The JRB presents new short fiction by Shayera Dark.
Bitter Sweet Symphony
Late 1980s/early 1990s
The knots in his stomach tightened again. Ehimen wished he were invisible so teachers would stop asking him to read or answer questions, sparing him from the derision of his classmates, who seized every opportunity to mock his American accent, his responses, or both. It was why he dithered before answering ‘papaya’.
As expected, the class exploded with laughter, and though he’d anticipated their reaction, Ms Ajala’s expression confounded him. Ehimen sensed she might not have heard him correctly and repeated himself. Again, his classmates roared, sending a heatwave of embarrassment that turned his face an ixora red. Later, he would learn the Nigerian word for the fruit is paw-paw, but until then, he sat in mortified silence, praying the floor would open and swallow him up. He hated his new school.
The teacher rapped her cane on a desk, threatening to discipline the entire class if they didn’t quiet down.
‘Can you describe what it looks like?’ asked Ms Ajala, her large, brown eyes considering him with interest.
His stomach heaved at the focused attention on him, at the dread of inciting another episode of ridicule, one that usually spilt into break time and ran into the following day. Casting his gaze to the floor, Ehimen slowly shook his head. But Ms Ajala, unrelenting in her quest for an answer, persisted.
‘You can’t describe the fruit?’ There was a note of puzzled disappointment in her voice.
Again, Ehimen shook his head, prompting a scattered round of sniggering that dissipated when Ms Ajala called on his seatmate to name a food rich in vitamin C.
‘Mango,’ she answered smugly.
Why hadn’t he said that, Ehimen thought, silently berating himself. Not that it would have made a difference. Every word out of his mouth, even the way he pronounced his name, attracted jibes and laughter like vultures to a carcass.
Later that day, the Backbencher Boys cornered him in the toilet as he was washing his hands. The clique who sat at the back of the classroom. Their imposing heights struck such a menacing image in the minds of fellow pupils that no one dared pick fights with them.
The ringleader, a sturdy boy with dimples, let out a snigger, triggering a marathon of name-calling that Ehimen could recite in his sleep like the Nicene Creed: Yellow garri, Marmalade, Miranda boy, Fanta, Yellow papaya, the last one a new addition to the roll-call of abuses. The boys cracked up at their own jokes, save for one. He was watching the scene in silence. His subdued presence intrigued Ehimen, because just last week he’d led the taunts.
‘Papaya, papaya,’ they hooted in crude American accents.
‘Why don’t you say your name again?’ jeered one of the boys amid a torrent of laughter.
All the while, Ehimen kept his head down, trying mightily to avoid the boys’ reflections in the mirror. The last time their eyes connected, they took it as a cue to manhandle him. He’d fought back, but was outnumbered eight to one, and knew repeating the daredevilry would definitely land him in the headmistress’s office again, with another ripped shirt. So he stilled himself like a cockroach, playing dead, waiting for the ridicule to wane, certain the sea of idiocy would ebb if he pretended their harsh words were nothing more than a light wind wafting over the boughs of a mahogany tree.
But then a voice tore through the melee, abruptly silencing everyone. Ehimen couldn’t resist his curiosity. His gaze crept up to the mirror in search of the source. It was the boy who’d been quietly observing the fracas.
‘We’re not pleasing God,’ he said, his voice strong and uncertain at once.
Stunned by the revolt from one of their own, the Backbencher Boys stood mute and unmoving, until the ringleader, determined to save face, walked over and stood nose to nose with the rebel. The boy stared right back with a glare, daring him to do his worst. For a beat neither boy stirred, each waiting for the other to back down. A wry, mysterious grin broke through the ringleader’s lips, then, without a word, he strolled out of the toilet. The rest of the gang followed, slinking out one after another.
Years later, Ehimen would liken the scene to the craven retreat of the Pharisees from their plot to stone the adulterous woman, joking that in his case he had been without sin. The boy, meanwhile, would confess to Ehimen that he had been motivated by the homily on the Good Samaritan from that week’s Sunday mass. The priest had exhorted his congregants to ask themselves how Jesus would react in a given situation, and should imitate him if they were to please God.
