In Every Mirror She's Black

by Lolá Ákínmádé Åkerström

  Kemi furrowed her brows. She wasn’t trying to change him. She wasn’t sure she could even if she tried.

  “Of course not.” Kemi closed her eyes and shook her head. “I was just wondering.”

  “Okay, I’ll go make us pancakes then.”

  He marked his exit with a kiss, and those lips that had once warmed her core felt heavier.

  * * *

  “You shouldn’t have come here.”

  That unsolicited advice was offered up by Godwin, half of a Nigerian pair of Igbo men she had randomly struck up a conversation with at Slussen while waiting for her bus home to Nacka. The younger was Benjamin. When she’d slid up next to both men at the bus stop, Godwin had turned to her with taut, dark skin that belied his true age. She knew he was much older. Salt-­and-­pepper stubble along with slight wrinkles in his face suggested he was in his early sixties. She hadn’t spoken with her own father in weeks. Maybe that was why she struck up a conversation with him. Godwin’s eloquence made her miss her family more.

  Kemi was on her way home from another useless day at work. Besides the Bachmann project, she twiddled her thumbs daily. Autumn was back again, and Kemi’s second winter in Sweden was on its way. Her work attire had drawn the men’s admiration in a nonsexual way.

  “Our sister,” Godwin had greeted her. “You’re doing big things here o!” Benjamin, about half Godwin’s age, nodded in agreement.

  “Thank you o! I’m trying.” She smiled.

  “What do you do?” Godwin interrogated like a nosy uncle.

  “I’m a director at the biggest marketing firm in town,” she said. In other circles, she would have been branded a braggart. Among their trio, it was a perfectly subdued response.

  “Chai!!” Benjamin punched his right hand into the air in pride over her. “Big madam!” She laughed at his theatrics and basked in its familiarity.

  “But the most important question we’re missing…” Godwin stuck an index finger in the air instead. “Is there a clear path to becoming CEO of that company?” Kemi giggled at his musing.

  “Ha, I am serious o,” he answered her chuckles, both palms opened toward her. “How long have you been here?”

  “Almost a year and a half. I used to live in the U.S.”

  “Ha? America!” Benjamin pumped his fist again in salute.

  “And in all that time you have been here, have you seen anybody like Oprah?” Godwin wasn’t really asking her a question, but she thought about his statement anyway. She really hadn’t. Besides a rotation of Black entertainers hopping from sing-­along music shows to dance shows on TV, she hadn’t seen any Black woman with the level of authority and power Oprah wielded in America. Godwin was pointing out her dead end in Sweden.

  “You shouldn’t have come here,” Godwin concluded. “At least in America, you’re fighting your enemy in broad daylight.” The grin that had been resting on Kemi’s face throughout their conversation began to lose its gleeful curve.

  “Is your family still there?” he asked. Kemi nodded. She told him she had a twin, to which he bellowed “Ibeji!” Twins! Godwin’s wife and four kids were living in Italy at the moment, he told her. Sweden was the quickest way for him to earn higher pay for the same nursing aide job Italy would have paid him a fraction to do, despite the fact that he’d been a practicing public health doctor for decades in Nigeria. Insulting compensation had forced him to seek better opportunities abroad.

  “How often do you speak to your family?” she asked Godwin.

  “Every day,” Godwin responded with a tone that questioned her judgment for asking him such an obvious question. “I’m actually considering moving my wife and children to England for better opportunities.” Kemi felt ashamed for letting weeks pass between her own calls back to her family.

  “Maybe living in England would be better for them in the long run?”

  “They will see people who look like them in prominent positions,” Godwin added just as their bus rolled up. “So, my sister, become their CEO, or go back to America.”

  Godwin’s words lingered like a bee sting after they boarded their bus. They waved goodbye before shuffling toward the back of the bus, while Kemi parked herself closer to the driver.

  Had she really moved here to flatline professionally? Was Sweden giving her Tobias in exchange for her career?

