I knocked on the door. It was quiet on this cul-de-sac, under the shadows of bare autumn trees outstretched like haunting figures. Cars passed infrequently with a whoosh. I looked left to right; not a single light flickered, not a single soul shifted.
“Yoooooooooooooo!” Jalil said from behind the door. He swung it open and held his arms wide apart.
“Yoooooooooooooo!” I replied, with equal enthusiasm; the length of the “o” in the greeting indicated how excited we were to see each other. We hugged and held it a little longer than we usually would. Jalil had just returned from a long trip to Afghanistan to visit family. His trips would often extend to volunteering with a local orphanage, school, crisis center, humanitarian aid center, or exploring the wilderness, with no connection to the outside world, to find himself.
“Come in, man. Come in,” he insisted, as I entered and took off my shoes. He lived in a two-story house, with a garden and a garage. He was an only child; his mother, an English woman, had passed before he entered secondary school, and his father, having waited until Jalil graduated from university and could take care of himself, had returned to his home village to remarry, open a small school, and start a new family, leaving Jalil in the house by himself. He wore a long, flowing thobe over his peach-olive-skinned and six-foot-plus frame, with size thirteen feet protruding from beneath.
“I got back last week,” Jalil answered as we walked into the kitchen.
“How was it?”
“You know how it is.” He looked at me with solemnness and serenity. “Really puts everything in perspective,” he added, the music of his voice shifting from major key to minor.
“Anyway, what are you saying?” he asked enthusiastically as the kettle boiled. He served green tea for both of us. He was the kind of person who, when they asked this question, of how you were, they meant it. They really wanted you to say how things really were, the bad and the good, the ugly and the beautiful. This did not make the question any easier to answer, at least not for me. Because what was I supposed to say? Good? Great? Even though I felt as though things were falling apart?
“All good,” I answered, not sure whether I was trying to convince him or myself.
He looked at me curiously, with investigative eyes. I looked away.
“Just work and the usual grind,” I added. I wanted to tell him about this growing feeling of isolation, despair, hopelessness; I was a burden to the world, to everyone around me. There was an engulfing grayness creeping in from the corners of my being to the core. I couldn’t tell if this was imagination or reality, but I knew it was there.
Jalil and I entered the living room—where he slept, ate, and read—which he referred to as “the Cave—Plato’s, not Batman’s,” flexing the remnants of his politics, philosophy, and economics degree from Oxford like a man in front of a mirror at the gym, and sometimes “the Cave—the Prophet’s, of course, peace be upon him,” which cave depending on whether he was wearing the thobe or not. He slumped onto the wide sofa bed, sending the laptop jumping up and down, and I slumped onto the beanbag on the floor in the middle. Looking around, I thought the room could be described as a vintage collectors’ museum: VHS tapes, cassettes, game console with the cartridges, a record player in the corner, shelves of classic books in their original hardbacks, a pair of Air Jordans, and various pieces of art.
“Where did you get that from?” I asked, pointing my cup of tea toward the painting of a floating planet in front of a backdrop of constellations and shooting stars, and a spaceship whizzing by.
“It’s mine.”
“I know that, I’m asking where you got it from.”
“No, it’s mine as in I painted it.”
“What?” I got up for closer inspection. “It’s so detailed. When did you do this?”
“A little while ago. I’ve been taking an art class.”
“No way. Wow. You kept that one a secret.”
He shrugged in response, picked up the laptop, and flipped it open. His fingers scattered rapidly across the keyboard, followed by one loud tap; scattered across, tap; repeated rhythmically, as if adding a full stop to a long sentence each time.
“Bro, I’m getting old.”
I chuckled at his random existential outburst.
“What do you mean?”
“I had to sign up to this dating site. Look.” He flashed the laptop briefly at me, but not long enough for me to really look.
“It’s a website for single Muslims looking for marriage.”
“Marriage? Are you trying to turn a hijabi into a housewife?”
“Ha, yeah, something like that. It’s time for me to get serious. I’m nearly thirty.”
“Are you sure that’s the only reason?”
“Well, that and the fact that Baba keeps stressing me out. He says if I don’t find someone soon, he’s going to set me up with some girl from the village.”
