedish that made Muna look like a native speaker. Muna turned to Kemi and nodded. Kemi gave her a lopsided smile, one mixed with concern and empathy.

  “Har du familj?” Muna asked. Do you have a family?

  “Familj?” Kemi repeated. Muna nodded. “Well…jag har en pojkvän!” Kemi trailed off with a giggle, telling Muna she had a boyfriend.

  “Ingen pappa? Mamma? Syskon?” No father, mother, siblings? Kemi’s face took on a more serious look when she realized Muna wanted depth beyond her love life.

  “Ja, jag har en mellanstor familj,” Kemi said, describing her medium-­sized family to Muna. Not to mention extended family, too many to count on both sides.

  “Pratar ni ofta med varandra?” Muna asked. Do you speak often with each other?

  “Inte ofta,” Kemi said. Not so much. Everyone was so busy, she explained. Muna glared at Kemi as if she had cursed.

  “Varför inte?” Muna asked, her voice terse. Why not?

  Muna saw Kemi’s face tense up, her brows bunching, and Muna felt maybe she had upset her. But it made no sense to Muna that Kemi had a family she wasn’t talking to every day. Was there a reason Kemi didn’t talk to her family? It didn’t sound like it because her face had lit up when she’d mentioned her twin, parents, and other relatives.

  A second of silence passed between them before Kemi broke it.

  “You’re right, Muna,” she switched to English. “I have no excuses.”

  Kemi gave her a deep smile that showed dimples in her cheeks, then a nod of acknowledgment before saying, “Tack, Muna! Vi ses snart.” Thanks, Muna! See you soon.

  Muna pushed her cleaning cart out of the kitchen area toward the large elevator. When the double doors pulled apart, Jonny was standing in there with a smartphone to his ear. Muna swallowed and tried pushing her cart into the elevator, expecting him to take a few steps aside, but the look on his face seemed terrified. His normal intensity had been replaced by fright, and his petrified gaze fastened on her cleaning cart.

  Jonny quickly lifted a palm up to stop her advance. No, his raised hand seemed to say to her. He didn’t want to share his space with that dirty thing she was pushing.

  Muna quickly apologized and watched the elevator doors consume him once more.

  * * *

  Three slow raps on her door. Gunhild’s signature knock. Muna opened the door without peeking in the peephole to find Gunhild standing there holding a greasy paper bag that looked like Chinese takeout. She was also carrying a smaller bag that Muna guessed had some buns for fika.

  “Kära Muna,” Gunhild greeted, handing both bags to the younger woman. Muna ferried them to the kitchen and unpacked their contents: Thai curries with jasmine rice and two vanilla buns. Gunhild had picked up a vegetarian curry for Muna and chicken for herself.

  “Thank you so much,” Muna said as she started setting the small dining table. Gunhild slowly took a seat, looking more fragile than the last time Muna had seen her.

  “How are you?” Muna asked. The older woman simply waved delicate fingers at Muna, telling her wordlessly not to bother. Toppen! She felt great. Despite what had happened to Khadiija, which was sad, she added.

  “Have you heard anything more about Khadiija?” Muna asked. Gunhild shook her head, finishing off with a sigh.

  “Nothing. But I will let you know.” She made a show of clasping her hands together. “Now, let’s get some food in you!”

  The women ate with large appetites and filled the long pauses with updates. Muna told her about her days at von Lundin as a janitor. About Kemi and their scant interactions. About the boss Jonny and the beautiful Black model she’d seen waiting for him outside. Gunhild listened, fully trained on Muna. Gunhild filled her in on some of the new residents she was meeting that week as well as some who had left their subsidized housing and moved on, carving manageable chunks of life in Sweden.

  “You would have been a wonderful mother,” Muna randomly added before scooping another forkful of rice. She noticed Gunhild wince.

  “It’s not from lack of trying,” Gunhild said with a strained laugh. “I love children and wanted so many of them.”

  “What happened?” Muna asked. “What happened when you tried?”

  Muna knew she was treading that line of being too personal. Over time, she had learned that many Swedes kept concentric circles of privacy around them, like onions. One could keep peeling back layers upon layers and still never reach their core, even after decades of friendship. She had already peeled so many layers off Gunhild, but the older woman was holding back so much more.

  “I made a mistake a long time ago,” Gunhild said. “In my early twenties, I fell in love with a man… My parents thought he was the wrong man for me.” Muna sat up straighter in her chair, hanging on to every word Gunhild was sharing with her.

  “I became pregnant. I was scared and got rid of our baby without asking him.” Gunhild paused to take a sip of water. “He never forgave me.”

