“Your hoyo is worried about you, you know,” said Habaryero as she flipped through a magazine full of bridal hairstyles: updos, chignons, French braids and other, funkier ones like flat twists and cornrows with little shells.
We were sitting in the living room of a Somali lady who had converted one of the rooms in her flat to a hair salon. From there, she offered braiding, hair cuts, straightening, the occasional dye job and henna for brides. The house smelt of bukhoor and hot hair – no doubt from the straightening tongs that she heated up in a little stove for those clients who wanted to get rid of their natural curls for a while.
When she applied the red hot tongs to the hair, there was always a hiss and a small cloud of steam would rise up, carrying with it the smell of burning grease and singed hair. Sounds like torture but, for some, it was a small price to pay to be able to toss their silky straight locks at an aroos.
I was fortunate in that my hair was wavy and quite fine. Hoyo had forbidden me to go anywhere near the iron tongs.
“They will burn the hair off your head, Safia,” she had warned me. “You have soft hair like mine – I don’t want you to go ruining it.”
Anyway, wearing hijab meant that a quick brush and an elastic band were enough for my hair. I had watched Firdous use the ceramic straighteners on her hair – and I couldn’t help but laugh at all the fuss. First was the wrap lotion: smoothed on from root to tip. Then came the protective cream – to guard against the effects of the heat. Then, after the laborious and muscle-straining pulling on sections of hair all the way round with the tongs, there was the shine spray – to get it looking just right. I always found it amusing that all that effort went to waste if we happened to get caught in the rain on the way to the bus stop. Then she would pull her hood up over her head to stop it all frizzing up again and I would laugh at her.
“See?” I would say, “you might as well be wearing hijab like me!”
Of course, she would laugh and stick her tongue out at me.
I wondered whether she would ever wear hijab again.
I had heard some people say that a hijab is just a scarf, but to me, it went much deeper than that. It was a symbol of who I was, a way of telling the world what I stood for. But, more importantly, it was part of my Islam, my identity. To let go of the hijab takes a lot. Sometimes, it’s the last thing you hold on to before you lose it all completely. Wasn’t that what had happened to Firdous?
But if Firdous had lost it completely, where did I stand? I thought about that every time I got home from Firdous’ house, only to realise that I had missed my afternoon prayer, again. I felt sick to my heart, praying ’Asr in a frantic rush to catch the time, even as I heard the adhan clock announce that the next prayer, Maghrib, was due.
I was slipping, I could see that.
But I couldn’t bring myself to do anything about it. No one around me seemed to notice anything different – to them, I was still the same Safia. But I was changing and the only other people who knew that were Hamida and Firdous. But while Hamida was critical of the changes, Firdous encouraged them. She had become the closest person to me, not because she understood me or knew my innermost thoughts like Hamida, but because she was fun to be with. She let me be whoever I wanted to be. She was my escape from all the pressure at home.
I thought about my last conversation with Hamida.
“Can you come over after school on Friday?” she had asked.
Mentally, I weighed up the pros and cons of telling her the truth about my plans, that Firdous and I were going to the movies with Fuad and Amr. But we had made up since our fight and I decided to come clean.
“Firdous and I are meant to meet these guys for a movie…” I said quietly, watching her expression carefully.
“Whaaaat?” she breathed, a horrified look on her face. “Does your mum know about this?”
I shook my head. “Of course not, Hamida, be serious!”
She looked at me then, her eyebrow raised. “Why are you doing this, Safia?” she said at last. “What are you trying to prove?”
I shrugged. “It’s just a movie, Hamida…”
She laughed then. “You and I both know that it’s never ‘just a movie’.” Then she was serious again. “Are you going to take off your hijab?”
“Of course not!” I retorted. “Hamida, don’t worry, I’m not about to go wild. I just want to know what it’s like to be like everyone else.”
“I’m not like everyone else,” said Hamida quietly. “You never wanted that before.” Then she smiled ruefully. “But I suppose you have to discover that for yourself. I’m not supporting you in this, you know, but I know that you’re going to do it anyway. Just be careful, yeah?”