“That might not be a bad thing. What if she’s fine?”
“He showed me pictures…”
I looked at him for a reaction. He waited for me to say something.
“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.”
“Well, I don’t wanna be holding no one in those pictures,” he replied, and laughed an uneasy kind of laugh, a shortness of breath.
“Surely you saw some beautiful village girls while you were back?”
“Bro, I couldn’t stop seeing them.”
“I’m sure.”
“No, I mean. They were all beautiful, it’s a different kind of beauty. Your eyes just adjust, you look through a different lens. Non-Eurocentric beauty ideals… decolonize, innit.”
“So why didn’t you say hello, go and speak to some?”
“It doesn’t work like that.” Jalil laughed at my naïveté. “It’s not like I can just go and say, ‘Hey baby, how you doing?’ There’s tradition, and culture to follow. I have to speak to my Baba and my Baba goes and talks to their Baba. Imagine your dad being your wingman.”
“Well, you’ve got to do something. Otherwise your dad is going to keep choosing for you.”
“It’s just so hard to meet someone, though. Dating is impossible. You meet someone, and you have to do all the nice things and go to places neither of you really want to go; if you’re lucky, you make a connection, and then they just end up ghosting you.”
“Or you ghosting them. Sounds as if you’re scared of commitment… attachment issues.”
“Okay, relax with the Freudian analysis, I was actually hugged enough as a child. The only thing I’m scared of is committing to the wrong person.” Jalil paused for a moment, as if looking into a future that petrified him.
“That’s why I’m creating this profile,” he continued. “It cuts through the mess. I’m not quite sure what to say though. Shall I just tell them I ride a motorcycle?”
“That will get you married off in no time.”
“Seriously?” He started to type rapidly.
“No!” I replied, waving my hands. “I think women look for a bit more substance in a husband than whether or not they have a motor.”
“It’s the size of the motor that really matters though, right?”
“No. Stop. Look, how about I write the profile for you.”
“What?!” he said, in a panicked, high-pitched voice.
“It makes sense, think about it. We’re best friends. I know you better than anyone else, sometimes better than yourself. Eh?”
“You’re never going to let that go, are you?”
“Never, ever.”
“Fine, go on then.” He threw the laptop across the air, and I watched it drift and fall comfortably into the space beside me on the beanbag. I opened the laptop and stretched my fingers theatrically. I looked up and saw him staring at me with nervous curiosity and anticipation. Once finished, I closed the laptop and threw it back to him. He eagerly snatched it midair.
“ ‘Hi, my name is Jalil, I’m a soon-to-be-thirty traveler, adventurer, and liver of life. I am passionate about politics and philosophy, learning about different cultures, languages (I can order food in five languages and I know how to laugh in every language), and people. I like to paint and go on long walks. I’m just looking for someone to join me on this long walk of life.’ That’s not bad, bro, well done… Wait, there’s more. ‘If all of that doesn’t interest you, I have a really cool motorbike. Big engine.’ Ha! What happened to all that ‘women look for a bit more in a husband’?”
“I’m just trying to widen your chances. You’re not working with much.”
Jalil pulled a face that resembled a meme. The clock struck midnight.
“I need to go, I have work in the morning,” I said, halfway falling asleep.
As soon as the alarm rang, I knew I was late. I ran straight into the bathroom. I brushed my teeth and had a quick shower. I left, slamming the front door, as if fleeing for my life; shirt flapping in the wind, tie flailing behind me, rucksack bumping up and down on my back. A cheap imitation of Clark Kent out of the phone booth as Superman, only without the powers; perhaps Teacher Man could be a superhero? Saving everyone but himself. God, I hate my job.
Eight a.m. I texted Sandra. I did not wait for a reply. I flew down the escalators, my feet barely touching the steps. I was temporarily blocked by someone standing on the left—definitely a tourist, an annoying 8 a.m. tourist, an annoying 8 a.m. tourist who should have been avoiding the rush hour. I maneuvered around them. “Next train in 4 mins.” “Aaargh,” I groaned, and everyone around me froze and watched in silence, doing that thing where they pretend not to have heard or seen you. The train arrived and I forced my way on, surrounded by bad breath, sweat patches, and waistlines touching too close for comfort.