Alone finally, the tall boy said, ‘Do you want to play table tennis with me?’ He was smiling a genial smile.
Ehimen considered him for a beat, mulling the boy’s sudden transition from foe to friend, wondering whether his offer was genuine. Something about his demeanour made him think so. Besides, he was tired of spending his break sitting alone in class, so he nodded.
*
In the months following their relocation from America, Ehimen’s mother shuttled him and his four elder sisters from one Catholic church to another every Sunday in pursuit of a priest who could minister to her soul ‘like Father Paisley’. It was on one of these weekly expeditions that Ehimen ran into his new friend, Husseini, and without question knew where he belonged. Back in the car, he begged his mother to make Holy Rosary Catholic Church their place of worship, managing to amuse her and annoy his sisters with his sudden interest in religion. She gave a noncommittal response, but his unwavering persistence, the most he’d demonstrated about anything since their return to Nigeria, had won her over before they got home.
Meanwhile, at school, Husseini began spending most of his break time with Ehimen and other boys unaffiliated with the Backbenchers, who had iced him out following the bathroom confrontation. He convinced Ehimen’s parents to enrol him in his karate class and taught him how to play the saxophone. To Ehimen, Husseini’s extroverted energy and self-assurance was a perfect counterbalance to his quiet, introspective demeanour, his flaring optimism ever ready to illuminate the brooding, shadowy landscape of his own mind. He was his guide to a world new and unfamiliar, a compass pointing him towards activities he would not have pursued alone, like the drama troupes at their church and school. On stage, as an actor, Ehimen not only lost his inhibition in service to his characters but also cast off the albatross that was his American accent, first to satisfy the requirements of the characters he embodied, then eventually to the winds of attrition.
No one specific event marked the boys’ transition from playmates to soul brothers, but once, in music class, to spare Husseini from the teacher’s punishment, Ehimen slyly passed his recorder from the front row to the back. The teacher, who was going from row to row flogging pupils who had forgotten their instruments, only discovered the ruse when Husseini tried to borrow his seatmate’s recorder when she asked him to play a tune. They all got ten lashes each, but not before suffering the indignity of kneeling in front of class for the rest of the lesson. In the aftermath, their accomplices vowed never to help them again, but the two boys had made an unspoken pact.
Except in karate class, they rarely competed with each other in or outside the classroom, not even during sports, so much so that the PE teacher, certain their constant companionship was hindering their ability to form distinct personalities, began putting them in opposing teams.
‘Are you girls?’ he said, half joking, ‘You two are always together.’
Their classmates, who had taken to calling them Tom and Jerry and later Barbie and Ken, broke out in laughter. But, like bees drawn to a fragrant flower, the boys always gravitated to each other. On days Ehimen’s mother was late to pick him up from school or karate, she knew to find him at Husseini’s house, where they entertained themselves drawing comic strips, each casting the other as the hero to their sidekick in never-ending battles against pesky parents, annoying siblings and overbearing teachers.
Once, when Ehimen was struggling to remember the nine planets of the solar system, Husseini proudly declared, ‘I know how. It’s very easy.’ Unlike some deviously competitive pupils, he never played dumb or deliberately provided a false answer in order to maintain an edge over his friend. They were snacking at Hussein’s desk, and he chewed his morsel of chicken pie rather quickly, eager to demonstrate. Then he swallowed. ‘My Very Eyes May Just See Under Nine Planets, which stands for Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune, Pluto.’ His mum had taught him the mnemonic the previous night.
Ehimen repeated the memory hack, grinning when he finally nailed it.
‘Don’t tell anybody else o,’ warned Husseini, and Ehimen promised to keep it to himself.