The night before, I had tried to get Ahmed on my side. He had sent me a text, asking me to bring him some fried chicken and chips on my way home. He had lost so much weight, I was happy to bring him whatever he wanted to eat and I smiled as he tore open the box hungrily.
“You want some?” he asked, shaking the box my way.
“No, thanks,” I said. I watched him eat for a while, then said, “Ahmed, what do you think of Somali girls who go to the movies, you know, with guys..?”
Ahmed’s eyebrows shot up immediately. “Nah, sis, don’t you even be thinking along them lines. It’s just asking for trouble. You know that it ain’t allowed and, besides, if I ever catch a guy trying to mess with you, I’ll kill him, OK? No man’s gonna be chirpsing my sister cos all of them got sick, dirty minds. Believe me, I know!”
I couldn’t confide in Ahmed, either.
I shook my head and looked at the page in front of me. I wanted Habaryero to have her hair braided in little plaits, possibly with beads on the ends. She always looked so pretty with that style – she reminded me of a picture I saw once of a Somali nomad, shy and pretty in a really natural way. But Habaryero wasn’t keen on the idea.
“It’s my wedding day, Safia,” she had reminded me, “I want something special, something different…”
“Like this you mean?” I had said, pointing to a woman with short Afro hair dyed blonde.
“Not that different!” she laughed, slapping my leg. “Imagine what the aunties would say about that! But did you hear what I said about your mum?”
“What did she say, Habaryero?”
“She says you’ve been very distant lately, not talking much, not yourself, you know?”
“I’m not sure what she’s talking about, Habaryero,” I replied quietly. But Habaryero noticed my defensive look and made me turn to face her. She looked deep into my eyes. I looked away. Habaryero was just too intuitive by far.
I could feel her eyes on me as I started flipping through the magazine again but she didn’t say anything for a long time. I was aware of her getting up to go the kitchen and I looked up then, relieved. When she came back, she had two cups of tea and she handed me one.
“Thanks, Habaryero,” I said, even though the hot cup burnt my fingers and the sweet tea scalded my lips.
“Safia,” she said finally, “I think you should get out more.”
I looked up at her in surprise. “Get out more?” I asked. “What do you mean?”
“You need to meet more girls your own age, do more stuff, be exposed to different things. I have a friend who I used to go to college with – Umm Abdullah – and she’s set up a youth group for Somali girls. They meet every Friday afternoon. She asked me to invite you to go along…”
“I don’t know about that, Habaryero,” I said warily. “I really don’t think that’s my kind of thing.”
“But how do you know, Safia?” Habaryero’s voice was soothing, persuasive. “How will you know unless you try it?”
“I just don’t find the idea of spending my Friday afternoon at a youth group very appealing, that’s all.”
“Why, have you got other plans, young lady?” She nudged me and I grinned sheepishly. Immediately, I felt a stab of guilt. I couldn’t even be honest with Habaryero about where I was going.
Then I had an idea – a brilliant idea. I was sure Hoyo and Abo would give me permission to go to Habaryero’s youth group. I could simply leave early and catch the movie with Firdous and the guys. No one would ever know that I hadn’t stayed for the whole thing and it meant that I could keep everyone happy.
I smiled up at Habaryero who was still watching me. “OK then,” I said brightly, “I’ll give it a try, insha Allah.”
She smiled broadly. “OK, I’ll tell Umm Abdullah to expect you. Here, let me write down the address for you.” I looked over her shoulder as she wrote and I mentally calculated the distance from the address to the movie theatre.
***
Weaving
Weaving
A web of lies and stories.
Be careful
Be careful
It could get sticky.
***
“What d’you mean you might be a bit late today? Are you bailing out on me?”
“No, Firdous,” I said, trying to calm her down. “I just have to take care of something first, that’s all. I’ll be there before the movie starts; I just won’t be able to go eat with you guys, that’s all.”
