22. THE NEW APARTMENT

SADIA’S stay at her grandmother’s was difficult from the start; Mana got it wrong.

She was not the only young woman in the big house on Rutger: Her best friend, Sofia—her grandmother’s second-youngest child—had come home with her baby girl after a short, unhappy marriage.

Sadia hoped she would have more freedom at her grandmother’s house. That she could come and go as she pleased. But her grandmother did not turn a blind eye on her and Sofia.

In some ways, she was stricter and fiercer than Zahara.

“Every single day, my mom was kicking us out,” said Sofia, a soft-spoken 22-year-old. “She was always yelling and busting down doors.”

From Halima’s perspective, she had two vulnerable young women under her roof, who every single day were breaking rules. She clashed with them constantly—about where they went and who they saw.

Within their extended family, Halima is deeply respected. “She has the last word on everything,” Sofia said. “My dad is her number two.”

Halima shepherded numerous children through an epic run from their village in Somalia to a refugee camp in Kenya. People still talk about it with awe.

She saw terrible things on that run.

She took care of her own kids and Zahara’s in the camp. She helped smooth things during the family’s refugee application process.

And though she cannot speak English—or read or write—she bought the enormous house on Rutger and opened its doors to relatives.

But she expected proper Somali Bantu behavior from her family, not American-style behavior.

When Sofia was in high school, a neighbor reported she had walked home with a boy. Furious, Halima threw Sofia’s clothes onto the lawn.

This happened again. And again.

Recently, Halima has been angry that Sofia chose her own husband—and the marriage failed.

“We picked our own people for you!” she keeps telling Sofia. Halima married her first cousin—and she wanted Sofia to marry a cousin from their village. Many Somali Bantus believe such marriages strengthen family ties.

“You did this to yourself!” she flung at Sofia.

The new level of turmoil alarmed Sofia. She worried about how her baby and niece were being affected.

“I wanted to get Amrah and Sadia out.”

So, she and Sadia did something rare for two young Somali Bantu women: They began looking on Craigslist for their own apartment.

The apartment on Dudley Avenue was large and airy. It was about a mile from Halima’s house.

There was a long living room and dining room, and three bedrooms off to the side. A light-filled kitchen painted sky blue was at the back. There was no furniture. Just a couple of metal folding chairs.

On their second day as apartment dwellers, their refrigerator already contained bottles of water, a pineapple, a big cabbage, orange and yellow peppers, and a bunch of carrots.

The two young women had not only moved outside their family’s sphere, they had formed a new family unit. Sofia was working as a certified nurse assistant at a nursing home, doing double shifts on the weekend. Sadia took care of 8-month-old Amrah, whom she loved.

Sadia hoped to get a part-time job that suited Amrah’s schedule. But she was not sure what to apply for. She had been a cashier at Walmart and hated it. And she did not picture herself a CNA like Sofia. “She is really patient,” Sadia said. “I get angry quick. If somebody forgets something . . .”

But so far, even without Sadia working, they were able to afford the $800 rent.

The baby’s dad was not missed, Sadia said. It was late morning; she had just awakened and was in a long green nightgown and braids. She held Amrah as she tidied up the apartment.

“He went back home to Kentucky. He’s useless. We don’t need him.”

This was not exactly true: Sofia had hoped he would be a father to Amrah. And it pained her that he did not seem interested. He had visited a couple of times. But he came empty-handed; she felt he was only interested in getting her back.

Sofia—who was five feet tall and petite—came into the living room with a prayer rug. She had only 10 minutes before heading out to work. Despite the hardship of her breakup—and the months of fighting with her mother—she looked clear-eyed and well.

“I’ve never felt so comfortable,” Sofia said.

She laid out the rug, getting herself ready to pray.

As Sofia prostrated herself, Sadia said, “I’ve got to start praying, too.”

A few minutes later, casting a quick look at Amrah in Sadia’s arms, Sofia headed out.

Sadia’s family was not surprised she moved out of her grandmother’s house.

“I’m different,” she said, carefully steering Amrah away from a bucket of bleach. “I’m not into what everybody else in the family is into—like Indian movies. My sisters can speak Hindi because they’ve been watching those movies since they were born.”

But then her cell phone rang, and her face lit up: It was Ralya. She was at Walmart, about to take her break. What did Sadia want for lunch?

“Just get me the chicken, any kind,” Sadia said, watching the baby padding around by the kitchen cabinets.

“You want the rice?”

“Yes.”

“What else?”

“Macaroni and cheese.”

“What else?”

“Just pick stuff.”

Then Sadia heard thud. For a second, her eyes had left Amrah; the baby overturned the bucket of bleach. As she sat there, startled—and soaked—Sadia scooped her up.

She quickly stripped off Amrah’s clothes and bathed her. Then she wrapped the chubby, squirming baby in a towel—and whistled what sounded like a bird call: wher, wher . . .

“She loves making a mess and hates being cleaned up,” Sadia said, putting Amrah down for a nap.

Ralya came in, sumptuous in a flowing navy dress and hijab, her nails painted orange. She was carrying take-out food from Walmart. Happy to be on her break, she started talking about one of her favorite subjects: Who has the most power in the family?

“I’m the ruler of the house!” said Ralya, 21, the second-oldest child. “I make sure everybody gets something for their birthday. Make sure they get treated equal.”

“Mana likes the boys in the family,” Sadia said, eating chicken fried rice.

“Maybe she runs things with the two little boys,” Ralya said. “I like the girls.”

“I take the kids to school events,” she went on. “I’ve never missed one parent meeting. Yesterday was Math Day. There was International Day.”

“Mom was always working,” she added. “I didn’t want the kids to feel left out, like they were missing something.”

Sadia listened silently.

“They’re winning prizes,” Ralya said, proudly, about her younger sisters. “Both Zamzam and Halima got awards for being the most kind.” “At home, they’re no better,” Sadia said.

“They are so good!” Ralya said. “They help sweep the house, wash the dishes.”

“I’m full,” Sadia said, putting the take-out container in the refrigerator. Then she began talking about Mana. “She spoils mom a lot. She does whatever mom wants.”

“I show mom the reality,” Ralya said. “Nobody’s perfect. I don’t do everything she says. I’m not a mommy person. I’m a sister person.”

But she holds their mother in the highest regard: “I’m proud of her!” she said. “She always took good care of us, and of herself.”

“She never made us feel like we needed a dad. I never looked at another girl and thought, ‘I wish I could be like her.’ ”

And Zahara has never pressured her to marry: “Mom leaves it up to me.”

Ralya has high expectations for her future spouse: “I am very spoiled,” she said. “My mom spoils me. My sisters spoil me. I would expect my husband to put me first.”

“To know my personality,” she added. “To appreciate me and my family. They never said ‘no’ to me. I wouldn’t want to disappoint them.”

Sadia was listening closely.

Light shined in through the kitchen window, framing her still-sleepy face and two long braids.

“I kind of believe in soul mates,” she said, quietly. “God gives you the person you’re meant to be with.”