And then there’s the name thing. Ammi and Nafisah are best friends, even though Ammi is a lot older, and I always hesitate to call Nafisah by her name when they’re together, even though she insists. Calling someone Auntie or Uncle is a sign of respect in our culture. It’s weird to come across people who reject that.
I think what strikes me most about Ali and Nafisah though is just … how normal they are. They don’t ever seem to fight, or hold grudges, or have big secrets. They just get on with it, with huge smiles on their faces at all times. It’s like they’ve come straight out of some kids’ TV programme. They make me realise that it’s possible to have this. That one day, I could have this. Because God knows my own parents have not been setting the same example.
A cupboard door clatters loudly as Huda starts putting away the shopping. Everyone turns to look at her, thinking she was doing it on purpose, but she doesn’t even apologise, just continues packing stuff away. I grab a bag and help her. I come here often enough that I actually know where most of the food goes.
‘How’s Shirin?’ Nafisah asks me. ‘We’re meant to be going to town tomorrow, and I’ve texted her to confirm a few times, but she hasn’t replied.’
‘Yeah, Ammi’s fine,’ I say, putting away a box of cereal. ‘She’s just … picked up a few more shifts at work. Everyone’s having barbecues cos of the weather, so it’s been busy at the shop.’
‘Ah, well, remind her she needs to finish the mural in the nursery,’ Nafisah says before spooning some baked beans into her mouth.
‘Are you just eating those straight out of the tin?’ Huda exclaims.
‘What, you want me to put them on a plate?’ Nafisah asks, her voice muffled. ‘Ain’t nobody got time for that.’
Huda just stares in shock, a look of disgust on her face. ‘You’re eating them cold?!’
‘They’re nice! Here, have some.’ Nafisah holds the spoon out to her, but Huda recoils.
‘Huda, are you scared of cold baked beans?’ Ali teases. He takes the spoon out of Nafisah’s hand and begins chasing Huda, shouting, ‘OooooOoooOOoO cold beans are gonna get you.’
Huda squeals and runs away from him. They’re all laughing now, and I’m just standing at the edge of the room looking on, wishing that this could be my family. I take out my phone and start filming the scene. I find myself doing this a lot – just filming random things that strike me. My media studies teacher, Mr Voake, says it’s because I have an ‘artist’s attention span’.
Ali turns to me, and I lower my phone. He puts out his arms all zombie-like and starts walking towards me, spoon of precariously stacked beans inching towards me.
‘How about Amani? Is she scared of the dubiously cold beans that look like guts?’ He approaches me and I just smile and stay in place, unlike Huda. I even open my mouth, and he sticks the spoon in.
‘Guts do taste good,’ I say, realising cold beans actually aren’t that bad.
Ali smiles and Nafisah laughs.
‘Can I have my spoon back now? The tin’s still half full.’
Ali turns and walks back to Nafisah, handing her the spoon. She tucks right back in.
‘Save some for dinner,’ he reminds her, starting to unpack the next shopping bag. ‘I thought you wanted a beanie bake?’
‘No need. Baby just wants this.’
‘Well, either way, we’ve bought all the stuff now. So baby is getting beanie bake.’
‘Oop!’ Nafisah squeaks, putting her hand on her stomach. ‘Baby does not like you disagreeing with it like that.’ She laughs.
Ali laughs too, as he bends over so his face is level with Nafisah’s bump. ‘Whatcha gonna do, eh?’ Ali asks. ‘You’re in there, and I’m out here, and I’m gonna make all the beanie bake I –’
‘It’s kicking loads!’ Nafisah laughs.
‘Well, baby better –’
‘Do you wanna stay for dinner?’ Huda asks me suddenly, loudly.
I turn to look at her. Ali turns to look at her. Nafisah turns to look at her. Everyone’s confused at her outburst. Huda herself has a weird look on her face: a mix of sadness and anger and desperation. It’s a look I’ve not seen on her before. But I get that she needs me to answer. I just can’t decide how she wants me to answer. It’s not like I have much of a choice though.
‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘But I should get back home.’
4
‘Thanks for the lift,’ I tell Ali as I open the door super slowly, trying to prolong the amount of time I spend out of my house. ‘You really didn’t have to.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ he replies. ‘Anything to get me away from the angry pregnant lady.’
I laugh. ‘Serves you right for dropping her beans.’
‘It was an accident!’
We sink into silence. I sort of want him to offer to walk me to my door, just to give me another minute of normality, of ignorance, but I know that’s a dangerous idea.
So instead I say goodbye and get out of the car. Ali drives off immediately.
I look towards my house. The living-room light is on. Abbu and probably Ammi are in there. I stand outside the front door and listen. When I hear nothing, I slip my key into the lock as slowly and quietly as I can, and turn it.
The door to the living room is shut. And as I take my shoes off in the hall, there doesn’t appear to be any noise coming from in there. I’m tempted to go in and say salaam to Abbu. But there’s something stopping me. If I don’t go in, I don’t have to know the truth. I can pretend. Maybe Abbu hasn’t seen any of the stuff online. Maybe … just maybe, he’s laughing it all off. Maybe he’s over it. Maybe … he’s had a complete personality transplant.
I go up to my room, change out of my uniform and do my last prayers for the day. I know I should go over the notes Huda made for me, but I’m suddenly hit by the smell of dinner. Not just any dinner. Lamb pilau. Ammi is making Abbu’s favourite. (And mine, but I’m assuming she’s not doing this for my benefit.) Could it be her way of trying to cheer him up? Or distract him.
I go downstairs to the kitchen. Ammi turns to look at me. I’m worried she’ll tell me off for choosing today to go to Huda’s house, but she smiles.
‘The smell brought you home then?’ she asks, turning back to the stove. Wow, she’s making samosas too. We only ever get that combination when we have guests.
I walk over to her. ‘You know how much I love your lamb pilau. Is it done yet?’
‘Almost,’ she replies, lifting the lid of the pot and looking in.
I stand by the samosa pan and start ladling hot oil over the frying snacks – a trick Ammi taught me when I was younger. I try to assess her out of the corner of my eye. She seems normal. Maybe Abbu really is in an OK mood. But if he was, she wouldn’t be making pilau. At the very least, Ammi knows what happened. She’s either seen it herself or heard from Abbu.
‘Nafisah says hi, by the way,’ I say, just to break the silence. ‘She said to call her.’
Ammi smiles. ‘I will. We’re going to town together tomorrow – do you need anything?’
‘Can you get some sand? I wanted to recreate a scene from Moana for a video. I was going to ask you – can you paint me a background like you did for the Inside Out one? That was amazing.’
Ammi frowns. ‘Shouldn’t you give the videos a rest now? Focus on your studies. You know what your abbu will say if he sees you with your camera again.’
I do know what Abbu will say, and none of it will be good. He caught me making a YouTube video with Ismail a few months back and completely lost his shit. He told me that film-making is a hobby for people who have no skills, that I should be aiming higher, using my time more wisely. He trashed the scene I had set up – Ammi had spent ages making some cardboard trees. Ismail cried. I did too, but not till I was alone in bed that night.
I tried to stop making the videos then, but there’s something in me that won’t let it go. I’ve just learned to hide it from Abbu. Ammi still helps me out with arty stuff on the sly, which is nice. She�
��s amazing at making scenery and props. Ammi, Ismail and I make a great team actually.
I want to tell her I can’t give up film-making. It’s practically the only thing that brings me joy. Instead of saying anything though, I just continue cooking the samosas, like the meek little pushover I am.
Dinner starts off awkwardly. Abbu’s shaved off his beard entirely. It’s so weird to see him without one. It makes his expressions more obvious. His face is downcast, moody, stern. I’m scared of something setting him off.
