One Secret Summer

by Lesley Lokko

  ‘How? How can I when I’m shut up in here all the time?’

  There was silence for a moment. Then her mother turned to her, taking her hands in hers. ‘Niela. There’s been an approach …’

  Niela stared at her, her heart tightening. ‘What d’you mean, ‘‘an approach’’?’ she asked fearfully, disengaging her hands.

  ‘It’s a distant relative. On your father’s side. He’s—’

  Niela jumped up from the couch. ‘No! No!’ Panic rose in her throat. She couldn’t believe her ears.

  ‘Niela—’

  ‘No!’ She backed away from her mother, almost knocking over the small side table that stood between her and the door to the corridor. ‘I won’t do it! I won’t!’

  ‘It’s only an approach, Niela. He’s a very respectable man. He lives in Germany and—’

  ‘You can’t make me!’ Niela almost screamed the words. The door to her brothers’ bedroom opened. Korfa and Raageh’s heads appeared. She swept past them, tears blinding her, and pushed open the door to her own room. She flung herself down on the bed, past caring what her father or anyone else thought. She couldn’t believe it was happening to her. They were arranging to marry her off! She – of all people! She who’d had dreams of going to university, taking up a profession, choosing her own husband if and when the time came. Now they were preparing to hand her over to a complete stranger – never mind the fact that he was a distant relative! What had it all been for? The exhortations to do well in school, to study hard, the trips to Europe and the future that she’d grown up thinking was hers? They’d never stopped her from doing anything back home – so why now? The questions went round and round in her head until she thought it would explode. She heard her parents arguing in the sitting room; heard the opening and closing of doors, the sound of her mother’s voice, pleading with her father. She heard her mother’s words, ‘there’s been an approach’, swelling and receding in her mind the way conscious thought expands and contracts in the last few moments before sleep – and then she slept, too exhausted to think or dream.

  PART TWO

  14

  NIELA

  Vienna, October 1992

  If she’d thought, even for a split second, that she could talk her way out of trouble, Niela was sadly mistaken. Overnight, she’d become a prisoner in her own home. She was forbidden to leave the house without someone accompanying her. With Korfa and Raageh at school and her mother in the kitchen, there was no possibility of escape. She lay in bed all day, too stunned to think.

  One morning, about a week after she’d been caught, Saira came into the room. She pulled back the curtains briskly and turned to Niela. ‘It’s time to get up,’ she said, lifting the counterpane from the bed. ‘We have some news for you. Hamid will be here on Saturday. It’s time to prepare yourself.’

  Niela stared at her. Her mouth had run dry. ‘P … prepare myself ? Uma … I can’t do this. I can’t. Don’t make me, please. I beg you.’

  ‘Niela, stop being so dramatic.’ Saira regarded her calmly. ‘And stop thinking only of yourself.’

  ‘Why are you doing this to me?’ Niela began to cry.

  Saira clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth as she always did when irritated. ‘What are you talking about? You have done this to yourself. No one is doing anything to you. It’s for the best, Niela. Everything will turn out for the best.’

  ‘No … it won’t. I don’t want to be married, Uma. Why is Abba doing this to me? Why do you let him?’ she sobbed.

  Saira regarded Niela for a moment or two, then sighed. She sat down heavily on the edge of Niela’s bed. She reached across and patted Niela’s hand awkwardly. ‘He’s afraid.’

  ‘Afraid? Afraid of what?’

  ‘Of the future. Of what’s going to happen to you. To us.’

  ‘Uma … this isn’t going to be for ever.’ Niela lifted her tear-stained cheek to look around the room. ‘We won’t always be here.’

  ‘Oh, Niela. You’re so young. You’re naïve. What’s going to change? We’re exiles now. We can’t go back. This is it.’

  Niela stared at her. ‘No. No, it’s not,’ she said stubbornly. ‘Things will change.’

  ‘Your father is nearly sixty, Niela. He cannot change. He cannot adapt, not like you children. His life is over. Yours is just beginning.’ Her mother looked at her almost fondly. ‘Do you really think your father would marry you off to someone unsuitable? Someone who wouldn’t care for you? He will make the right choice for you. For us. Trust us. Everything will turn out just fine. You’ll see.’ Saira got up slowly. ‘Now, dry your eyes and wash your face. I want you to get up. Your future husband is coming this weekend. There are things you need to do. Get dressed. We’re going into town.’