  KẸMI

  “I think I’ve met someone serious,” Kemi confessed to Kehinde over the phone in a hushed voice. Tobias was still sleeping off their lovemaking in her bed after they’d gorged on cardamom buns and m
ade it halfway through a movie.

  “Is that your voice?” her sister teased. “I’ve forgotten how you sound. Abeg, please call your mother o!” Kehinde pleaded. Kemi chuckled before apologizing for how bad she’d been about staying in touch. She filled Kehinde in on the mundane details of her life, but her mind kept going back to Tobias.

  “This guy…” Kemi paused, savoring the thought of him. “We just click. He makes me feel beautiful. He really does. I don’t have to be extra.”

  “Hmm.” Kehinde listened intently.

  “We’ve been casually seeing each other for weeks, but I think we just made it official.”

  “Too much info. Get to the point. Is he husband material?”

  “Does that matter right now?”

  “Well, if it doesn’t matter now, when will it matter?”

  “I just want to enjoy getting to know Tobias better. I don’t want to rush things.”

  “Tobias? Can I call him Tobi? Oluwatobi?” Kehinde joked.

  “Stop it!” Kemi said, trailing off with a laugh. “Seriously, though, you will love him. He’s so down-­to-­earth. So real.”

  “Tobias. Is that Swedish?”

  “His mother is Gambian.”

  “Gambia l’oun l’oun?” All the way there? Kehinde was dramatic. “Who haven’t Nigerians married, ehn?!” They chatted for a few more minutes with Kemi asking when Kehinde planned on coming to visit.

  “Very soon,” Kehinde said. “It’s expensive with three kids. Well, four kids if you count Lanre,” she joked about her husband. Kemi promised to send them a package soon filled with all things Swedish, from chocolates to marshmallow fish.

  “Anyway, I’m happy for you,” Kehinde wrapped up. “Sounds like this guy’s head is correct. As long as you’re not leaving electricians in America to go find electricians in Sweden.” Kemi pondered her sister’s words. They were back to that point again.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean. Anyway, love you and please…call your mom!”

  The line went dead before Kemi could respond. She stared at the phone. With that one parting statement, her sister had planted a needless seed of doubt in her.

  “Hope she approved?” Tobias’s voice startled Kemi.

  She wasn’t sure how long he’d been standing there and listening to her chat. He clearly hadn’t heard Kehinde’s own side of the conversation. When she turned around, he was pulling on his security guard shirt and adjusting the collar. Kemi ogled Tobias as he got ready for his job, one she knew Kehinde was never going to approve of as worthy enough for her.

  With the shirt settled correctly on his torso, Tobias gave her a quick peck and left for his night shift.

  * * *

  The next few weeks were an intense rush to get the Bachmann campaign ready for its spring launch. It stole most of her waking hours—­from directing the design company to choosing a diverse mix of models representing different cultures to finding printers, preparing press releases, and planning launch events. They even got to reserve Stockholm’s glitziest billboard right in the heart of Stureplan, reserving it for Jonny’s own cover.

  Kemi buried herself in Bachmann while the other directors hovered around her like bumblebees, not quite landing to check in, but making sure they kept abreast of her flurry. Espen often lingered in her office longer than necessary, but she always shooed him away. If confident women attracted men like ants to sugar, then in hindsight she should have learned to siphon that work confidence into her love life years ago.

  Because right then, working on the Bachmann account with fervor and determination and exuding confidence, she was the most attractive woman at von Lundin Marketing.

  When Kemi’s campaign launched that May, it was to a global conversation on race, stereotypes, and stigmas. Swedish media could not get enough of one of their golden boys as the face of a worldwide discussion.

  While Kemi knew Jonny silently bore the weight of this publicity, he still eschewed all media interviews. Culture critics hopped on the dismantling of stereotypes. Some even cited cultural appropriation as Kemi had anticipated, but those arbiters had been quickly shut down by rebuttal articles citing their own biases in associating blinged-­out high-­tops with urbanites of color and hip-­hop socialites.

  But the love for Kemi’s vision trumped its few dissidents.

  “I mean…” one pundit had marveled on CNN Style, “that strategically placed plate of cinnamon buns was ingenious.”

  Tabloids jumped on Jonny reaching for a chocolate muffin as publicly owning his sexual preferences at last.

  When the media wanted to know who the brains behind the campaign had been, von Lundin Marketing had put out a blanket press release saying that it had been a team effort with too many players to list, much to Kemi’s disdain. She wanted the glory and the recognition. She felt she deserved it all.