  Part Four

  Eighteen

  KẸMI

  Kemi felt a charge the minute she walked into the office that Monday morning. Something hung in the air. Heavy, mysterious, heady.

  Through Jonny’s glass office, she saw a dark-­haired white man sitting with his back to the door. Jonny was standing, explaining something passionately, without flailing his arms. He caught sight of her and waved her over. She hurried to her desk to drop off her bag and swap her sneakers for heels.

  Since she’d moved to her own apartment in Nacka, which was southeast of town, she’d started taking the bus to Slussen then walking across the bridge toward work. She still hadn’t bought a car because walking was how she got her daily exercise in to counteract those cinnamon buns that had crawled their way back into her life through Tobias. Especially since he knew how to bake them like a damn pro.

  She smoothed her dress before walking up to his cubicle door.

  “Ha, Kemi!” Jonny called out as she peeked in. “Come meet Ragnar.”

  At close range, the color of Ragnar’s hair morphed into 70 percent dark, Colombian chocolate she wanted to reach for. He turned toward her, getting up in tandem. His rise slowed down as he got to his feet. Dark ocean blues, a cross between sapphire and ultramarine, pinned her in place. Then they sucked her in with the gale-­force intensity of a raging sea. Churning because something had thrown them off-­kilter.

  They stared at each other in silence.

  “Kemi, meet my best friend, Ragnar Pettersen. Ragnar will be helping us with the Bachmann account.” Her mouth went dry, and no elegant words formed beyond a weak “hej.” Ragnar remained silent. “And Ragnar, Kemi is director of global diversity. You’ll be working together.”

  Ragnar coughed in the back of his throat before stretching out his hand to her.

  “Nice to meet you, Kemi,” he croaked out in a distinct lilt that told her he was born, raised, and schooled here in Sweden.

  She took his large hand and found it warm, comfortable, and a little sweaty.

  “Likewise.” She found her voice, powered by the heat he shared through their handshake.

  There was nothing particularly special about Ragnar Pettersen. One could say Ragnar was rather ordinary while her Tobias turned heads. Her love for Tobias was a simmer that had grown over time.

  Ragnar had just incinerated her with one look.

  “Ragnar officially starts next week, but we’re going over some paperwork. Maybe you can join us for lunch?”

  She saw Ragnar stiffen, his jaw clenched.

  “I wish I could.” She prepared an excuse. “But I already have lunch plans.” His hands relaxed out of their fists.

  “Welcome to von Lundin,” she added before turning to go under his wordless glare.

  * * *

  Her brain was useless, and she couldn’t work. She tried answering emails, typing up some copy, but nothing gelled. Ragnar was still in the building, and she couldn’t think straight.

  Who on earth was he, and how were they going to work together?

  She had seen his reaction. Surprise mixed with confusion and then a shedding of face that made him vulnerable. She had seen his pupils dilate after he turned to face her. In the few seconds they had studied each other, she had outlined his square face framed by an angular jaw. Dark-­brown hair fell around his neck and was pushed off his face, revealing a wide forehead. A clean-­cut, dark-­gray shirt was tucked into his lighter-­gray pants. His shirt was unbuttoned just enough to reveal his toned chest.

>   And muscle. Lots of solid muscle. The build of a jock compared to Jonny’s lean runner’s frame or Tobias’s broad-­shouldered swimmer’s build. She wanted—­no, needed—­to know everything about Ragnar.

  She pushed out of her chair and grabbed her bag, shoving items into it: advertising copy she was reviewing, her laptop, water bottle. She saw Ragnar leave Jonny’s office after exchanging a few words. Then he seemed to be scanning, looking around him for something until glancing in her direction. She averted him, burying herself back into her task of fleeing. She had to leave the office immediately. Away from this potent energy, maybe she could continue working from home.

  She felt his presence hovering by her desk and looked up from her bag. They drank each other in for what felt like everlasting time until he broke it.

  “Jonny speaks so highly of you,” Ragnar started. “You helped him win Bachmann.”

  “Indeed. Now you have a job,” she joked. He smirked, eyes trained on her, before his lips returned to their straight line.

