It was Thursday afternoon in the middle of July, almost three weeks after she confronted Ismael about the phone bill, that Sarah rolled over in bed and looked at the clock, wondering if she still had time to prayer Thuhr or if its time had already passed while she slept. In the last two weeks, she had listened with stoicism as her husband told her about his plans to marry Alika. She had interrupted him one day, a week after her discovery, and calmly informed him that she already knew who it was. The news shocked him, but it did not deter him from what he was saying. He had droned on and on about how he would be meeting with the imam a lot to determine if this was something he wanted to do, which was his politically correct way of saying “Don’t wait up for me.”
At some points she had almost laughed out loud, but she controlled herself, for the most part. She would sit in perfect wifely composure, merely nodding her head and saying nothing except to encourage him to do whatever was best, as she was expected to do. Inside she hated him and everything he was doing though she couldn’t bring herself to say it out loud. But there was one moment, a week before, when, in the middle of one of the discussions, she burst into a fit of laughter and was unable to stop. He had paused mid-sentence and gathered his brows before saying, “Did I say something funny?” That only made her laugh more, and she surprised herself by the intensity of the outburst.
“I’m sorry,” she told him as she recovered, still nursing chuckles that escaped. A hand went to her mouth, where her fingers rested, and the other went to her stomach, as if willing the laughter to cease. “It’s just that you sound like you actually believe yourself.”
His eyebrows gathered more, and there was a look of hurt in his eyes. “What are you trying to say?”
“Oh, please, Ismael. Tell me you can’t see how ridiculous this is, or am I the only one with eyes?”
He had sighed, smoothed his beard with a hand and stood up from where he sat next to her on the edge of the bed, and paced the floor. “Sarah, I’m just trying to be open with you.”
“Open?” She felt the laughter coming again, but she suppressed it. “I think you’re a little late for that.”
“I’ve been open with you the whole time.”
At that, her patience was gone. “Don’t even give me that. You invited this, this,” she searched for a word, “baby to our son’s walimah, taught her about Islam, practically threw her on me for four months without as much as a word, or even a hint at what’s going on. And now you’re saying you’ve been open with me the whole time? Don’t make me laugh.” She folded her arms and turned her head away from him as she shook it.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“It’s what you said.”
“What I’m saying is that once I realized for sure this is what I wanted to do, I told you.”
“The good that would do.”
“Okay, fine.” He threw up his hands in surrender. “What should I have done, Sarah?”
“Why didn’t you tell me from the beginning? When you first met her?”
“I didn’t even know I’d want to marry her at that time. I meet new people everyday, sweetheart, and some of them are women. But I don’t feel the need to report that to you.”
“You know that’s not what I’m saying.”
“To be honest, Sarah. I don’t know what you’re saying. One second you’re telling me to pray to Allah and be open, and the next you’re laughing at me for doing just that. Tell me, then, what am I doing wrong?”
“What are you doing right? Let’s start with that. That would be a shorter list.”
He sighed, shaking his head as he stood before her. “Sweetheart, all I’m doing is trying to follow the Sunnah.”
She felt her teeth clench. “This-is-not-the-Sunnah,” she said, emphasizing the. “Marriage, Ismael, is the Sunnah. And for the life of me, I can’t understand how you imagine destroying one marriage to gain another is what Allah’s Messenger would do, sallallaahu’alayhi wa sallam.”
“Okay,” he said, his voice calming. “Maybe I can’t say it’s the Sunnah, but—”
“There’s no maybe. You can’t. Don’t skate around the truth, Brother ‘I’m following the Sunnah’. A true follower of the Sunnah,” she emphasized, “wouldn’t do that. Would he?”
He breathed audibly, clearly unable to win. “I never said I represent the Sunnah, Sarah. I—”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
“Sarah, look. I’m sorry if this is hard for you, but—”
“But what, Ismael? You’re going to do it anyway?” She forced laughter. “Do me a favor, okay? Save it. All of it. If I mean that little to you, that you think I’m just your sounding board, someone to bounce things off of, then I don’t have the time, or the energy. If you want to talk to me, ask my opinion, get my feedback, like you used to do, before this girl came along, then I’m here. All ears.”
“But that’s what I’m doing. I want to know your opinion.”
“Really, Ismael? You want to know my opinion? Well, here it is.” She raised a hand to numerate. “Number one, you lied to me. Number two, you—”
“I did not lie to you, Sarah. Please don’t say that.”
“Okay, let’s be technical then,” she said sarcastically. “You were not completely honest with me. How’s that?”
He shrugged. “Closer to the truth.”
“Number two,” she said, resting a forefinger on the two fingers of the other hand as she spoke, “you never gave me a choice. All of a sudden, this girl is in my life. In my family, for goodness sake, at Sulayman’s walimah. I can’t believe you even imagined something like that was fair. That, that—” Her voice started to crack, and she feared she would break down, but she refused. No, she was not going to give him leverage, not this time.
“Number three?” he said coolly. “I think I’m pretty clear on number two. We’ve gone over its tafseer a million times.”
Her jaw dropped, and she stared at him in disbelief, her hand still poised, ready for number three. “Wh, wh,” she couldn’t get the question out. Her vision became blurred, and the tears spilled from her eyes before she could stop them.
His expression told her he regretted it. And he started toward her, but she stood and moved before he could embrace her. Instead, she went to the bathroom, slammed the door, and locked it. Inside, she cried, sobbing terribly, hating herself for not being able to stop, and even more because he could hear every sound. She ignored his pounding, his pleas for forgiveness, his begging for her to open the door as he wiggled the handle. But she could not ignore the silence when he had given up entirely. And that hurt more. The last words she heard through the wood were, “Sarah, sweetheart. I’m sorry. It’s just that I, no,” he said in an apparent effort to form his words correctly. “I love you, sweetheart. Please don’t leave me, that’s all I ask.” A pause and a breath. “I can’t do this without you.” A longer pause and another breath. “Please understand.” He stood there for a minute more, she sensed his presence as his ear was against the door hoping she would move to open it, and then he was gone. She was left feeling desolate, alone on the closed top of the commode, feeling like a fool as she heard the faint sound of the front door close and fearing that she would never see him again. She was afraid that she wouldn’t have a chance to apologize like he had, to say that she loved him too, and that she couldn’t leave him, didn’t know how to leave him. How was it possible to leave someone who was, in reality, a part of yourself?