In the chocolate box of their friendship, they found comforting joy in fitting into the mould of figures the other one sought and needed. For Ehimen, Husseini filled the void of the brother he didn’t have. For Husseini, Ehimen was the confessional in which he shed the cassock of exemplary behaviour he modelled for his two younger brothers and let himself be, like the time he sobbed on Ehimen’s shoulder after missing a tie-breaking penalty kick, costing their team its three-year winning streak in the interclass competition. The boys’ bond further tightened when their mothers’ casual interactions blossomed into an independent friendship of their own. But it was during one of these mother-and-son visits, during the boys’ first mid-term break from secondary school, that disaster struck.
The women were chatting in the parlour while the boys played in Husseini’s vast garden, competing to see who could dangle the highest and longest from the mango tree. Husseini, the more experienced and better climber, managed to get to the topmost one, where he decided on a whim to hang upside down and show off his prowess. With his grip secured, he swung his legs upwards to clasp the muscular branch, but missed it by an inch. He tried again and succeeded in hooking one leg.
‘Are you sure you can make it?’ yelled Ehimen, worried.
Husseini ignored him, his mind dead set on getting his other leg around the branch. He was on the verge of another attempt when his gaze met his worst fear, a long, vivid green string, brimming with life and danger.
‘Ehimen, there’s a snake,’ he cried, in a voice devoid of cockiness.
Ehimen stared hard into the dense canopy. ‘Where? I don’t see it.’
‘It’s crawling towards me, Ehimen!’ His words were filled with desperation and despair. ‘I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do!’
Neither did Ehimen, who hollered back at him to hold on, that he was going to fetch his mother. Ignoring his friend’s pleas not to abandon him, Ehimen sped off towards the house like a demon fleeing church; the horror on his face interrupting the women mid-sentence even before he stammered the news. Abandoning their half-eaten cakes and drinks, they dashed off barefoot to the garden, Husseini’s mother running ahead.
They found Husseini lying on the ground, battered, bleeding and barely conscious. A gasp escaped his mother’s lips. She swept him into her arms, calling his name frantically and urging him to talk to her. Then, as though possessed, she ran off to the garage, still holding him, shouting her driver’s name as a crying Ehimen and his mother pursued her.
‘Where is Patrick? Where is that idiot?’ she yelled at the gateman when he emerged from the reception area. ‘Where is he?’
Confused by her question, and even more by the commotion, the gateman stammered that the driver was on leave. Without missing a beat, Ehimen’s mother instructed him to get her handbag, shoes and Husseini’s mother’s slippers from the parlour, and turning to her friend said, ‘I’ll drive you to the hospital, Rita.’
*
Ehimen visited Husseini at the hospital nearly every day after school, laden with stories and Capri-Sun saved from his lunchbox. His friend’s wounds were legion: numerous fractures, a ruptured spleen, bruises, concussion and several cuts that warranted stitches. The diagnosis would have been worse had the branches not broken his fall. His doctors expected him to make a full recovery, but the long road to health sagged Husseini’s spirits. He felt constrained, as though in a straitjacket. He was impatient to get his life back, ending his lamentations with a deep, frustrated sigh.
‘But you’re alive, that’s what matters most,’ Ehimen said quietly, putting the finishing touches to his drawing.
Hussein had reserved the cast on his arm exclusively for Ehimen, everyone else being instructed to doodle their goodwill message on his legs. At the start of each visit, Ehimen worked to fill the plaster canvas, which he’d split into several panels and bookended with the words Get well soon, Superman. Batman needs you, and Best friends. In between, he stencilled bold, comic-style illustrations forecasting his friend’s recovery.
‘You won’t be here forever, Superman,’ said Ehimen, reading aloud from a newly inked speech bubble.
Husseini peered down at the drawing, his lips curling into a soft, tired smile. ‘Thanks. I like it.’
Out of the window Ehimen saw his mother’s car crawling through the parking lot. It was time for him to leave. Rising from the chair, he laid a gentle hand on his friend’s shoulder, saying he would see him tomorrow.
Husseini nodded. ‘Thanks, Superman. For everything.’