  But Kemi quickly learned that putting the team first was the unspoken rule in Sweden. Teamwork and consensus ruled over individuality. After all, hadn’t other people been attending those Bachmann meetings too? Of course, she couldn’t hoard all the glory to herself. She had to share it equally across her team.

  So while they all celebrated and reveled internally, externally, Bachmann was relegated to a simple project update on her LinkedIn profile.

  After that grand showing, Bachmann renewed its contract with von Lundin Marketing for five more years, and at last, Kemi thought she was part of the team.

  BRITTANY-­RAE

  “Breathe in… Breathe out… whoosh…” Brittany’s yoga instructor was helping her stretch her limbs as they sat cross-­legged on mats. They were out on the patio that spring morning, listening to birds with the bay as their backdrop.

  Brittany was heavy, uncomfortable, and irritable. Baby Maya was due any day now. They’d finally found out they were having a girl.

  “I’m tired,” Brittany interrupted the instructor, whose eyes were closed.

  “That is absolutely fine,” the yogi started. “You have to listen to your body, learn its wavelengths, and…”

  “Yes, yes, yes, I’m tired,” Brittany cut in. “Can we skip the next class as well?”

  Once her yogi was packed and out the door, their Bulgarian housekeeper, Sylvia, burst onto the patio as if on cue with a spinach-­based shake she’d whipped up for Brittany. Brittany accepted the drink, thanking her. Sylvia waited next to her until she had downed the entire glass and handed the empty tumbler back to her.

  “Where is Jonny?” Brittany asked once Sylvia turned around to go. The older lady spun back around with a quizzical look on her face, as if questioning Brittany in return. How the hell would I know?

  “Maybe you should give him a call?” Sylvia offered instead. Brittany had already tried calling Jonny multiple times. Information she didn’t think their help needed to be privy to. Even Louise, who knew his every move, had been elusive about his whereabouts.

  “I’m sorry, Brittany,” Louise apologized. “He has turned his phone off. He does this once in a while when he doesn’t want to be disturbed.”

  “But what if I go into labor and can’t reach him?” Brittany was frustrated.

  “Oh, you don’t have to worry. You’re in good hands here in Sweden. We can always get you an ambulance right away.”

  Brittany hadn’t been comforted by those words.

  She rolled onto her side and then onto her feet, her stomach feeling heavier by the second. She stopped to collect her breath. Once on her feet, she waddled back into the main hall, her bare feet on polished wood echoing into the silence. Why would he turn his phone off when he knew she needed him now more than ever?

  That evening, after Sylvia had fed Brittany poached salmon and avocado salad, the housekeeper prepared to take her leave for the night. She helped Brittany tuck in amid mountains of goose-­feather pillows, propping her feet
and head.

  “I know it’s my weekly night off, but give me a call if you need anything, and I’ll take a taxi back here,” the woman offered.

  “Thank you, Sylvia.”

  “It is very safe, so you don’t have to worry.”

  Jonny had cocooned her out here, so safety was the least of her worries. For someone who worked with so many people and saw so many faces every single day as a flight attendant, isolation was far worse.

  By midnight, Jonny still hadn’t turned up, and Brittany was wide awake, binge-­watching episodes of Real Housewives of Atlanta, all alone in their mansion. Suddenly warm water began to pool around Brittany’s lower half, and she realized baby Maya was done marinating.

  Her greatest fear had come true.

  * * *

  “Stop making those sounds and answer me with actual words!” Brittany screamed right before another contraction seized her, and she writhed in agony.

  When her water broke, she had dialed 112 for an ambulance to the hospital. Jonny had materialized after the paramedics were able to track him down. Now he was confessing to her that he had spent the entire day barely a mile away at his sister’s, while Brittany lay in a sterile hospital bed hooked up to monitors.

  “I was alone all day, and you were practically next door with Antonia?”

  Jonny made that air-­gulping sound again, and Brittany screamed again.

  Fifteen hours later, Baby Maya made her arrival, screaming her lungs out in the delivery room. Jonny had been in there holding Brittany’s hand as tightly as she had squeezed his. He wiped sweat off her forehead and tears from her face. When the doctor tried handing Maya to her father, Jonny froze solid, fingers dancing by his sides, staring intensely at the brown baby he was being handed.

  The doctor and maternity ward staff in the room exchanged looks. Brittany couldn’t tell them why Jonny was refusing to take his baby, that this was what happened when he got overstimulated. He wasn’t frozen because he was surprised by the shade of his baby. He was overwhelmed, and his brain couldn’t catch up with what his heart was feeling.