“Are you sure, Safia, cos Amr said that Fuad’s looking forward to seeing you – you don’t want to let him down, right?”
I blushed and ducked my head. “Nah, I’ll be there. I’ll chat to you later, yeah, I’ve got to go.”
I looked at Habaryero’s neat handwriting on the scrap of paper in my hand. The place wasn’t far – I would make it on time if I walked quickly.
***
The room where the youth group was meeting was in a small, rundown office block that backed on to a warehouse. Trains rumbled over the bridge above it. I saw a few Somali girls pushing a big green door on the ground floor so I figured we were all going to the same place. We smiled shyly at each other and exchanged greetings when we got to the top.
The room itself was a pleasant change from the shabby courtyard outside. Here, big windows lined the walls and the polished wooden floor was clean. There were some chairs arranged in a circle so I took one nearest the door. My heart thumped as I thought of my plan.
I looked at the other girls in the room, wondering whether anyone could see my ulterior motive, but they all seemed busy with other things. There was quite a mix: younger girls still in uniform, some with glasses, some with braces; girls my age, some in long dark scarves, some in bandanas. I caught sight of one girl who looked different to the others. For a start, I was sure she wasn’t Somali. She was very light-skinned and her eyes were slanted, as if she had Chinese somewhere in her family. She sat with another Somali girl, both of them in very neat hijabs, pinned on the shoulder, with black abaayas and sports shoes. The two of them were talking and I could hear the fair-skinned one saying, “Na’am, walaalo, na’am.” That made me even more curious: an ajanib, speaking Arabic and Somali? What was that all about?
Just then, I heard a loud, “Asalaamu alaikum, girls!” from behind me and I looked around to see a Somali lady in a traditional half jilbab striding into the hall, a chubby little boy slung up on one hip and a gorgeous smile on her face. Everyone turned to her and returned her greeting warmly. I smiled instinctively, and that warm feeling of sisterhood came back for a moment.
She walked to the middle of the circle and smiled again, shifting the baby so that he sat higher on her side.
“I’m sorry I’m late everyone, astaghfirullah,” she said breathlessly. “Are you all OK?”
We all nodded.
“Right, OK, let’s get started then. First, I see we have some new faces here today…”
She looked at me enquiringly. I felt myself blush as all the girls turned to me. “What’s your name, ukhti?” she asked.
“Safia,” I answered, way too softly. “Safia Dirie. My aunt, Na’ima, told me about the group.”
The lady’s face lit up again. “Ah, of course,” she cried, “Masha Allah! Welcome to our group – so glad you could make it.”
The others smiled at me encouragingly.
“And you, ukhti?” She turned to the girl with the Chinese eyes. “What’s your name?”
“Hi… as-salam-alikum,” she said, faltering on the Arabic words, “I’m Lisa… I’m a new Muslim…”
“A new Muslim? Masha Allah!”
“You mean your parents aren’t Muslim?”
“Wow…for real?”
“Welcome to the deen, ukhti !”
Lisa’s words had caused quite a stir. I had never met a convert before. Sure, I had heard of famous converts like Malcolm X and Muhammad Ali and even hip hop stars like Mos Def and the boxer Danny Williams. But I had never met one in the flesh – and definitely not a girl my age.
“How old are you, little sister?”
“Fifteen…” was her reply.
“And what religion were you before?”
“Nothing really – just a party girl, I guess.” Lisa grinned. “Alhamdulillah, Allah guided me – no more guys and miniskirts, eh?” She nudged the girl next to her and they both giggled.
Everyone was full of questions for Lisa, and Umm Abdullah had to try several times before she got our attention.
“OK, OK, girls, take it easy! You can ask Lisa your questions later, let’s get on with the session, OK?”
We all settled down, although I couldn’t help looking over at Lisa admiringly. Here was a girl who had been a typical teenager – a ‘party girl’ – and, without any pressure from parents, community and all that, she had become a Muslim! Now, I love my religion but even I have to admit that it isn’t the easiest way of life. But she had made that change – and from what I could tell, she looked pretty serious about it too. I knew girls who were born and raised Muslim who didn’t cover their hair, let alone cover their clothes with an abaayah! Briefly, I imagined what Firdous would make of Lisa. Firdous was going after everything Lisa had left behind – there couldn’t have been a starker contrast.