The memory of that day made her grow more exhausted in bed, although the numbers on the clock told her she had less than forty-five minutes before ‘Asr would be in. She had to pray. Feeling as if a load a bricks was weighing her down, she sat up and turned herself until her feet touched the soft of the carpeted floor. Sarah hung her head, thinking about Allah and hoping He would forgive her for the mercurial behavior that plagued her recently. One second she was the calm, rational wife. The next she was like Road Runner, unable to stop herself from running into a wall of resentment that roared a raging fire in her chest. She liked herself as the former, although it meant more than she was ready to accept. If she remained the calm, rational partner, would Ismael mistake that as her approval of him taking another wife?
She needed perspective. She needed advice. Preferably from someone who could relate. Unfortunately—or perhaps it wasn’t so unfortunate, given her predicament—she knew but one sister currently in polygyny in the entire metro-Atlanta area. Of course there were more, at least she imagined that there must be more than the sister she knew. But it was as if they were all in hiding. Perhaps, from people like Sarah herself. Even though she had known this sister for almost seven years and the sister sometimes visited her and Aminah, Sarah had never told Ismael that the woman was a co-wife. Like most sisters, Sarah looked at polygyny like a contagious illness that could be caught at the mere mention of its reality in the community’s mist, let alone the contagion when you and your husband befriended couples in the situation.
So Sarah had kept the sister at arm’s length, and although she imagined the sister’s husband to be a remarkable, if not knowledgeable, brother, Sarah had kept herself from even mentioning him to her husband. Sarah had even turned down invitations to dinner for fear that upon meeting Ismael, the brother would share his “success story” with multiple wives, and Ismael would then be corrupted in his inevitable masculine fantasies on the union.
But even then, as she stood and dragged herself to the bathroom, having decided that she would call the sister after Thuhr, she found her logic a bit perverse. Sarah never hesitated to share with her husband unsuccessful stories of the marriage type, even though most of them she did not know firsthand. But when she knew of success in polygyny, she hid it like she would a major sin, hoping the next day that no one in the world knew but Allah.
Then it wasn’t its failure she feared, Sarah realized as she turned the knobs of the faucet in preparation for wudhoo’. But its success.
How bizarre.
It would be her worst nightmare if Ismael could actually make this work, she realized as fear enveloped her at the prospect. Then she would have to face it everyday. And that she was unable to do, unwilling even, if she could imagine her ability to cope at all.
Why should she cope? She didn’t have to. No, she couldn’t control his view on polygamy. But she could control hers. She had told him years ago that the subject was not even open to discussion.
Had he simply taken her on her word?
If so, it made sense that he would imagine he had to approach it like he did. But she didn’t want it to make sense. But yet, there was the question that harangued her as she poured handfuls of water over her arms and rubbed them from the elbows to the fingertips. Why would he talk to her on the onset when she had told him she would never accept something like that? But she had said, “I respect the women who do.”
Sarah hated thinking of his side, but it was all she could do to protect what was left of her patience. Whatever happened, or did not happen for that matter, she was still Muslim, and O Allah, she didn’t want to lose that. That would be the worst.
With a heavy heart, Sarah finished cleaning her feet and let them fall, wet, on the floor, not caring to dry the tiles right then. She hadn’t been herself lately, and wet floor tiles weren’t the end of the world.
As she prayed, she felt regret overwhelm her, and she was ashamed before her Lord. She hoped Allah would excuse her jealous outbursts, as He had forgiven her mothers’ centuries ago. The wives of the Prophet, “the mothers of believers,” hadn’t been able to avoid the jealousy Sarah now suffered, although their piety prevented them from behaving as immaturely as she. At that reminder, Sarah felt hope swell inside her, knowing that she was praying to Ar-Raheem, the Most Merciful Redeemer. Al-Hakeem, the Most Wise. As-Samee’, the All-Hearing, the Hearer of all things, all prayers. Al-Baseer, the All-Seeing. And Al-‘Adl, the Most Just.
O Allah, You love to pardon, so pardon me!
Head on the floor of her room, Sarah cried her heart out to her Lord, knowing He was Most High, most far removed from imperfection and err, and she felt the tears soak the carpet beneath her face as she prayed a supplication so heart-felt she felt its earnestness burning in her chest.
O You who knows me better than I know myself, help me,
O Allah, help me. I cannot do this without You. Preserve me, and preserve my husband. For he taught me about You. Forgive me, forgive him. We are nothing without Your blessings, Your mercy, Your love. O Allah, remove this jealousy from me, except the jealousy for Your sake. O Lord of the heavens, Lord of the earth, Lord of Angel Gabriel, and Lord of Abraham, Jesus, and Muhammad. I implore you, I beg you, O Allah, O Most Gracious, to respond to my prayer! Certainly, I have wronged my soul, so forgive me, for You are the All-Forgiving, Most Merciful, Hearer of all prayers. You are the One who guides, so I ask You to guide me, guide my heart.
And protect me from myself. And O You who turns hearts,
make my heart firm upon Your religion. Take my soul as a believer, and allow me to recite the testimony of Your Oneness at death.
At the sound of the doorbell, Nusaybah peered through the peephole and opened it, standing behind it to let the sister inside. The sister had called an hour before to ask if it were okay if she stopped by, and naturally, Nusaybah told her she would love to have her.
Nusaybah expected this visit sooner, given how much Alika had told her of her and Ismael’s steps towards getting married, which was being conveyed to Alika through her wali, Imam Abdul-Quddus, since the imam had deemed it no longer necessary for Alika to talk to the brother directly. But Nusaybah understood it took time with things like this. It was difficult for most women to adjust to the reality of something that seemed so unreal. So she said nothing of her thoughts as Sarah stepped inside her apartment and embraced her after closing the door.