Early 2000s
Ehimen was in one of his brooding, non-communicative moods. He’d stopped attending lectures and was ignoring phone calls from friends and family, which drove his mother so half mad with worry that she begged Husseini to check up on him in person.
It was his fifth time in two months visiting London, not that Husseini minded the two-hour-plus train ride from Manchester. What he hated, however, was being a witness to his friend’s slow descent to self-destructive nothingness. He hated seeing his sickly, sallow skin, detested the blank stare in his sunken eyes, and loathed the rank stench of alcohol on his breath, which fought for space with the rot from the unwashed plates strewn across his parents’ apartment like frisbees.
Staring out the window at the emerald-green meadows, Husseini wondered how much time needed to pass before the sun broke through Ehimen’s shrouded grief, before he walked back from the ledge of total dissipation.
It had been two years since they had enrolled at universities in London and Manchester, and six months since Ehimen lost his sister and father in a tragically avoidable accident. Had sightings of untethered shipping containers crashing into cars been uncommon in Nigeria, the incident would have merited a national gasp. The impact killed them both on the spot. Meanwhile, thousands of kilometres away, Ehimen was hosting a house party. He’d only chanced on his mother’s fourteen missed calls when he retrieved his phone from the bedroom to take a female guest’s number. Curious, he tore away from the voices and jaunty beats, stepping out into the relative quiet of the autumn night. Because he’d envisioned a brief conversation, he forewent his cardigan, choosing to brave the brisk weather in a flimsy T-shirt and jeans.
She answered on the first ring. ‘Ehimen, I’ve been trying to reach you.’
Hearing the gravity in his mother’s voice killed the joke on his tongue; he had planned to tease her about missing him too much. She sounded exhausted, as though all the air in her lungs had been squeezed out and replaced with suffocating despair. Ehimen wrapped an arm around his torso, less for warmth than to brace himself for the many permutations of bad news conjured up by his imagination.
‘Mum, are you okay?’
There was a lull, and he checked the screen of his Nokia to see if the call had disconnected. He brought the phone back to his ear. She was crying now, and goosebumps as hard as garri overtook his arms.
‘Mum, what’s wrong?’
What she said next knocked his world off its axis, shattering the illusion of life as a fair playground for the righteous and innocent. He had seen his sister in London three weeks ago, and had spoken to his father only two days ago. Two days ago.
‘Mum, try and get some sleep,’ he said quietly, even though he knew, like him, she would stay up most of the night. ‘I’ll call you in the morning.’
After she hung up, Ehimen remained outside, watching cars drive past, watching pedestrians walk by with short, quick strides to destinations unknown, resentful that they could carry on with their lives while his had ground to a rude stop. Where was God? Where was God? What sort of a god would visit a senseless disaster on his family?
Questions demanding answers crowded his thoughts and a sharp, visceral loathing for the truck driver squeezed at his heart until his sight blurred from tears. Eventually a woman’s laughter rang out from one of the apartments, pulling him out of his trance. Slowly, he ventured back inside, heading straight to the sound system.
‘What the fuck?’ said a woman sitting on Husseini’s lap, stunned like everyone else by the abrupt interruption.
‘Everyone leave, please,’ Ehimen announced in a flat tone. ‘Party’s over. No one did anything upsetting. I just need my space back. Please go.’
A fraught silence descended over the room as the crowd tried to work out what had come over Ehimen, each waiting for the other to ask. After several seconds, the student on Husseini’s lap made the first move to leave, and one by one the others followed, some muttering curses under their breath, others too puzzled to think up an insult. After the apartment emptied, leaving just Husseini, Ehimen reached for a bottle of wine. He filled a lipstick-stained glass and chugged the crimson liquid down in one go. He had a second, then a third, and was attempting a fourth when Husseini grabbed the bottle.
‘That’s enough, Superman,’ he said.
Ehimen arched a brow at him. ‘Since when did you become my chaperone?’ He tried to wrestle back the bottle but Husseini’s grip was stronger. ‘I mean, what the fuck, Husseini? I’m not one of your fucking brothers.’