Umm Abdullah began handing out some forms. “Please keep one and pass the rest along. This is the letter for your parents about the trip to Manor House.”
“Is that the one you told us about last week?” The girl sitting next to Lisa spoke.
“Yes, that’s right, Maryam,” Umm Abdullah answered. “It’s all confirmed, masha Allah, and we’ve booked the coach. Now all you need to do is get your parents to sign the consent forms. Do you think that’s going to be a problem?”
“Nah, I done told Hoyo about it – she’s cool about it,” said a girl in a tracksuit, putting the form in her bag.
“Yeah man, blatant!” said a girl sitting next to her who was wearing a smart black hijab and a denim jacket. “D’you remember last summer?”
“The midnight walks? And the campfire?”
“That was rough! What about the midnight feasts?”
“I liked the food best…”
“I loved beating you at tennis…”
“It was really nice to all pray together, masha Allah…”
“I’m definitely going, man, no doubt!”
“What about you, Zahra?” Umm Abdullah asked a pretty girl wearing a blue half jilbab. “Will your parents let you come?”
“Insha Allah, it shouldn’t be a problem. My mum knows you and she trusts me so she’s fine about it…”
But not everyone was happy.
“Auntie, it’s not fair,” said a young girl in braces. “My mum said it’s ’eeb for a girl to sleep outside her dad’s house. Is that true, Auntie?”
“Yeah, my dad said the same thing, you know! Can’t you talk to them for us, please?”
“Yeah, we really, really want to come!”
“OK, girls,” said Umm Abdullah at last, “I’ll try – but I can’t promise anything!”
I wondered whether Hoyo would let me go on the trip. It sounded like fun – and the girls seemed nice too. And I really wanted to find out more about Lisa. I folded my form carefully. I would get Habaryero to convince Hoyo, insha Allah.
The rest of the session passed quickly. Umm Abdullah gave a presentation on personal hygiene for Muslim girls (washing after your period, shaving and stuff like that) and we all talked about our favourite subjects at school. It was relaxed and friendly and I found myself enjoying it a lot.
When it was time to pray ’Asr, some of us went to make wudhu in the tiny bathroom.
“Has anyone got a bottle for istinja?” asked one girl.
“Here, use this one,” replied another, handing her a small drinking bottle full of tap water.
“What’s is-tin-ja?” I turned to find Lisa next to me, a confused look on her face.
“Oh, it’s when you wash yourself after you use the toilet,” I told her.
“Ah, seen,” she said, nodding. “Safe…”
“So, have you found it difficult, learning all the rules and stuff?” I really wanted her to tell me why she had left a ‘normal’ life to be a Muslim.
“It’s amazing,” she said, smiling. “Every day I learn something new, something that makes me even happier and prouder to be a Muslim.”
“Masha Allah, that’s really lovely,” said Zahra, the girl in the blue half jilbab who was now standing next to me. “You put us born Muslims to shame, you know. May Allah make us all stronger, ameen.”
Ameen, I said inwardly, ameen.
We all prayed together in rows, our feet and shoulders pressed together, our movements synchronized as we raised our hands, bowed, prostrated.
In the last raka’a, the silent room was suddenly filled with the sounds of Usher’s latest single. I cringed. I had told Firdous not to download that stupid ringtone! But it kept ringing, obscenely loud, and I began to pray that the sister would finish the prayer quickly so that I could go and switch it off.
As soon as the prayer was over, I ran to my seat and pressed the ‘silent’ key. Only then did I answer it.
“Safia, where are you?” Firdous’ voice was shrill. “We’ve been waiting for ages, hurry up!” She hung up.