“I’m sorry to drop in on you like this,” Sarah said after they exchanged the traditional Islamic greetings. “I just felt like I needed answers right away.”
Nusaybah waved her hand dismissively as she led Sarah from the front room, which she used for class, to a bedroom she had designated as a sitting room in the four-bedroom apartment. Whereas pillows aligned the wall of the furniture-less front room, a couch and futon embellished her homely sitting room. She understood that most people, especially her children and friends, preferred the comfort of a chair to the hard floor, even with a pillow being used as support on the carpet.
After Sarah sat down on the couch, Nusaybah went to the kitchen to put drinks and snack crackers on a tray for Sarah if she grew hungry or thirsty during the talk.
“Oh, you didn’t have to do that,” Sarah said as Nusaybah placed the tray on a small coffee table in front of the couch.
Nusaybah smiled. “You’re my guest.”
“I appreciate it.”
Sarah reached for a cracker and nibbled on it, and Nusaybah folded her hands in her lap from where she sat on the futon.
“You’re making me feel like a pig,” Sarah said after she swallowed what was in her mouth, a cracker still poised in the air as she spoke, chuckling. “Please eat with me.”
“I’m not hungry,” Nusaybah said, hoping Sarah would not insist.
A look of realization crossed Sarah’s face as her eyes widened at the thought. “Are you fasting?”
Nusaybah only smiled, and Sarah’s expression conveyed that she understood her friend’s reason for not sharing the plate.
Sarah finished her cracker and rubbed her palms against the fabric of her abiya to clean her hands. “I’m not that hungry myself.” She laughed. “I haven’t been eating much lately, so I should be.”
“I can tell,” Nusaybah teased. But she was serious. It was obvious Sarah had lost a lot of weight. Dark circles were around her eyes, and her cheeks looked slightly sunken and pale. No, it wasn’t something someone would notice in passing on the street, and Sarah wasn’t even technically underweight. But anyone who had known the sister and was seeing her for the first time after several weeks, like Nusaybah was, would notice that her weight loss was not due to a sudden regard for her health, but the opposite.
“Well, that’s good,” Sarah joked. “I’ve been wanting to lose weight for a while.”
Nusaybah smiled. “Me too. But I prefer to burn fat instead of muscle.”
Sarah’s forehead creased, and the meaning sunk in as she recalled sharing the same to former patients who wanted to lose weight.
“That’s what you do when you starve yourself.”
She started to laugh, as if to make light of what she was doing. “I wouldn’t say I’m starving myself.” She shrugged. “It’s just that I forget to eat.”
Nusaybah laughed, her quiet laugh that was barely above a chuckle and didn’t require her to open her mouth. “Well, your body doesn’t know the difference. So you have to help it by giving it the right message to digest. Literally.”
“Actually,” Sarah said, smiling awkwardly, and Nusaybah could tell she was ready to talk about what she had come for, “I’m more worried about my soul.”
Nusaybah nodded. “But you can’t worry about your soul without a clear mind, which is by the way,” she smiled, “a part of your body.”
Sarah nodded, clearly unable to argue with that. “Yes, I know. It’s just that food is the least of my worries right now.”
“Food shouldn’t be a worry at all. You don’t think about it, Sarah. You just eat.”
“Tell me that, and next week you’ll be calling Jenny Craig on my behalf.”
Nusaybah laughed. “Well, think about it, then. And eat.”
“Jazaakillaahukhair,” Sarah said seriously. “You’re right.”
A moment later, she drew in a deep breath and exhaled slowly, her eyes growing distant before she asked, “How do you do it?”
Nusaybah considered the question, trying to think of the best way to answer. Polygyny was a complicated subject, and one’s coping method depended largely on how it began, and the order in which a woman married the man. Other sisters whom she knew in polygamy despised ordinal numbers being used to describe them as wives. They felt the “first” or “second” inserted before wife was demeaning and implied a ranking or status that was synonymous to their order of importance in the union or in the husband’s eyes. But Nusaybah disagreed, as she disagreed with most polygynous sisters’ rejection of the pronoun my used before the word husband when married women spoke. They felt, and understandably so, that the husband didn’t belong to the wife, and they would say, “He is not your husband. He belongs to Allah.” This was an argument, in theory, to encourage a sister to open her heart to plural marriage. But the fact remained, he was her husband, regardless of how many other women had a right to the same pronoun inserted before a word indicative of the same man. Everyone belonged to Allah, and Nusaybah was certainly not ready to tell her husband that she was not his wife and their children were actually not theirs.
Nevertheless, knowing that we all indeed belonged to the Creator helped put everything in perspective. In fact, it was because of Him that Nusaybah was in a comfortable marriage to her husband, despite the fact that she could choose between the terms “first” and “second” depending on the perspective she had that day. Because, after all, when it came down to it, she was both.
When Nusaybah and her first husband married, it was while they were still in the Nation of Islam, which they left following the direction of Elijah Muhammad before his death in 1975. Disagreements on how to actually practice the Sunnah that they embraced after their leader’s death accounted for her and her husband’s divorce more than eleven years after they married. But after a marriage that lasted just shy of seven years to a husband who openly practiced “the Sunnah,” having even earned a degree from the most prestigious Islamic university in Madinah, she realized that the Sunnah was more akin to what her first husband followed than her second.
Like her, Nusaybah’s second husband had converted to Islam although he had never experienced the Nation of Islam and regularly referred to the organization as “the Nation of Kufr,” in other words the Nation of Disbelief. This was not a problem per se, because in essence, he was right. It was not a nation of “Islam,” and by definition any belief system opposite of Islam was disbelief, kufr. So it wasn’t this label that should have alarmed her, but the way in which it spewed from his mouth as if the mere mention of it was toxic to the tongue. When she would reflect on the good she had learned from the organization and how it had led her to Islam, he would argue that nothing good could come from an “evil organization” like that. But, ironically, he didn’t apply the same logic when he talked about what his Christian mother, who died while he was in high school, taught him about life.