  There were things about her mother that still had the power to shock Niela into silence. She followed Saira in mute astonishment as she led her through the maze of trams and buses that took them to Meidling, a district of Vienna that Niela had never seen or heard of – until now. How had Saira found it? This was a different city to the one she’d come to know. Here there were no coffee shops or smart, expensive boutiques. The buildings had none of the opulent glamour of the 1st Bezirk where Ayanna lived, or even the modern apartment blocks of Simmering. Here the buildings were run-down and industrial-looking, the streets were narrow and crowded, made even more so by the makeshift kiosks and market stalls that lined the roads. Nigerians, Ghanaians, Turks, North Africans … and Somalis, too. Her mother moved from one shop to another with ease, stopping to chat with someone at this stall, tasting fruit at that one, exchanging a bit of gossip with a woman in a headscarf who smiled fondly at Niela. ‘Don’t you recognise her?’ Saira asked, prodding Niela in the ribs. ‘From home. Mrs Qureisha. No, you don’t remember her?’ Niela shook her head, bewildered. How had her mother found out about Meidling, and why hadn’t she said? Saira chatted excitedly to the women who owned a fabric shop halfway down the street. Yes, she was about to be married, Saira said, looking proudly at her only daughter. The women smiled at her, equally proud. ‘He lives in Munich,’ Saira said, pronouncing the word with some difficulty. ‘A good man. A relative on my husband’s side.’ They nodded knowingly. Yes, a good match. So difficult these days. The young girls … their heads get filled … They looked from one to the other. What can we do? So far from home. You can’t control what they get up to. Saira’s grip on Niela’s arm confirmed that her own daughter would do no such thing. Niela listened to them, her head swimming with fear.

  The flat was cleaned, swept, polished and cleaned again. For two days, Niela and Saira did nothing but dust and wipe, making sure that every surface was spotless, every square inch gleaming. Niela threw herself into the task as a way of distracting herself from what was about to come. She watched herself going through the motions of getting up, getting dressed, getting on with the day as if she were watching someone else. Saira’s food preparations began – sacks of rice appeared in the kitchen, along with bags of onions and cartons of chopped tomatoes. Hassan came home on the Thursday before Hamid’s arrival with bloodstained packets of meat that he’d crossed town to the best halal butcher to get. Korfa was recruited to help him cut it up; Niela walked past, a lump the size of an orange in her throat, making it impossible to speak. One of Saira’s friends from Meidling arrived on the Friday … from the tiny kitchen came the smells and sounds of home. Uncle Raageh appeared that night for supper. He was unable to look Niela in the eye. Hamid would be staying with him, as was the custom. Niela ate supper that night alone with Saira and Mrs Qureisha, listening to the sound of the whisky bottle being opened and closed as Hassan and Raageh celebrated the upcoming match. She went to bed with tears in her throat. Saira’s awkward attempts to placate her had failed. She lay in bed that night, unable to sleep or think of anything other than the fact that her life, as she knew it, was over.

  15

  Hamid Osman and his sister Fathia were ushered deferentially into the living room. Niela was sea
ted alone in the dining room, separated from her parents and the two visitors by the bookcase that divided the small room. She caught the briefest glimpse of a short, rotund figure dressed in white as they passed. Korfa and Raageh were in their room – after the introductions had been made and the business of marriage had been concluded, they would be called to come forward and eat. She could hear the sister’s high, nasal voice. Her heart sank. She’d overhead her mother telling Mrs Qureisha that at least Niela wouldn’t be alone for the first few years of her marriage. Fathia Osman had recently joined her brother in Munich, al-Hamdulillah, thanks be to God. Much better for Niela to have company, someone to talk to. After all, Hamid was a busy man, al-Hamdulillah. Well off. His own businesses. Niela would lack for nothing. She’d listened to the two of them in the same state of stunned silence. Munich. Germany. A husband. A sister-in-law. The facts paraded themselves one after the other.