‘You’ve had enough.’ Husseini stared him down, his voice firm as his gaze.
‘I’m in my house and I’ll do as I please. Now let go.’ Ehimen tried to pry the bottle out of Husseini’s grip once again, to no avail. ‘Okay then, have it your way.’ He gave a lazy shrug as though resigning himself to defeat. The feint gave Husseini no time to anticipate his charge, and Ehimen came at him with the fury of a raging bull. They tripped over a stool. Ehimen delivered a punch to Husseini’s face. Husseini blocked a second and threw one of his own, before flipping Ehimen over. He sat astride Ehimen’s lean frame, pinning his hands above his head. Restrained, Ehimen hurled a gob of spit that landed on Husseini’s face.
‘What’s wrong with you?’ Husseini said, wiping his cheek with his shirt.
‘They are dead,’ Ehimen bellowed. ‘Dead. Dead.’
Confusion flickered over Husseini’s face. ‘Who?’
‘Dad and Esosa.’
It took a few seconds for the news to register in Husseini’s mind and extinguish the rage pumping through his veins, and another for him to loosen his grip. ‘I’m so sorry.’
Ehimen sat up and buried his face in his hands.
*
Husseini got off the train at Euston Station, then took a bus to Baker Street, where he alighted and walked the short distance to Ehimen’s place. He rang the doorbell twice and waited. He hadn’t announced his visit, knowing Ehimen would rebuff him with a hard ‘no’ like last time, not that it had stopped him then either.
There were light, quick footsteps, a click, and then the door swung open.
‘What are you doing here?’ said Ehimen, looking none too pleased.
‘Delivering pizza,’ Husseini said drily.
Ehimen grunted and turned away from the door.
‘You’re welcome. So, what have you been up to?’ Husseini said casually, assessing the living room. It looked neater than the last time he visited. There were no dirty plates, the stench of putrefaction was gone, and the only sign of drinking was a stout glass and a bottle of Johnnie Walker on the table. But Ehimen still wore the haggard look of mental anguish.
‘Your mum said you’ve been ignoring her calls, and your sisters’ too.’
Ehimen picked up a cushion from the floor and set it back on the couch. ‘So she recruited you to check up on me again.’
‘How are you feeling?’
‘What do you think, Superman?’ He lowered himself to the floor, resting his back against the couch.
‘I don’t know. You tell me.’
‘Since you’re keen to know, let’s play a game.’ His gaze glinted with mischief. ‘A drinking game.’
Husseini groaned.
‘No, no, you don’t have to join me. Although it would be nice if you did. Truth and drink. Ask any question you want and I’ll answer with a shot.’
Husseini shot his friend a dry stare, convinced his suggestion was just another excuse to get drunk. Ehimen would have his way with the bottle whether or not he played along. But if he could talk some sense into Ehimen while he drank, he figured they would both be better served than getting into another unproductive argument.
‘Alright,’ said Husseini. ‘But after this, you have to promise to sober up—for good.’
Ehimen cocked his head and shut an eye in counterfeit reflection. ‘Let’s see.’
‘I’m serious.’
He spread his arms wide. ‘Look at the apartment. I’ve been tidying up. Got tired of the ants and horrible smell, no?’
Drawing a breath, Husseini settled in a chair and began questioning Ehimen about his studies, his drinking, his refusal to speak to his family. With each shot of whisky that accompanied his answers, Ehimen became increasingly pensive and candid, the levity in his voice slowly fizzling out like gas from a carbonated drink. Husseini realised he was not drinking to get wasted, but to summon the courage to visit the well of his emotions without shame.
‘I needed time to breathe after the funeral,’ Ehimen said in a far-off voice. ‘It still feels unreal, knowing I’ll never ever hear Dad hum “Three Little Birds” or receive emails from Esosa on her latest photo project.’ He heaved a deep sigh, draining the rest of his drink. ‘Anyway, as for my mum, I’ll call her once I get my head screwed on properly.’
There was a lull before he spoke again.