He had never known his father, and he lived as a thug on the streets of Philadelphia for many years before accepting Islam in his early twenties. That Nusaybah had grown up in a middle-class, success-driven African-American household should have alerted her of their potential incompatibility. She had lived her life as a reserved yet devoted Christian who followed the moral letter of the Bible, as she had been taught. She wore long, loose dresses, never pants, and counted it as a sin to show her ankle, something the Nation of Islam reinforced when she joined it, and her first husband was the first man she ever dated. After her divorce, Nusaybah met her second husband as a marginally adept Arabic speaker who had done lectures at Islamic conferences and was accepted to a university overseas in one of the two holiest cities on earth. Impressed by his keen understanding of the Sunnah, she eagerly agreed to marry him and was certain he was nothing short of a Godsend after the heartbreak over the divorce from her first love. Nusaybah would have never imagined the man’s past would cast a shadow on his ability to practice the Sunnah “from the heart,” as her first husband would say.
It wasn’t long before idiosyncrasies in his apparent practice of the Sunnah reared their head, and she found herself unable to escape his drastic difference from her first husband. For one, her first husband was, in a word, kind. Her second was not. Yes, he was kind to her, but the suspicion with which he regarded others who “claimed” to follow the Sunnah made her uncomfortable. If he was suspicious of someone, mostly due to “something strange” they had said or someone questionable they befriended, he would gather as much information as he could, making phone calls, writing letters, whatever he could to secure a fatwa, a religious ruling that would be his license to publicly label them as “astray,” even if the person was a teacher of his or a scholar himself.
Nusaybah hurt for him mostly, recognizing his zeal in condemning others as an insecurity in himself, an inability to be humble in the face of others’ success, or in the face of others being correct in saying that he was the one, in fact, mistaken in a certain fiqh opinion. Even on the rare occasion that he discovered with sufficient evidence that he was the one in the right, the fervor with which he argued against his opponent, even attacking the honor of his brother, made her nervous, and she feared for his soul. But more than anything, she felt sorry for him. And feared for her own soul. More and more, it became clear that she could not be his wife, not if she were to protect her Hereafter at the same time.
Studying privately in the holy city distracted her from his questionable activities, but it wasn’t long before his insecurity disrupted even that. First, he questioned her on her friends, then her teachers, then sought to forbid her from the study sessions themselves. Her ability to freely perform ‘Umrah and Hajj were the only things that kept her from nullifying the marriage before she did. But it was more than three years before the official marriage dissolution that she knew she would not stay with him. It would be a week before she was officially single that she understood the wisdom in Allah allowing her to live through the madness that she had.
Good character and humility, she learned, formed the foundation of knowledge. Without them, any knowledge gained would count against a person, not for him, on the Day of Judgment. Of course, she had no idea how Allah would judge her husband in the Hereafter, but because the brother had given her the opportunity to go to Mecca and Madinah, she continued to pray for his forgiveness, even long after the divorce. He was a good man, she believed, like others she had met while overseas, brothers and sisters who suffered from the same insecurity and confusion he had. They were merely, for the moment, entrapped in their own envy and pride, two sins that alone could destroy one’s religion.
Guarding the tongue, she also learned, was the sign of a good Muslim, regardless of his or her level of knowledge in the religion. Staying silent unless it was necessary to speak was something that all religions and belief systems taught. And seeing the personal demise a loose tongue caused someone close to her made her fearful of talking too much. Speaking only with knowledge was also food for thought, and it was something she took to heart and back with her to America.
Back home, she located her first husband and asked him to marry her again. Fortunately, he agreed, but not before telling her that she would be a second wife. Nusaybah didn’t mind the sacrifice. She would have done almost anything for Allah’s sake if it meant that, in the end, she could have her first husband, her true husband, back again. She was wiser and more mature, which allowed her to value what was most important in a marriage, even if she would not be his only wife. He too had changed and matured and was more studied, making their reunion all the sweeter. And from it all she learned one simple virtue that she had been unaware that she lacked—patience. Allah took care of things in good time. If you only had faith and put your trust in Him.
Undoubtedly, there were things that she and her husband would never agree on. But she, like he, took it in stride and savored the “second chance” to be with a man who truly strived to practice “the Sunnah.” From the heart.
“Du’aa,” she told Sarah. “Faith, patience, and, most importantly, prayer.” She smiled. “If nothing else, polygamy teaches you to love for Allah’s sake and to be grateful for His favors. Without either one of these, we have no hope.”
Seeing the name “Ismael Ali” under the “from” column in his e-mail account made Zaid smile. Aminah had finally replied. In the past month, he imagined that she had forgotten about him, or worse, decided to never reply. His heart raced as he pressed the virtual arrow to the message and tapped his fingers on his desk at work as he waited for the mail to open. As it did, he leaned forward, noticing, with a sense of relief, that it wasn’t as short as her last one, and he counted it as a good sign.
As-salaamu’alaikum, Zaid
I’m sorry I haven’t written in a while. But like I said in my last e-mail, I had some things to reconsider. I’ve had a lot of time to think, and after talking to my father, we both think it’s best for us not to continue talking...
Zaid’s heart sank, hoping she was not saying what he feared she was.
It’s clear that you and I have different perspectives on things, and there’s too much to consider with your family’s opposition and the cultural differences to keep trying to make this work. What you said about me never being Black to you made me look at things in a way I never did. Although I think everyone is beautiful in her own way (I know it sounds clichéd), I cannot accept feeling beautiful at the expense of someone else, especially an entire race of people, my people, even if you don’t see it like that. I have my reasons for that, too much to go into right now, and given that we won’t be getting married, I think it’s irrelevant to explain. But, suffice it to say, I don’t ever want to feel like I have to hide in my skin, and marrying you will make me do that.
I’ve been reading a lot on the history of America in terms of race, and it’s depressing to say the least. I don’t know the history of Pakistan, but I don’t think I’m reaching to say you can benefit from researching the Hindu influence and British colonization to gain some perspectives on the color issue for yourself.