I looked at my watch and gasped. Was that the time? I looked around quickly. Everyone seemed to be busy, making dhikr or folding up their prayer gowns and the big mat on the floor. Others were in the kitchen, preparing the food. I hesitated. I wanted to stay here, in this warm, friendly place, with these nice sisters. I bit my lip. Maybe I could cancel with Firdous after all.
Then the phone vibrated and I answered it before it could ring.
“Hello?” I answered it, keeping my voice low.
“Hey, girl, what’s poppin’? What’s up with keeping a guy waiting like this?”
It was Fuad.
My pulse started racing as I looked around one more time.
“I’m coming,” I said and grabbed my bag, walking quickly to the exit, looking back once I was out of the door to make sure no one had seen me.
Then I rushed down the stairs of the block and started running down the road.
By the time I got to the movie theatre, I was hot and sweaty. Just outside the building, I tried to get my breath back. I dabbed at my face with a tissue from my bag. When I looked up, I saw Firdous coming towards me, followed by Fuad and Amr.
Firdous had obviously made a huge effort and I could tell that Amr appreciated it by the way he looked at her.
I felt embarrassed by my hijab. Although I had tried to funk up my normal look with some bangles and a low slung belt, I knew that I looked like a kid next to Firdous. I heaved a big sigh. But then I saw Fuad smiling at me with that lopsided smile and my heart skipped a beat. What was it that Firdous had said about girls in hijab who had guys dying to take them out? Well, maybe I was one of those.
“Hey girl,” Firdous hugged me and I smelt her perfume, as cloying as always. Honestly, Firdous, did you have to make it all so obvious? But I smiled and hugged her back.
“Come, let’s go,” said Amr, “the movie’s about to start.”
We all turned to go up the steps to the theatre, Amr with his arm around Firdous, Fuad walking close beside me. I took a deep breath and pushed open the theatre door.
***
The movie theatre was full of kids, eager to get a headstart on the weekend. A rowdy group of girls, still in their uniforms, their ties loose around their necks, talked loudly on their mobile phones and threw popcorn at each other.
There were other couples there, a few big groups and some Somalis too. But I didn’t see anyone else in hijab.
This is wrong, Safia, you shouldn’t be here.
But Fuad had taken my hand and was pulling me to where we were going to sit. My face felt flushed and my hands clammy and, as soon as we sat down, I wiped them on my skirt.
No one spoke as the opening credits appeared on the screen.
The movie began and I looked at the screen, intently, trying not to think of Firdous and Amr who were not watching the movie any more.
This is wrong, Safia, you shouldn’t be here.
The main character made a funny speech and I laughed, trying not to think of Fuad’s arm around the back of my seat, his hand on my shoulder.
This is wrong, Safia, you shouldn’t be here.
I felt Fuad’s fingers stroking my shoulder and I shivered, trying not to think of my knees that had turned to jelly.
But then, as if from nowhere, the sound of Hoyo’s voice was in my ears. “You are special, Safia, you always will be. Don’t give yourself away like something cheap.” And suddenly, it came to me, with blinding clarity, what I was doing, what I was about to let happen. I pulled away from Fuad’s hand, shaking.
“No, Fuad, no…” I stuttered, shaking my head. When I saw the amused look on his face, I realized how babyish I sounded and my face burned. I tried to play it cool while I fumbled around in the dark for my bag. I couldn’t wait to get out of there.
“Sorry, but I’m not feeling this,” I whispered, trying to make my voice sound normal. “This movie’s wack anyway. I’m going to go now…”
Fuad frowned slightly then shrugged his shoulders. “Sure, girl,” he said, coolly, “whatever you say…” And he got up and followed me out to the aisle. I could feel his eyes on me. It was strange: whereas before that look had made me weak in the knees, now it made me feel exposed and vulnerable. I didn’t want to imagine what thoughts were running through his head.
“I done told you, sis, guys have got sick, dirty minds! Don’t you fall for none of their foolishness!” Ahmed’s voice echoed in my head.
I glanced over at Firdous, still in Amr’s arms, and I shook my head. I would call her later.