‘We played a new game today,’ Ismail says as he eats. ‘It’s called Stuck in the Mud. You do eeny meeny miny mo to choose the person who’s it, and they have to chase everyone around, and if they touch you, you can’t move. You have to stand there like this.’ He pulls a strained face and sticks his arms out to the side. ‘And you have to jiggle your way down to the ground like a wriggly ghost. The other people running around come and touch you and then you’re unstuck and you can run again. But! If you get all the way down to the floor, then you have to sit down and you’re out. We were playing at lunch and I was stuck for ever. I wriggled really slowly so I wouldn’t have to be out and Sachin kept running near me but he wouldn’t unstick me. He just ignored me all the time. It was so mean.’
Ammi smiles at Ismail as she repositions his napkin. ‘What else did you play today, locki?’
‘Forget playing,’ Abbu butts in. ‘What did you learn today?’ He says it in his normal voice, but there’s a dark undertone that makes my ears prick up a little. I can tell Ammi hears it too.
‘Um … I learned … that …’ Ismail scrunches up his face and looks to the ceiling, thinking. ‘I learned that … Sachin is rubbish at Stuck in the Mud. Oh! And Alex is a bully. She pushed Pooja over while she was stuck. That’s totally against the rules. Pooja fell over into the grass and got hurt. Oh! Just like you this morning, Abbu.’
I suck in a breath. Ammi goes still, and Abbu’s head snaps up.
Ismail is oblivious. ‘Abbu, that was so funny when you fell over. And with the cat. Is that why you cut your beard? I was telling Rahul and he said –’
‘ENOUGH!’ Abbu shouts, slamming his palm down on the table. ‘I told you to tell me what you learned at school, not these rubbish games you waste your time on, and the stupid things you talk to your stupid little friends about.’
Ismail’s tearing up next to me already and I want to tell Abbu to just stop it. To give the little five-year-old some slack. But I feel almost paralysed.
‘B-bu-but …’ Ismail whimpers. ‘I was just saying it was funny …’
‘I said, ENOUGH!’ Abbu roars.
Ismail begins crying quietly, but not quietly enough. I put one arm around him and pull him in close. I want to soothe him, tell him to ignore Abbu. But Abbu is not in the mood to be hearing that right now. I have to make do with a half-cuddle and rubbing Ismail’s arm a little. His crying gets a little louder.
‘OK, that’s it. Go upstairs to your room! If you can’t sit and eat dinner with us nicely, then you shouldn’t be here at all.’
I snap my gaze to Ammi, who’s just sitting there, as torn as I am. She knows she should stick up for Ismail, but also knows that would make Abbu even angrier.
‘Come on, be a good boy and eat your food,’ I say while Ammi remains silent. ‘Look, you’re almost d—’
‘I said … upstairs,’ Abbu growls. He’s looking at Ammi now, not Ismail. Not even at me, who dared to be a voice against him. His tone vibrates through me. I find myself holding my breath, trying with all my might to stop time, right here and now, to stop things from getting worse. To stop them going exactly where I know they’re going to go.
Abbu’s words do something to Ammi. I’d say it’s magical, but that suggests it’s a good thing. It’s not. This is all my fault. I shouldn’t have said anything. He hates people undermining him. Stupid, stupid Amani.
Ammi places her fork quietly on her plate and turns her attention to Ismail, who’s still crying into my shoulder. I’m gripping him so tightly, it might be adding to his tears. But there’s nothing else I can do. I’m responsible for this – the least I can do is comfort the poor kid.
‘Come on, Ismail. I’ll take you up,’ Ammi says, almost robotically. She’s gone into the version of Ammi she becomes when Abbu is angry. Self-preservation mode, protection mode. She knows not even to call Ismail a pet name – moyna or locki – as she normally would. She knows this would tip Abbu over the edge. She walks up to Ismail, holding her hand out for him to take. I let go of him without another word. He looks up at me, face all red and wet, mouth turned down in the biggest sad face. It tugs at my heart.