As-salaamu’alaikum wa rahmatullaah
Aminah
Zaid stared at the screen a moment more, overcome with disbelief. It was as if he’d been smacked in the face. All this time. And this? He couldn’t believe what he was reading. What was she talking about? None of it made sense. He read the e-mail again, this time vaguely recalling their conversation on the phone.
To him, it had been uneventful. Yes, he had said she would never be black to him and that she was beautiful. But what did she mean about having to “hide” in her skin? He shook his head. Maybe this was what Zahra was warning him about. Then another thought came to him, and he felt himself growing upset.
Maybe Zahra was the one who caused this. Had she talked to Aminah too?
The more he thought about it, the more he convinced himself that this was his cousin’s doing. But why? Why would Zahra do something like this? What had she said to Aminah to make her think he needed to research the history of his country? He was offended. He would pay his cousin a visit after work.
Then again, maybe this wasn’t Zahra at all.
Maybe all of these things about being black and everything being beautiful and hiding in her skin, were actually going on in Aminah’s head. It was like a riddle, and he was reminded of a group of people he sometimes saw in college. They would walk around campus with “Black is beautiful” T-shirts, complete with photographed heads of women with various shades of dark skin and protruding, puffy hair. He thought they were joking, and he actually found it humorous. Like a pun. If they were not joking, he remembered thinking, they were certainly living in a world of their own. Was it possible they actually believed what their shirts said? If so, it was weird. And he couldn’t help feeling a little sad for them. He never imagined people actually contended with obvious aspects of beauty.
And Aminah? It made no sense. She had no reason to contend with facts that had more to do with human nature than any history of America, Hindus, or Pakistan. Was it possible that Aminah was really that confused? If so, it was a good thing he had said what he said. Otherwise, he would have never known the things going on in her mind. And to think, he was determined to marry her. He couldn’t imagine, years later, how their children would be.
Perhaps his family had been right all along. “It cannot work,” they kept telling him. “They are too different from us.” He read the e-mail again, unable to help thinking, They are right.
Sarah pulled into the driveway of their home, noticing her husband had already arrived from work. He was home earlier than usual, and she imagined he was wondering where she was. After turning off the car, she opened the door, the conversation with Nusaybah still playing in her head.
Undoubtedly, Nusaybah’s was a beautiful story, if one could call it that, but Sarah knew her story wouldn’t end in the happily ever after as Nusaybah’s did. Sarah knew the sister would not agree with the label of “love story” or “happily ever after,” but that’s how it seemed to Sarah. What better position for a woman than to be first and second wife at once? She had the advantage of the shared history of a first wife, and as a second, she had the advantage of newly wed bliss, made all the more blissful by having the shared history in the first place.
But there were things Nusaybah said that made Sarah fearful she couldn’t handle it. The pendulum of emotions, the constant insecurity, the three nights here, three nights there. Just listening to it was inciting the beginning of a migraine. It all seemed so unstable, so unsure. How could she survive like that? Nusaybah had said everyone’s situation was different, and perhaps the one night here, one night there, would work better for Sarah. At the mention of any of this relating to her directly, Sarah was offended. But she masked her emotions with a laugh, saying “None of it will work for me.”
As Sarah slipped the key into the door, she could not shake the feeling that she was better than this, and she felt herself growing upset with her husband. She deserved more. She was a whole woman, a complete woman, worthy of a one-woman man. She was not a desperate widow or a divorced woman with five children. So why should she have to divide her nights with a man she had been married to more than half her life? This was insane. She couldn’t really be considering this.
The image of Alika and how beautiful she was at the walimah appeared in her mind, and she felt incensed as she forced the thought from her mind at the same moment she yanked the khimaar from her head. This had gone on for too long. She needed to put an end to it. Her husband said he wanted her opinion, said he wanted her to be open. Well, now she was going to be. If he wanted to live in a fairytale, well she wasn’t going to sit around and play Cinderella, scrubbing the floors until a magic pumpkin arrived to carry her off to a better life. She would not allow him to marry Alika, and that was that. She didn’t have to support this, and she would not. Nothing in the religion required that she even approve of his marriage, let alone that she sit around and play the good wife while he did what he wanted. Ismael said he couldn’t do it without her, and now she was going to take him up on that.
Sarah tossed the head cover and outer garment into the living room, not caring that neither landed on the coffee table or the couch. She grew more upset as she remembered Nusaybah recounting the tug of war of it all, never knowing whom he loved more. At that moment, she had felt so powerful, so in control of her life that she actually felt sorry for Nusaybah, and the man’s first wife. And right then, Sarah knew. She couldn’t be like them. Wouldn’t be like them. She respected herself too much for that.
She marched up the steps remembering her inquiry to Nusaybah, “Didn’t you want to meet the first wife?”
Nusaybah had shaken her head. “I wasn’t marrying her.”
Then the other question, “His first wife didn’t mind?”
Nusaybah had smiled, that wise, all-knowing smile that now made Sarah sick to even think about, and said, “It wasn’t her decision. It was ours.”
It was as if someone had punched her in the stomach as Nusaybah’s meaning settled over her. But she had remained calm, even as Nusaybah went on to explain that, in her view, it wasn’t wise to have the first wife heavily involved. Yes, it was best to tell her before the marriage, but only after the man was sure this was something he would definitely do, inshaAllaah. Nusaybah recounted how her second husband would tell her every time a sister had inquired about him or every time he had a “sit down”, which was at least three times a month. And it drove her crazy. Nusaybah always wanted to know everything she could about the woman, her age, her race, her height, her weight, everything. She even met several of them in person and talked to countless others on the phone. In retrospect, Nusaybah said, it wasn’t worth it. None of the marriages worked out, and, in the end, all Nusaybah was left with was dizzy exhaustion, as if she had been on a long roller coaster ride that wouldn’t switch off.