‘Can I ask you a question, though? And you have to answer honestly, since you went all confessional on me.’
‘Shoot,’ said Husseini.
‘How come you’ve rebuffed every single girl I’ve sent your way, and even the ones who sought you out independently? Edna, Eki, Titi, even the lovely Joyce Ifi, who every boy drooled over in secondary school. She had a massive crush on you, you know? And yet, you spun her like a DJ without ever playing her.’
‘Are you sure you want to know why?’ Husseini asked, adopting a mock-magisterial tone.
‘Oh, come off it. I wouldn’t be asking if I didn’t.’
Husseini gave a mirthless laugh.
‘Go on,’ urged Ehimen, handing him a glass. ‘This should help.’
Husseini knocked it back. The liquid stung his throat and he gave a little cough. Quiet expectation loomed over the room. He had envisioned this scene many, many times, each time confronted by the same question: What’s the worst that could happen? The time had come to find out.
‘Okay. So I … I don’t know how to say this, except to give it to you straight: I’m gay.’ He put his hands up in the air as if to say, let the stones fall where they must.
Ehimen stared blankly at his friend. ‘You are?’
He nodded.
‘Okay.’
Husseini waited for Ehimen to say something more. But when no words followed, he wondered whether Ehimen had really heard him, or whether the alcohol had dulled his senses. He tried another approach.
‘Are you … gay?’
Ehimen let out a chuckle. ‘Me? Gay?‘ he asked, patting himself on the chest. ‘No. No, I’m not gay.’
‘Oh …’
A thick, eloquent silence hung between them. Despite many years of fretting over whether their decade-long friendship would withstand the enormity of his secret or crack under the strain of its weight, Husseini had never anticipated such an anticlimactic end to his revelation. In the scenarios he’d played out, he imagined a spectrum of reactions, ranging from a quick rift, to a slow drift, to a hearty show of support, to one of shock that quietly edged into an awkward state of semi-acceptance. He hadn’t envisaged this unremarkably cavalier response.
But then, he hadn’t factored in Ehimen’s vulnerability. He’d be lying if he claimed that his current inebriated state hadn’t encouraged him to take a leap of faith, confident that their long history together would at least nudge Ehimen to meet him halfway. And if he hadn’t, he would have relied on the safety net of drunkenness, denying they ever had such a conversation. And there was another slice of history that made him trust the moment, a memory from the not-too-distant past involving Ehimen’s ex-girlfriend, Falta.
All three of them had been drinking in a London pub, when Falta began criticising her gay flatmate for leading an immoral life, quoting a Bible passage about homosexuality to back up her argument. Ehimen had countered that the Bible contained more verses castigating adultery and fornication between men and women, and that it would make more sense for society to train the bulk of its self-righteous anger on unmarried couples and cheating spouses. With characteristic bluntness, he suggested that she would do well to pray the morality mob overlooked her sins when they eventually came around with pitchforks looking for fornicators.
At that, Husseini had spat out his drink, guffawing. Falta had shot Ehimen a withering look, and slipped into a sulk for the rest of the evening. Later, just before Husseini and Ehimen got home, she broke up with him, claiming in her text he’d embarrassed her in public. Ehimen texted back calling her a high-voltage hypocrite.
Slowly peeling himself from the floor, Ehimen collected the bottle of whisky and empty glass. He started to the kitchen but stopped when he got to Husseini.
‘This changes nothing between us, Superman. Nothing.’ He patted him twice on the shoulder, then continued on his way.
Mid 2020s
‘It’s been five years. When are we going to start having children?’ asked Zainab, her voice laced with irritation.
‘I’m not ready yet.’
They were in their bedroom: he on the bed, tying the laces of his trainers; she by the wardrobe, her toned arms crossed over her chest.
‘I’m 43, Husseini. And unlike you, I have a biological clock.’
‘I’m well aware of that,’ he replied, his tone bordering on annoyance. ‘You’ve made it clear to me for the past seven years. But like I said before, we’ll have a baby when we are both ready to be parents.’