  “Well, I’ll definitely be bringing some changes to the creative direction.”

  “Changes?” That got her attention.

  “Yes. We can’t rely on American-­style gimmicks for every campaign.”

  “American-­style gimmicks?” She was stunned. Who the hell was this guy?

  “You know, something fresh, modern, more subtle, more Nordic,” Ragnar continued. His statement was met with a laugh from Kemi.

  “You’re joking. You’ve got to be,” she reeled him down. “Look, Ragnar. This is my account to manage. Jonny casually mentioned we will be working together. He hasn’t outlined responsibilities—­”

  “How’s your Swedish?” He cut into her statement. She wrinkled her brows.

  “It’s coming along… What has that got to do with anything? Bachmann is a German company.”

  “Jonny feels you need more reinforcement in that area when it comes to negotiating and working with local companies to support the account,” Ragnar said directly. “That’s why I’m here.”

  “That hasn’t stopped me so far. Everyone in town speaks English.” Kemi felt her voice getting louder. Enough to turn three other heads in nearby corners. She checked herself, adding quietly, “I’ll be scheduling a meeting soon to discuss this. Once you start next week.” She lifted her bag onto her shoulder, not bothering to change back into her sneakers.

  He stretched out a hand to her. She felt it instinctively. He wanted to touch her, not shake her hand. She held on firmly to her oversize bag with both hands.

  “Nice meeting you, Ragnar. I’m sure we’ll work well together since we have no problem speaking our minds.” She smiled at him, dimples surfacing, and caught his nostrils flaring. Kemi bid him farewell before taking a large curve around him to leave, making sure not an inch of her surface area touched him.

  She stormed over to Östermalmstorg station and cursed out loud when she found out the train was delayed again. If the world knew just how often the trains were delayed here, they wouldn’t put Sweden on such an efficiency pedestal, she fumed. An announcement in Swedish came over the intercom that an accident had occurred on one of the blue line tracks heading into town from Akalla. She had now lived in Sweden long enough to know that an “accident” meant someone had jumped in front of a train.

  She wasn’t going to walk all the way back to Slussen in heels, so she waited twenty minutes until a train came chugging by, people packed in like sardines. The accident had spurred subsequent delays. This was now affecting the other train lines, including the red line she was currently waiting for. By the time the third train had arrived, she could barely squeeze onto it, and her irritation level had reached its peak.

  As the train hurtled south, Kemi gawked at a poster. She couldn’t look away. An interracial couple kissing, lips locked. A white man kissing a Black woman with locs. The positioning of their mouths hanging open was paused provocatively, drawing one’s eyes every few seconds. Underneath their photo were words promoting some family planning institute: “Älskling, jag vill ha barn.” Darling, I want to have a child.

  Fiery emotions coursed through Kemi—seeds of doubt that were now sprouting little leaves; a primal reaction to Ragnar, which had shocked her; provocation she felt from the couple in the train advertisement, who seemed to be mocking her.

  When Tobias swung by for his usual dinner before heading off to work, she pinned him to the wall, kissing him aggressively, sucking up his breath, not giving him time to react.

  They never made it past the lacquered wooden floor by her front door.

  BRITTANY-­RAE

  Nearing her first two years in Sweden, Brittany von Lundin had now organically wrapped herself in luxury. A cloak so steeped in privilege that she flew in special hairdressers from London to properly fix her hair—­her crown—­as she sat like a queen in Jonny’s kingdom.

  Albeit, a bored queen.

  She went looking for Jonny and found father and child playing on a plush faux fur rug in the middle of Maya’s room, which had been decked out in a pastel pink and turquoise unicorn theme. When Maya saw her mother, she scrambled onto chubby, unsteady feet and wobbled toward her, shouting, “Mamma! Mamma!”

  Brittany scooped Maya up into her arms, planting kisses on her cheeks with emphasized muahs. Strolling in behind Brittany was the British au pair that his assistant Eva had sourced for them over a year ago. Brittany handed the baby off to her au pair as Jonny got to his feet.