The story was Nusaybah’s way of telling Sarah not to blame her husband, and that perhaps there was some wisdom in him keeping her uninformed in the beginning. What good would it have done, except guarantee that her current stress would have been endured that much longer?
As Sarah sat in Nusaybah’s sitting room, the tray of crackers and juice before her, she had been convinced of the wise woman’s words, even if only momentarily. Sarah was surprised at the thought that had come next. I wish he never told me. I can’t take this anymore. But she scolded herself for thinking like that and knew it was only her desperation for reprieve talking then. In her right mind, she would want what he was trying to give her right then, though he was a bit late. Openness and honesty.
“Where were you?” Ismael asked, looking worried, standing up suddenly, still dressed in his work clothes as she entered.
“Nusaybah’s.” She ran a hand over her flattened hair as she sat on the edge of the bed.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I thought I’d be back before you.”
“You could’ve called me on my cell or at work.”
“I didn’t think about it.”
“Sweetheart,” he said, waiting until she met his gaze. His voice held an edge of upset and frustration. “I was worried about you.”
She stifled laughter. “I thought you’d be too busy with your young, beautiful wife-to-be to notice me.”
He sighed, scratching at his beard as his gaze went momentarily to the ceiling. “Sweetheart, please don’t do this to us.”
Sarah narrowed her eyes as if daring him. “Do what, Ismael?”
“Go on like this.” He took a deep breath and exhaled. “You can’t let this destroy our family.”
“What?” She could hardly believe her ears. “If anyone’s destroying the family, you are.”
His shoulders slouched slightly, as if too exhausted to argue right then, and he walked over to the dresser and sat on the edge of it, his arms folded. His gaze was down, as if he were in deep thought. But still, he said nothing.
The silence was awkward, and Sarah started to say something, but stopped herself. She was afraid of a repeat of the day he had walked out. She needed him home today, because she had something important to say to him. She knew it would be difficult for him to accept. But she could no longer live a lie. She was nobody’s co-wife, and she would never be. She was Sarah. Okay, almost fifty, but she wasn’t as unattractive and outdated as he was making her feel. Alika may have her beat in youthful beauty, but the girl couldn’t hope to compete with Sarah in… In what? Her inability to complete the thought upset her more, and she couldn’t sit here allowing him to look wounded any longer.
“I came home early, Sarah,” he said, “because I really need to talk.”
“And I need to talk to you.”
“Do you mind if I go first?”
“Yes, I do mind. But since nothing that I mind has really mattered lately,” she said sarcastically, “I think you should go on.”
He was silent again, and he rubbed a hand over his face, clearly drained from whatever was on his mind. One arm was folded over his chest, and he toyed with his beard hair with the other. He was not looking at her but at something in the distance on the floor. His silence unnerved Sarah, and she didn’t know what else to do but talk.
“I guess that means you want me to go first.” She drew in a deep breath before exhaling, deciding to cut to the chase.
“I’m not going to support you in this,” Sarah said, apologizing in her voice. At that he lifted his head and furrowed his brows as he met her gaze, still pulling on his beard hair. She looked away then stood, folding her arms, her gaze on the landscape painting hanging behind him on the wall. “I’m sorry, Ismael. But I’m not wiling to be a co-wife.”
His expression didn’t change, and he continued to play with his beard, saying nothing. Their eyes met, and he held her gaze. Sarah felt awkward, and she gathered her eyebrows and shook her head slightly, as if saying, What’s going on with you? But he did not respond, and his stilled expression made her feel as if he were seeing her for the first time. It was a look that told Sarah, whatever he was seeing, he didn’t like, but accepted because it came with the package. All the while, he continued to pull at his beard hair, and Sarah couldn’t take it anymore.
“What did you want to talk about?”
At first she thought he hadn’t heard her, but a moment later, she saw the slight shake of his head. “Nothing,” he nearly mumbled. “Nothing that matters now.”
For a few more seconds, he continued to look at her with furrowed brows as he played with his beard. Then he stood, walked over to the nightstand and picked up his keys.
Sarah’s heart sank at the realization of what was about to happen—again. Inside, she felt the heat rising in her chest, and she refused to let him treat her so cruelly. She walked behind him, as if daring him to walk out the door.
“Where are you going?”
“Out.” He didn’t even turn around.
She followed him down the steps.
“Where?” she demanded.
“Out,” he said louder, still not turning around.
“I have a right to know where you’re going, Ismael. That’s the least you could do.”
His left foot had just landed on the foyer floor when he turned around suddenly, a look of disgust in his eyes. Sarah halted her descent nearly running into him from where she now stood on the last step, her head slightly above his, her eyes still narrowed in her demand.
“Funny,” he said, glowering, and she could feel the warmth of his breath on her face, “that’s the same thing I thought when I came home an hour ago. And since you’ve been asking me to play fair lately, let’s call it even. You’ll find out when I get back.”
With that, he slipped on his shoes and was out the door. Less than a minute later, Sarah heard his car start and the sound of it fade as he drove away. For a moment, she couldn’t believe what had just happened. As it settled on her, she felt the familiar panic in her chest and welling in her eyes. But she refused to breakdown. If he wanted to act like a spoiled child, let him. She wasn’t going to play along. He was not going to get to her like that. No, she would not cry. Not tonight. She would find an old movie to watch, maybe ask Aminah to join her, and they would have a ladies’ night out.
Yes, she should have called him. That much she could give him. But it hadn’t crossed her mind. Besides, she would never have imagined he would mind. After all, the visit was for him, for them.
She was suddenly reminded of the reason she had gone to Nusaybah’s. Sarah thought she could get some advice, had hoped and prayed Nusaybah would say something, anything, that could help her hold on to her crumbling marriage. At the thought of her earlier desperation, which no doubt made her forget to inform Ismael of where she’d gone, her shoulders fell, and no matter how much she tried to stop them, the tears, the infamous tears, burst from her eyes, leaving her in a pathetic state as she fell to a huddle on the bottom steps, unable to control the pain, the hurt. Unable to control her life.