“SETTLE DOWN!” The class immediately fell silent as I walked into the classroom. Students sitting on the tables went back to their chairs; another slowly lowered his arm in mid-throw, scrunched-up paper ball in hand. There was an expression of relief on the face of the substitute teacher whose name I had not bothered to remember.
“Thank you, miss. I’ll continue from here.” She smiled. “Excited eighth-graders,” I whispered to her as she gratefully left the classroom.
“You should know better than to mess around when you have a substitute teacher. You’re better than that. And anyway, I find out everything in the end, don’t I? Marlon? Ruby? Jasvinder?”
“Ah, sir, you can’t bait out man’s government. It’s Jazz.”
“I find out everything, don’t I… Jasvinder?” I repeated, locking eyes.
“Sorry, sir,” he replied, mumbling in defeat.
“Now, open your books, we’re going to have silent reading for the remainder of the lesson.” The class groaned in unison.
“I said silent!”
RIP Michael Kabongo. Time of death: 11:35 a.m.
Cause of death: unknown—may involve rude, screaming children and stress. Tombstone reads: “Herein lies a man, who died as he lived: tired.”
Ha! That is too funny. Where are you?
I die, and you think it is funny? How insensitive.
Where are you??
I don’t even know why I’m surprised. I should never have expected more of you.
Where are you??!!!
I’m in my grave.
Okay, this whole dead joke is dead now. Where are you?
I’m in class.
Oh, you made it in then.
Yes. I was late. Didn’t you get my text?
No.
Well, this is awkward.
Aren’t you coming out for break? Come to the staff room.
Why?
I’m there.
…
Fine.
I’m too tired. It’ll be a miracle if I leave this chair, let alone go to the staff room. And I’m on duty today.
You want me to cover you?
OMG, would you?
No.
Wow.
Oh, well! There goes the bell! Good luck!
The shrieks and roars of excited students quickly filled the corridors. Ten-fifty a.m. The day had barely even started, and I was already prepared for it to end. I wheeled my chair along to the door.
“Err, eleventh grade, you’re supposed to be lining up quietly,” I said, raising my voice above theirs. They slowly shuffled into line.
“Sir, why are you sitting down?” asked Alex all the A’s.
“I… I hurt my leg.”
He looked at me as if to say, yeah right; so much so that I could almost see the judgment in his eyes. They settled into class.
Is this life?
The class eventually finished. The eleventh-grade students packed up and went to lunch. The door was left open. I mumbled words of discontent under my breath. I rolled over to close the door. Sandra appeared and started laughing at me. Tempted as I was to close the door in her face, I decided to let her in.
“You didn’t reply to my message.”
She placed a sandwich on my desk.
“You brought me food?”
“Well, after how you sounded this morning, and after seeing your last message, I thought you’d need a bit of cheering up.”
“Aw, thank you, work-wife. Tuna and sweet corn… my favorite.”
“With mayo. Yeah, your favorite. How are you feeling?”
“My legs feel like I’m being stabbed with a thousand tiny needles. I haven’t got up from this chair since I first sat down in first period. And I refuse to get up for the rest of the day.” Sandra laughed at another case of my “dramatic ridiculousness,” which I did not—now or ever—consider dramatic or ridiculous. I noticed how gentle her face appeared when she laughed; how her cheekbones lifted, her chin relaxed into itself, dimples dipped, and eyes closed, creasing at the corners.
“Wait! Aren’t you supposed to be on duty?”
“Ohhhhh…” I groaned, and held back the next few words. I always tell the kids, swearing is a limitation of vocabulary, but sometimes it’s a perfect encapsulation of an emotion, because when you’re at work and want to quit, the only fitting words are “fuck this shit.” That’s how I felt right now. I attempted to drag myself out, still on my chair, as Sandra giggled in the back.
“Fifteen minutes have already passed. If I don’t go, it’s not like anyone is going to notice.”
Sandra lifted her shoulders and shrugged in response. I rolled my chair back behind my desk.