Zainab watched her husband rise and snatch his keys from the dressing table. ‘Do you think you’ll ever be ready?’ she said, hating the desperation in her voice.
Husseini ignored the question and walked out of the room. Seconds later, the front door closed and the car engine revved. His nightly outings were becoming frequent. It would be hours before he returned.
Zainab stared at the king-size bed she shared with the man fast becoming a stranger, reflecting on how their easy, frictionless courtship had turned into a marriage fraught with uncompromising disagreements. He refused to talk about sex, rejected her advances, and never elaborated on his standard answer when she probed his resistance to parenthood. When she suggested marriage counselling to untangle their differences, he casually told her she would be attending the sessions alone, as he saw no reason for it. She wasn’t sure she could wait any longer for him to come round.
She’d imagined that their marriage would mirror their courtship, a breezy romance without any serious bumps, except for that blip in the days leading up to the wedding. They’d had a big argument over the cake or some other triviality, she couldn’t now recall, and he’d called the next morning, sounding grave and demoralised, to apologise and tell her he’d been wasted. She had never known him to abuse alcohol during the two years they’d dated, and had chalked up the anomaly to pre-wedding jitters. But memories from the morning of their wedding had started haunting her again, and she wasn’t so sure anymore.
The sun had been making its ascent over the Atlantic Ocean, its radiance turning the placid waters a sparkling blue. Eager to witness the spectacle, she had climbed out of bed, gliding to her hotel room window. There, by the pool, were Husseini and his best man, Ehimen, engrossed in an argument. She couldn’t hear them, but could tell from their wild gestures and Husseini’s impatient strides that it was serious. He paced whenever he was troubled or undecided, as he’d done on the day she confronted him in his house, threatening to walk out of his life if he didn’t propose.
‘Zainab, give me some time,’ he had pleaded.
Three weeks later, they were in Dubai to purchase an engagement ring and two wedding bands. It was the tensest, gruffest and most restless she’d seen him, but Zainab was determined not to let his dour mood sour hers. At the jewellery store, while he sulked and sighed, she feasted on emeralds, determined not to fall for the marketing gimmick that presented diamonds as the rarest of gems. She was sampling her seventh piece when Husseini intruded on her viridescent buffet.
‘Haven’t you tried enough rings?’
‘No. And you’re being unnecessarily unpleasant,’ she said in an insistently low, casual voice, so that the other customers wouldn’t hear them bickering. The gesture was lost on Husseini, who continued speaking at a regular volume.
‘We’ve been here for too long; there are more interesting things we could be doing with our time.’
‘We came to Dubai specifically to buy our rings, remember?’
‘Well, I’m not going to spend a decade in a jewellery store, so select a ring from the ones you’ve already tried on and let’s go.’
‘We’ve been here less than thirty minutes. There’s no reason to exaggerate …’
They continued in this vein for a few more minutes before Husseini, clearly exasperated, retorted, ‘You know what, how about you pay for your rings yourself? I’m leaving.’
She watched him walk away with tears in her eyes, which breached their banks when the jeweller attempted to console her, assuring her his outburst was nothing more than wedding nerves.
Wedding nerves. The same excuse she’d used to disperse the swimming pool scene from her mind, the same excuse she had leaned on when Husseini dismissed the argument as ‘just guy talk’ before distracting her with honeymoon sex, on one of the few times he had shown enthusiastic desire for her body.
Zainab remembered it all, shuddering at what seemed like a video montage from someone else’s life. She marvelled at how easily she’d allowed his electric personality to sweep her off her feet, eyes closed.
She had met Husseini at an industry event for software developers, where they shared the stage as panellists. His angular face, distinctive baritone and wit caught her attention. She was deeply flattered when he came over afterwards to ask if she minded having a drink with his ‘old, boring self’.
‘First of all, you’re not old. Also, I’m not as young as you think I am,’ she said.
‘How young?’
‘Thirty-six.’
‘To my forty-two; I’d say I’m old.’