In the car as he drove, Ismael exhaled in relief. The house had been too suffocating for him. He couldn’t take it anymore. For three weeks, Sarah had done nothing other than fluctuate between being understanding and impossible. He had actually made himself believe her advice to do what was best and to pray to Allah was sincere. And that her impossible moments were just her emotions getting the better of her. But now he wondered if he was wrong. Was this what it was like to have two families? If so, he doubted he wanted even one. If he could fast forward to Paradise, if Allah had written it as his home, he would. He was tired of all the pressure, all the confusion, all the emotions of this world.
He loved Sarah more than anything. What did he have to do to make her understand? Spray paint it across the cement on an interstate overpass?
For five months all he had been doing was trying to do what was right. His biggest fear through it all was that he would lose Sarah in the process of figuring it out. He had prayed so many supplications, so much Istikhaarah, and sought so much advice, even from Sarah herself, that he really didn’t know what else to do. The signs were that he should go ahead and marry Alika, even as he knew that, naturally, Sarah was going to have a hard time. He had even told Sarah five days before that he and Alika had pretty much decided they would get married. It was just a matter of paperwork and a date. That was his way of saying that they would do a written contract before the actual marriage ceremony. Sarah had merely nodded, that distant look in her eyes and said nothing except, “Pray on it. Do what’s best.”
In retrospect, Ismael imagined she was like a robot these past three weeks. It was as if there were an assortment of small buttons all over her that resulted in only one of two commands. Problem was, he didn’t know which button set off which, and sometimes pressing the same button triggered the opposite command it had last time. “Pray on it. Do what’s best,” was the recording of one button, and the other was sounds of hollering, crying and the accusation, “How could you do this to me?”
Tonight his calm had scared him, and to think he had taken off early from work to spend time with her. It was on his drive home that he realized he might need to repeat the conversation he had had with her five days ago, sensing that what he had told her had not quite registered. After her “talk” with him a few minutes before, he knew that “had not registered” was an understatement.
What was he supposed to do now? He and Alika had already done the written contract on Sunday, and although they planned to have a large ceremony in October so her parents could come, it would make no difference to Sarah. She would accuse of him lying again when in fact he had sat in the same room they had today and explained what he and Alika planned to do—before they actually did. He had even mentioned that they would take care of the paperwork first and work out a date for the ceremony later. Had she even heard him? Or was she really losing her mind, as she appeared to be?
Alika had written in the contract that they would have no marital rights until the ceremony, and Ismael agreed. It gave Sarah time to grow accustomed to the reality of polygamy without actually experiencing the emotional turmoil it would bring.
But tonight, as he drove to Alika’s condo, which he only knew because he recognized the address as being in the same community as a co-worker of his, it scared him that he didn’t even care anymore. Ismael watched Sarah spew her sarcasm after she had casually walked into the house. He had been worried sick for over an hour, having been looking forward to spending the afternoon with her. Not even Aminah knew that her mother had gone, let alone where.
After the argument, Ismael’s heart felt numb, and he thought, Let her go. After all, he had no control over anything. If there was anything he learned through this, it was that Allah was in charge, and humans were powerless without Him.
Yes, he loved his wife, but in the last three weeks, it was growing harder, beneath all the mood swings, to recognize the woman he had married. He understood that this would be hard for her, but wasn’t she going overboard?
Or was he just being irrational?
No, he wasn’t being irrational. If nothing else, they were Muslim, and sarcasm was never okay. Ismael felt as if Sarah had been lying in wait to pounce on him in her fury. And, frankly, he didn’t have the energy, or the time. People went through worse in life. He could handle it if Sarah left. Besides, even if he came home and announced that Alika had fallen off the face of the earth, he knew Sarah, still, would never let him live down the fact that he ever wanted to marry Alika in the first place. Sarah felt as if he owed her every bit of his time, every detail of his thoughts and movements of the day. And she had even had the audacity to demand he tell her where he was going tonight. Did she see herself, hear herself? Did she ever take a moment to think about what she was doing from one minute to the next?
No, he was not going to apologize for fearing Allah. He was not going to apologize for wanting something Allah allowed, and doing it right at that. He didn’t want a future without Sarah. But at this point he was beginning to accept that it wasn’t his decision. The decision was hers. He didn’t have to choose.
Finally, he really didn’t have to choose.
As a man, Ismael couldn’t begin to put into words how relieved that made him feel.
Alika seemed disoriented when he said his name through the door and she opened it, a pleasant look of surprise on her face.
After stepping inside, she closed the door behind him, and he couldn’t keep from staring at Alika. She was so beautiful in her African wrap-around skirt, held closed with a knot tied at one side, and a short-sleeved fitting pale yellow T-shirt that matched the yellow strokes of the skirt. He pushed his hands into his pockets.
“Mind if I come inside?” he asked from where he stood in the small foyer.
She laughed, and he noted how beautiful her smile was. He noticed then that she held a soda can in one hand. “You’re already inside.”
He forced a smile and nodded. “Yes, I suppose I am.”
Although he knew he was doing nothing wrong, that Alika was technically his wife, he couldn’t shake the feeling of awkwardness at being in the condo with her. They had never talked alone before, and it felt weird.
But he couldn’t deny it felt good too, and relaxing. He could get used to this. He studied the way Alika’s hair was pulled away from her face with a pale yellow headband, making her antique bronze skin glow, and the baby hair at her hairline accented her striking, youthful face.
“I hope I didn’t disturb you,” he said.
She laughed. “You can come inside, Ismael. It’s okay. I don’t bite.”
He laughed again, realizing he hadn’t even taken off his shoes or left the foyer yet. He slid off his shoes and found a space on the couch before she disappeared into the kitchen. He found himself relaxing as he looked around Alika’s home, his wife’s home. The mere thought of the word wife made him nervous as he remembered feeling on first dates. But this was not a date. There was no need for pretension. He could relax and be himself. This was his wife Alika he was visiting, not a woman who was looking for flaws he would inadvertently reveal.
As she carried a tray of food from the kitchen and knelt to set it before him, he found himself wishing it were October already.