When Fuad and I stepped out of the building, the late afternoon sun was blindingly bright. I had to stop and blink for several minutes before everything looked normal again.
“Do you want me to drive you home?” asked Fuad, jingling the keys in his jacket pocket.
“Nah,” I said, as casually as I could, “I think I’ll just take the bus.” Really, I just wanted to get as far away from him as possible.
“OK, then, I’ll walk you to the bus stop.”
“You really don’t have to do that,” I said quickly. I started walking, fast, looking straight ahead, trying to make him get the message.
Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a Ford Fiesta, a Nile green one. My heart almost stopped beating. I had only ever seen one Nile green Ford Fiesta in my life and the person who owned it was one of the last people I wanted to see me there in that car park with a strange Somali boy with an earring in his ear.
And, sure enough, seconds later, Uncle Yusuf stepped out of the car. He shaded his eyes from the setting sun and looked around the car park until he was looking directly at me.
“Down!” I hissed at Fuad as I dived behind the nearest car, pulling him down beside me. I pressed my body against the car, my heart hammering, sweat prickling my back, my throat dry with fear.
Uncle Yusuf could not see me here. For several minutes, I stayed like that, crouched against the car, listening for Uncle Yusuf’s footsteps crunching in the gravel.
“Who’s that?” Fuad asked, jerking his head to the side.
“My uncle,” I whispered.
I nodded, hardly daring to speak. “If he finds me, I’m finished.”
“Come on, follow me,” whispered Fuad, taking my hand again. I was so scared that I let him lead me once more, staying low between the cars so as not to be seen.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“My car’s just over there,” answered Fuad, pointing towards a quiet corner of the car park.
Ducking and diving between the parked cars, we finally made it to Fuad’s Golf. He quickly unlocked the doors and we scrambled in, shutting the doors as quietly as we could behind us.
Once inside, I was able to try breathing normally. Under ordinary circumstances, this would have been quite funny but now, my only question was whether Uncle Yusuf had seen us or not. If he hadn’t, alhamdulillah, I had managed to avoid any consequences for my moment of madness.
But then, as I began to calm down, I became more aware of the fact that I was now alone in a car, in a remote part of a car park with a guy that I hardly knew, a guy who kept looking me up and down, a slow burn in his eyes.
“So,” he said softly, flipping a switch on the car radio, “how do you feel now? A bit more relaxed?”
“Hmm,” I said, chewing my lip, “I suppose so…”
“Good,” he said, and he shifted in his seat to sit closer to me.
And then I realised what he had in mind and a chill ran through my veins.
Oh, Allah, please don’t let this be happening to me. Not to me.
Hadn’t I made it clear that I wasn’t up for that? That I wasn’t like that? I pushed him away but he held my wrists, so hard I felt like they would snap between his fingers.
“Don’t pretend, girl,” he crooned. “You know this is what you wanted.”
“No, please,” I begged, “it was a mistake! Just a mistake! I’m sorry!”
“Well, I don’t like girls who try to play me,” he snarled. “You’re just like your cousin – only difference is that you pretend and she doesn’t.”
“No, seriously,” I cried, panic rising inside me. “You’ve got me all wrong!”
“Yeah, whatever…”
Before I knew it, he was on top of me. I struggled against him, panic growing inside me.
What was he trying to do?
But I didn’t have time to think about it. I had to save myself, had to get out of there. I took a deep breath and screamed, screamed for someone, anyone to hear me and get me out of the nightmare.
And my heart cried out: Please, Allah, help me, save me!
Fuad clamped his hand over my mouth but I bit down, hard. He swore at me and raised his hand. It all happened in slow motion: I saw the sweep of his hand as it rose in the air, then it swung down towards me, crashing into the side of my face. My head snapped to the side against the window and I felt heat, then pain spread through my cheek. Then, all of a sudden, the door was open and the air hit my face with a rush. I opened my eyes and tried to focus and, there by the car door, his hands rolled into fists, murder in his eyes, was Abo.