  She looked down at the material of her dress. It was black with gold embroidery. Saira and Mrs Qureisha had chosen the fabric. Niela hated it. She sat with her hands folded in her lap, her heart beating wildly in her chest, wishing she were anywhere but in the dining room of the small flat in Simmering, waiting to meet a man she’d never set eyes on who would take her somewhere to begin another life. She felt the nausea of fear in her stomach every time she thought about what it would actually mean. A husband. A wedding night. Her stomach twisted itself into knots. Her mother had made light of her objections. What’s to fear? He’s a good man, Niela. He will look after you. We know the family. It’s all for the best. What hope did she have of persuading them otherwise? What objections could she possibly make?

  ‘Niela?’ Her father’s voice penetrated the veil of fear. She looked up. He was standing in the opening beside the bookcase. ‘Come. Hamid is ready to receive you.’

  She stood up. There was a faint ringing in her ears as she followed her father through to the living room. She saw Fathia first. A round face, head covered with a lacy white scarf; small, dark eyes that darted from right to left as she scrutinised Niela up and down; small mouth, pursed lips indicating pinched displeasure – Niela took in the details automatically. She let her gaze slide off the woman and brought it to rest on Hamid. He was short – shorter than Niela. And fat. His skin was dark and gleaming, bursting with good health. A beard. Flecks of grey amongst the tight black curls. Niela’s whole body shrank from him. He was smiling at her and nodding his head. She dropped her eyes and looked at the ground. Her father was speaking; there was a corresponding laugh from someone. Saira murmured something to Fathia – yes, all was as it should be. Their daughter was pleasing to him. Negotiations had been successful; Hamid had delivered his side of the bargain. They began to discuss the wedding. All was well. No one asked Niela anything. She stared at the ground. Her eyes were smarting but she stubbornly refused to lift them. She couldn’t bear the thought of anyone seeing her tears.

  The aroos – the wedding – was planned for the following week. There was no time to waste. Hamid had a string of important business meetings to attend; better to get everything over and done with as quickly as possible. Niela would return to Munich with them as soon as the two-day celebrations were over. Hassan brought out a bottle of whisky and carefully poured himself, Raageh and Hamid a glass, as was the custom for men. Saira and Fathia sipped at the sickly sweet lemonade Saira had prepared that afternoon. Niela remained silent throughout, willing the whole thing to be over, longing to escape to her room.

  Finally, just when she thought she couldn’t stand it a second longer, Hamid stood up. He was tired; it had been a long day. He thanked Hassan and Saira for their daughter’s hand and their hospitality. The speech had the formal, rather stilted qualities of a successful business transaction. After it was over, Hamid and Fathia left with Uncle Raageh, and Niela and Saira were left alone. ‘Come,’ Saira said to her when the menfolk had disappeared downstairs. ‘I want to show you something.’ Niela followed her mother into her bedroom. There was a suitcase on the bed. Saira opened it, revealing yards and yards of the sheerest, finest silk in a dazzling array of colours and patterns. Niela remained mute. ‘It’s for you,’ Saira said, holding up a piece of pale lilac silk. ‘For your guntiino. It’s the custom, you know. Three changes of outfit. Mrs Qureisha will sew them for you. Niela, will you stop looking so glum,’ she admonished sharply. ‘This has cost Hamid a fortune, you know. Try to show a little gratitude.’

  ‘Did I ask for anything?’ Niela muttered stubbornly.

  ‘That’s not the point. You’re engaged now. Stop acting like a spoilt child. You’re behaving like your cousin.’

  ‘Why don’t you marry her off to that fat old man?’ Niela asked bitterly. ‘If you’re so keen to have a wedding.’

  ‘Niela!’ Saira’s exasperation boiled over. She snatched back the silk, stuffed it in the suitcase and snapped it shut. ‘I’ve just about had enough. Go to your room.’