“What’s the occasion?” Alika asked, a smile on her face from where she sat a comfortable distance from him, an arm relaxed and outstretched, a hand resting on the back of the couch just inches from his shoulder, the other having picked up the soda can she left on the table in front of the couch.
He linked his hands in his lap and tried to keep from looking at her too much. It was as if she were the painting of a beautiful woman in a multicultural museum. Except she was real.
“Just wanted to see where you lived,” he said. “And if you’d let me in.”
She grinned and shook her head, taking a sip from the can before waiting for him to meet her gaze. “Now why wouldn’t I let you in? You’re my husband, remember?”
At that, he smiled. “Can you believe it though?”
She shook her head, still grinning. “No, I can’t.”
“I feel honored.”
Her ebony eyes sparkled as she laughed. “Honored? Why?”
“To have you.”
“I never thought I’d make anyone feel honored.”
“Well, I feel honored,” he said, feeling himself relax at the honesty of his words. “I hope you don’t mind if this becomes my oasis of sorts.”
“You’re welcome here anytime.” A moment later, she stood, as if remembering something.
“I’ll be right back,” she said before disappearing into the back and returning a minute later. His heart raced as she approached him, and he wondered if it would be too much to give her a hug. She stood before him with a lone key dangling from a key ring she held in her hand.
“What’s this?” He accepted it and stared at the key in his palm.
“I’ll give you one guess.” He felt the sofa cushions move slightly as she sat back down.
At that, Ismael smiled.
“Welcome home.”
He laughed uncomfortably. “After reading your conditions, I was afraid you’d include a restraining order to see them through.”
She burst out laughing. “I hope it didn’t sound that bad.”
He shook his head. “No, but October just seems so far away.”
“Yes.” She nodded, and a smile remained as her tone grew serious. “But it’s best, you know, given everything.”
“I know.” He gazed at her for a moment, a smile tugging at his lips. “I’m just letting you know how hard this will be for me.”
“Honestly, I don’t mind.”
He gathered his eyebrows as he continued to hold her gaze. “You’re not suffering?” he joked.
She shook her head, a pleasant expression still on her face. “I’ve learned patience pays off in the end.”
He nodded. “That’s true.”
They were silent momentarily, and Ismael reached for what looked like a spring roll and brought it to his mouth.
“I don’t want to be who you run to when things go sour with Sarah,” Alika said so bluntly that Ismael thought he imagined it at first. But a look to his right told him, despite her relaxed appearance and slight smile, Alika was not joking. Her wit embarrassed him, and he couldn’t hold her gaze. For a minute, he ate in silence, not knowing what else to say.
“I’ll wait till next October if that’s when you’ll be ready for us.”
“I’m ready for us now,” he said, discreetly wiping imagined crumbs from his mouth.
She smiled and shook her head. “No, you’re not. You’re still scared that she’ll leave you.”
He didn’t know what to say. But he couldn’t help realizing in that moment, he had made the right choice in a wife.
“You’ve nothing to lose if October comes tomorrow,” she said. “But I lose everything.”
“I wouldn’t say I’ve nothing to lose.” He was offended, but he tried not to show it.
“Even if you never met me, Ismael, you’re still a man, a Muslim man.”
“Before I met you, I never wanted to marry anyone else.” His words were coming from his heart, and he felt the fear he had when he was in the imam’s office and realized he might lose Sarah.
At that, Alika smiled, but it was a hesitant smile, and her gaze grew distant as she looked toward the hall. “And before I met you, I never wanted to marry a married man.” She shook her head in reflection. “You know, I never wanted to live my mother’s life.” She started to laugh but couldn’t. “And in a way, I guess I got my wish.”
He was silent as he listened.
“I get my stepmother’s instead.” This time she laughed, but it was at the irony rather than humor of it. “And, honestly, I don’t know what’s worse.”
Ismael picked up the glass of water in front of him and took a sip, unsure what to say.
“I used to think my stepmother had it the easiest.” She sighed, reaching forward to put her can on the table then placing her hands in her lap. “Now I don’t know.”
He considered it before saying, “I just hope I can make it worth it. I want you to be happy.”
She nodded. “I know. But you’re still not ready to take on two families. I knew that on Sunday.”
He gathered his eyebrows and looked at her, but she didn’t meet his gaze.
“My father never brought my stepmother into our home, and he never brought my mother into his home in Nigeria. And I don’t mean physically. I mean the relationship.” She smiled hesitantly as she remembered something.
“My mother told me once that she didn’t visit Nigeria after the marriage because my father made her feel so much like his only wife that she didn’t want to remind herself that she wasn’t.”
Ismael was quiet as he listened, studying his wife’s distant expression before she finally met his gaze.
“I want to know what she meant.” She paused. “I hope you can understand that.”
He nodded as he looked away from her in deep thought. “I think I can.”
“If Allah wills,” she added.
“Yes, inshaAllaah.”
“Thanks for stopping by,” Alika said, and Ismael knew at that moment she was asking him to go. She stood, and he didn’t know what else to do but stand too. “I appreciate it.”
“Then why do I have to go?” he joked.
“We both know why.” She folded her hands across her chest, a clear indication he would not get even a handshake today. But she smiled, and he saw in her eyes the kindness there.
“If you can’t be there for Sarah right now, when she needs you most,” she said as he slipped on his shoes, “I’m afraid of what that means for me when I need you too.”
Despite how much her words hurt, Ismael was certain at that moment Allah had guided him correctly by allowing him to marry Alika,.
“Right now, I’m your oasis because I’m new.” Her arms were still folded from where she stood near the couch. “But the only reason I married you, Ismael, is because I knew that one day, I won’t be new. I’ll be a little like Sarah is now.” She smiled. “Someone you can sit down with and talk to. We can kick back and remember the first day we met so many years ago, and know that whatever happens, whatever we go through, you’ll be here for me, and I for you. And with Allah’s help, nothing, and no one will be able to take that from us.” She paused then added with a smile, “Except us.” She met his gaze. “And I have faith you would never do that.”