  She turned her gaze back to her husband.

  “Have you got a few minutes?” He simply stared at her, so she turned to go, and he quietly followed her out. They walked to his study, a sparse, functionally decorated room with a large, sturdy desk, an ergonomically fitted swiveling chair, a bookcase with over a hundred books he had arranged by color, and a chaise longue in his favorite color—­gray.

  The only personal touches were photos of his girls: Brittany and Maya. Their wedding day at Stadshuset. A black-­and-­white one taken in bed, selfie-­style. One family photo with all three of them. Two additional photos of Maya: one where she was dressed up in a yellow dress and another taken when she was still crawling. A few casual shots of Brittany around his hobbit cottage or out in the archipelago. Brittany on his family’s yacht. Brittany on his speedboat. Brittany laughing. Brittany eating. Brittany… Brittany… Brittany…

  “I’ve been thinking,” Brittany started once she closed the door behind them. She walked over to his desk, sitting on the edge. “I’ve been at home for a while now. And I’m bored, Jonny—I want to work again. I want to do something I love.”

  “Besides me?” he said. She smiled at his attempt at humor. He returned her grin childishly.

  “Seriously, I want to work.” Her life had been filled with pampering and jet-­setting, her every whim and desire fulfilled. Maybe it was time to finally pursue her lifelong dream now that she had boundless resources.

  “You know I’ve always wanted to be a fashion designer,” she said. “But I’m turning forty soon. It feels late to start pursuing that right now. I mean, I don’t even know where to start. I studied fashion in school. Maybe I could go back to school. Maybe take a course. Intern with a fashion house here in Stockholm,” she babbled, her hands gesturing wildly.

  Jonny walked up to her sitting on his desk and planted himself in front of her.

  “Is that what you want?”

  She looked up at him as he peered down at her. This was a position she was now struggling with. Symbolically always looking up to him as he looked down at her. She hated it. The thought launched her off his desk as if it were a hot stove but right into his arms instead.

  “Is that what you want?” he asked again. She hadn’t answered him.

  “Yes, I want—­” His tongue swept into her mouth, cutting her off before she finished her sentence. His lips moved over hers, prying them apart for his inva
sion. He kissed her exactly the way she liked. Ran fingertips along her skin at just the right pace, teasing goose bumps to the surface. He knew when to deepen his kiss to possess her. When to pull back out, leaving her begging with those brown eyes. He reached for the cashmere sweater she was wearing and slid it off a shoulder before sinking his mouth and grazing his teeth along her exposed skin.

  “Jonny—­” She tried pulling him back to their conversation, but he covered her mouth once more with his, silencing her.

  Brittany was realizing Jonny didn’t like her thinking too much. She made him nervous whenever she came asking questions he couldn’t answer or wasn’t ready to. He often responded with silence. She had unwittingly given him ammunition throughout their relationship, prodding him along to learn every inch of her. How to bend her to his will because he had memorized her body and knew all her weak spots and points of touch.

  His imperfections were a superpower he wielded over her.

  When she called his name again, his grip tightened around her, crushing her into his chest. He waddled over to the chaise longue, carrying her along, her arms wrapped around his neck. They made love in haste, fully clothed. Five minutes later, Jonny got to his feet, zipped up, and turned to Brittany, who was still on her back.

  “I’ll give Svea a call about your fashion thing.”

  Then he spun around and left her lying there.

  MUNA

  Muna was back to where she started.

  Sitting in her empty apartment, which now felt like an echo chamber with the other two girls gone. Khadiija’s and Yasmiin’s rooms had been permanently closed. Muna had to vacate it within the week.

  Those months had tortured Muna. Yasmiin’s and Khadiija’s rooms had been rotated among new temporary roommates—­an Eritrean couple, a Syrian family of four, another Somali woman for a couple of months—­before emptying out again for the last few weeks.

  Befriending them would have exhausted her. Muna knew they would leave anyway. She hadn’t bothered, and her room remained her dwelling place.