  Niela turned without a word and left the room. She ignored Korfa and Raageh’s worried glances and walked straight down the corridor to her room. She shut the door firmly behind her and leaned against it, breathing heavily. In a week’s time, her life would be over. The wedding was scheduled to begin on Friday afternoon. Hassan had organised the rental of a community hall in Meidling where the nikkah would be performed in front of practically the whole Viennese Somali community. A day and a night of feasting and celebration, followed by an elaborate luncheon the next day for family and close friends. Hamid had reserved a hotel room for the wedding night, and early on Sunday morning, after saying goodbye to her family, she would set off for Munich and her new life as his wife. She pulled the coverlet up over her face to try and blot out her thoughts.

  16

  The day of her wedding dawned early. Niela woke with the first shaft of light. She’d forgotten to draw the curtains the night before, and every now and then, a ray of sunlight emerged from behind the low grey clouds and came to rest on the carpet. There was a small, escaped feather lying on the bedspread. It stirred and flattened gently as her breath rose and fell. She lay still, trying not to think about what would happen next. She could hear the sound of her mother moving about in the kitchen, pots being clattered around, the fridge door opening and closing. In an hour or so, Saira’s friends would start arriving, Uncle Raageh would bring his car round to the front and the business of loading it up with food and drink would begin. The day she’d been dreading all week was finally here.

  There wouldn’t be much she would remember. She didn’t know when she’d first stumbled upon the trick of seeing herself from a distance, watching herself go through the motions of some fearful activity or another. Perhaps it had started with the war. She could clearly recall walking down the road to the house one day and hearing the by now familiar ‘crack’ of a rocket exploding somewhere close by, followed by the high-pitched whine of an engine and people’s screams. She’d stopped, the hair at the back of her neck rising in awareness of the potential danger she was in. It took only a few seconds – suddenly she was no longer there, in her own body, sweat seeping from her pores. She was somewhere else, watching herself in a long, slow series of moving images, walking calmly to the side of the road. She hid behind a row of black plastic dustbins and waited for the engine sound to draw near. Gunshots rang out; there were more screams. Niela crouched behind the dustbins but she wasn’t really there. She could hear the jeep approaching – people shouting, crying, begging. It passed right in front of her, men with guns swinging wildly from its sides, shouting, gesticulating and firing into the air. She’d waited there for almost an hour, her legs aching with cramp, until she slowly came back down to earth. The film stopped; she returned to herself. She walked on. At home, Saira was hysterical with fear. She was not to go out alone again. Ever.

  As she allowed the women to dress her in the pale lilac dirac that Saira had shown her, the same sensation of leaving her own body returned to her. She watched the proceedings almost dreamily, her mind anywhere but there. Sh
e saw faces turned towards her in delight, heard the ululating cries of the women and the hearty, suggestive laughter of the men. Hamid gave a speech; the imam recited verses from the Quran. There were tears from some of the women, but not from her. She repeated her vows in a flat, obedient voice, devoid of emotion. She wasn’t really there. Hamid’s grip on her arm was proprietorial. She stared at the thick fingers with their smattering of hair and his pink, buffed and polished fingernails. Sweetmeats and the soft, floury delicacies that her mother and Mrs Qureisha had been preparing all week were pushed into her mouth. She sat in the high-backed chair with the lacy veil covering her face as cameras went off, one after the other. A good match. Yes, a very good match. Pity about the bride, though. Why doesn’t she smile more? Silly girl, anyone’d think she was going to a funeral. She heard the muttered comments as if they were directed at someone else. She was not the one being addressed.

  Her parents were amongst the last to leave. The wedding party broke up in fits and starts; people left, were called back to have one last drink, one last chat. They came and went and came back again. Niela’s gaze drifted every now and then to the large clock at one end of the hall: 9.56; 10.07; 11.13. It was past midnight when the swing doors finally banged shut and she was alone with Hamid. His car was waiting outside, he told her, helping himself to the last of the whisky bottles that remained. The women had cleared the tables and the younger men had stacked away the chairs. There was almost nothing left of the party that had taken up the better part of the day – brightly coloured streamers, a collapsed balloon, an empty Coke bottle or two. She got up stiffly and picked up the bag containing her overnight things. The folds of her long ivory dirac swirled about her legs as she made her way across the empty hall to the exit. It was her third change of clothing that day but she couldn’t even recall the colour of the previous two.