‘Older,’ she countered, ‘And not as boring as you would have me believe.’
‘And would you allow me to prove myself to you at dinner?’
She let out a genial laugh. ‘From drinks to dinner. You’re smooth.’
From the start, she knew he was different. For one, he kept his hands firmly at his sides and maintained a civil tongue, and while he could seem a little distant, she tolerated it as one would the slight prick of a needle, especially considering the egregious behavioural flaws of some of her former partners. In public, his eyes never left her, unlike other dates whose gaze had wandered over her shoulders in search of the next sparkling thing, be it a woman or a business opportunity. But more than anything else, it was his wholehearted acceptance of her decision to remain celibate until marriage that convinced her she’d finally found her Mr Right in the line-up of rogues and ogres.
Zainab absently rotated the skinny band on her finger, her eyes still fixed on their bed, staring at but not really seeing the slight depression Husseini’s posterior had left on the baby-blue cover. Her thoughts were a worm, burrowing deeper and deeper into her memory until it reached the kernel, the nut of a rumour she had buried at the start of their courtship.
Drawing a deep breath, Zainab walked slowly to her bedside. She reached for her phone and dialled Ehimen’s number, hoping he wouldn’t answer, so that she could take his non-response as an excuse to drop her hare-brained scheme. It rang thrice and his voice came on the line, catching her off guard.
‘Oh, hi, Ehimen. Sorry to bother you this evening,’ she began, feeling flustered, ‘Em … I was wondering if I could come over. Yes, yes, I’m fine. Husseini’s fine, too. It’s just, eh, I was hoping you could help me with something. No … I’m fine, really. I’m fine. Thanks. See you soon.’
Less than an hour later, Ehimen ushered her into his spartan living room. She declined his offer of a drink, regretting it almost immediately when he took a seat opposite her, his keen, expectant eyes fixing her to the spot like dissecting pins. Suddenly struck by the absurdity—or perhaps the reality—of the moment, she let out a helpless, watery laugh.
‘I’m sorry, I just don’t know where to start.’
He flashed her a small, reassuring smile. ‘Why don’t you start from the beginning?’
Zainab drew a deep breath and began her story, narrating how Husseini’s behaviour had changed since their wedding. Ehimen listened patiently, not once interrupting her twenty-minute monologue. Finally, she asked about the argument he had had with her husband at the swimming pool.
Like Husseini, Ehimen initially dismissed the quarrel, claiming he couldn’t recall the details. But Zainab was not convinced.
‘No, you have to remember the conversation,’ she said testily. Her voice softened with supplication. ‘Please.’
‘It was nothing, really, Zainab.’
If his response slaked Zainab’s curiosity, Ehimen couldn’t tell; her expression revealed nothing. In truth, had she been privy to the conversation, she would have heard him persuading Husseini not to go ahead with the wedding. She would have heard Husseini tell him it was too late, that it would be cruel to abandon her at the altar in front of their family and guests. She would have heard Ehimen argue it was cruel of him to have let things progress this far, that he was bound to hurt them both if he went through with his plan. She would have heard Husseini lash out and tell him that he didn’t understand his predicament and never would. She would also have heard Ehimen’s exhortation to help him understand.
‘I swear it was nothing,’ Ehimen repeated. ‘He had cold feet and I talked him out of it. I went through it myself,’ he added with a small smile.
Zainab’s gaze fell to an indeterminate spot between her feet, resting there for a long time. When their eyes met again, hers were dark, decisive, smouldering with a warrior’s hardened determination.
‘I heard the rumours, you know.’ Her voice sounded detached, distant. ‘Before the wedding. You know him better than anyone else. Is there any truth to them?’
Ehimen crossed his arms over his chest, his eyes matching hers in their cold, unwavering defiance. ‘What rumours?’
~~~
- Shayera Dark is a writer whose work has appeared in publications that include LitHub, Harper’s Magazine, Al Jazeera, AFREADA, The Kalahari Review and CNN. This story is from a fiction work in progress.
