‘D’you want to explain to me what that was all about just now?’ Zayd’s face wasn’t angry, as I had expected it to be. More than anything, he appeared worried, anxious.
‘Zayd…I…’ I knew I had to choose my words carefully. ‘I’m sorry. We were just kidding around, honest. You know what we’re like sometimes…’
Zayd looked at me hard. ‘Ams, you know I only want the best for you, right? And that I’ve got your back, no matter what. But I need to know: is there anything going on between you and Ali Jordan?’
What a question. Was there anything going on between me and Ali – Jordan? Of course not. Like I told Rania, I’d barely spoken to him. And that was the way I wanted it to stay.
It was safer that way.
I shook my head. ‘No, Zayd, there’s nothing going on.’
He looked like he was mulling that over. Then his eyebrow went up and he peered into my face. ‘OK, then, tell me this: do you have any feelings for the brother?’
‘Zayd!’
But he wasn’t backing down. ‘Well?’
‘OK, Zee, look. I’ll admit that he seems like a nice guy. And he’s not so bad looking either.’ Zayd’s eyes started twitching and I laughed. ‘Yes, yes, I know I should be lowering my gaze but I took my one look, all right? Relax!’
Zayd gave a grudging smile. I was too smart for him now.
I continued. ‘But, listen, all joking aside, I know my limits.
And I haven’t done anything wrong, nor am I intending to…’
‘But you admit that you’ve been checking him out?’ Zayd’s eyes were still bugging and I could tell he was trying to hold it down.
‘Zayd,’ I laughed again, ‘please! D’you think it’s only guys that check girls out and talk about which ones are fit and which ones aren’t? Us girls notice too, trust me.’ Then I looked at him slyly. ‘And I don’t mind telling you that you don’t do too badly in the Mottie ratings…’
‘Astaghfirullah, Amirah!’ he cried, shocked. ‘I hope you haven’t been allowing your friends to discuss me!’
I laughed again at his appalled expression. ‘Relax, bro, relax! We haven’t shared our trademarked ‘Mottie Scale’ on the Internet – yet!’
‘All right, all right, you can give it a rest now.’ I had managed to soften him. ‘But don’t think I haven’t noticed that you haven’t answered my question.’
My eyes were wide. ‘What question?’
‘Oh, forget it,’ he huffed, waving his hand at me.
I let out a tiny sigh of relief. I had narrowly avoided a potentially embarrassing conversation – confession – and Zayd wasn’t mad at me. Result!
I turned to leave.
‘Oh, Ams,’ Zayd called after me. ‘My friend, Hassan, the one I told you about? He called me the other day…’
My heart sank. Why was he telling me this? ‘Yeah?’ I squeaked. Sound normal, Amirah, I told myself. Sound normal.
‘Yeah, well, he’s coming to London…’
‘Coming to London?’
‘He’s got some work to do for his dad’s company at their UK office so he asked me to help him out, show him around and that. I thought… I thought maybe you two could have a sit down, y’know, get to know each other a bit…’
I had no words, just anger that he could be so presumptuous, so dismissive of my feelings when I had already made them crystal clear. He must have seen the look on my face because he took my hand and said gently, ‘Ams, I know you. I know you’re fighting this. Please, don’t. Just be open. Remember the hadith: if someone comes to you with good deen and character…?’
I shook my head then, tears forming in my eyes. ‘No, Zayd,’ I said, my voice shaking. ‘Don’t go there. Don’t try and use the deen to browbeat me. You of all people should know why I feel the way I do.’
He let go of my hand then, exasperated. ‘Come on, Ams,’ he said, his voice rising slightly. ‘You can’t keep doing this. Someone tries to give you some advice, tries to remind you about Allah, and you say he’s ‘browbeating’ you, ‘blackmailing’ you, ‘guilt tripping’ you. It ain’t blackmail, sis, it’s the truth from your Lord!’
Then I really started crying. The guilt. I couldn’t stand it: knowing that I felt one way when Islam said I should feel another. Of course, I knew that marriage is Sunnah and that every Muslim should be striving for it, but I told him, ‘I’m sorry, Zayd, it’s just too hard for me… I can’t do it. You’ll just have to accept that.’ And I ran out of the room, up the stairs, to bury my face in my pillow.
***
Later that evening, Mum came up to see me. By that time, I had recovered from my outburst and was busy working on my painting. I had told Colette that I would have it ready for Monday as the competition entry deadline was Friday. I was looking forward to getting her feedback although, secretly, I suspected that this was going to be one of my best pieces.
‘As-salamu ‘alaykum, Ams,’ Mum said, glancing over my shoulder. ‘Oh, that looks nice. Very realistic.’
I looked up at her and smiled. ‘Thanks, Mum.’ It was rare for Mum to comment on my work, even if all she said was that it looked ‘nice’. ‘I’m entering it for a competition down in Croydon, inshallah.’
‘Oh, that’s nice,’ replied Mum, absently fingering my hair. A trim was long overdue.
‘I heard you and Zayd arguing earlier,’ she said, gathering my hair up and spreading her fingers over my scalp from the nape of my neck. I didn’t say anything but closed my eyes and let her give me a head massage, something she hadn’t done for months. ‘You know he only wants what is best for you, Amirah.’
I sighed and pulled away. Turning to face her, I said, ‘I know what’s best for me, Mum. It’s my life, remember?’
Mum smiled then, a pitying look in her eyes. ‘Amirah, as I always taught you: Allah knows best. You’re only 18, y’know. You need to learn to trust Him and stop fighting, hmm?’
I pressed my lips together then, clenching my fists. And, in my head, I said bitterly, What, like you did, Mum? No, sorry, the last thing I want to do is live by the lessons you taught me.