‘Ismail,’ Ammi says more forcefully.
‘Just go,’ I tell him quietly. Please, I add in my head. Just get past this moment. Please please please …
Ismail slips out of his chair as if the life has been drained out of him, grabs onto Ammi’s hand and lets her lead him away. I hear him sobbing all the way up the stairs.
Now it’s just me and Abbu at the table. He continues eating like nothing just happened. While all I can do is sit there, feeling sick just at the sight of the food in front of me. The sight of his favourite food, that Ammi made to improve his mood. I want to leave. Just get up and go upstairs. I look over at Ismail’s plate and see that he didn’t even get to finish eating. I wonder if I could sneak into the kitchen, grab him a snack and take it up to him without Abbu noticing.
‘How was your biology exam today?’ Abbu asks suddenly, interrupting my fantasy of me going all Mission: Impossible, trying to snake-crawl up the stairs and into Ismail’s room with a packet of biscuits.
That’s the thing about Abbu. He’s a good father. He always asks how school is going, asks if I need any help with anything, even gets concerned when my grades slip. He used to take Ismail and me out on the weekends – to the funfair, cinema, roller skating, etc. Always without Ammi. And Ismail and I would love it. I always felt torn though. I felt bad for going out and enjoying myself with Abbu, while Ammi was stuck at home. Never bad enough to actually say anything though.
Abbu looks at me expectantly. To be honest, I’d forgotten all about the practice exam. Also forgotten that I stupidly mentioned it to Abbu. He’s really into my studies. Well, my studies in science. He’s infatuated with the idea of me following in his footsteps to study veterinary medicine at university. I don’t know that I ever actually agreed to it, but somehow it’s become a given that I’m going to become a vet, like he used to be, before the TV show.
‘It was OK,’ I tell him. It’s not the truth, obviously. My revision session with Huda pointed out so many mistakes I’d made. It’s the first time I’ve really panicked about the possibility of failing the subject. Not just getting a bad grade, but flat out failing. Abbu won’t accept that. He doesn’t accept my answer either. He just looks at me, cocking an eyebrow slightly. I need more, the eyebrow says.
‘It went well,’ I amend. ‘I was talking to a few friends afterwards, and they said they all got stuck on a question about cell biology – but I know I got that one right.’
I hate the words coming out of my mouth. The lies coming out (sorry, Allah). But it’s the only way forward. It’s the only way to prevent Abbu from freaking out. And frankly, it’s the only answer he will accept.
‘Excellent!’ he says, genuinely happy. ‘I’m proud of you, futh. You’ll be top of the class, I know it.’
Anything less is unacceptable, his expression says.
‘And then I can call up some of my old colleagues and get you a job straight away. I need to call Joseph actually. He was telling me about …’
He keeps talking, but I no longer listen. I can’t hear this. I can’t hear the expectations he has of me. They weigh down on me. The images flash in my head – me in a sterile room, a sick animal in front of me, depending on me, and me not having a clue how to save it.
Abbu says that he’s proud of me a lot. And every time, something fires up inside me. A warm fuzzy feeling s
preads. Because, despite everything, despite all of Abbu’s flaws, I want to make him proud. It makes me feel good to make him proud. And if what it takes is following this route, then I’ll do it.
‘I’m done with my dinner,’ I announce as Ammi comes back into the room. I take my plate over to the sink. ‘I’m going up to my room. I’ve got homework.’
‘OK, moyna,’ Abbu says. He smiles at me before returning to his food.
He smiles.
Ammi notices too. She shoots me a grateful look before sitting down at the table.
5
I’m woken in the middle of the night by the sound of my door clicking open. In my half-asleep state, I of course assume it’s a burglar coming to stab me, so I push myself back against my headboard, heart already pounding. But then I hear it. Hear the noise that’s dominated the nights in our home for so many years now. Abbu’s deep baritone rumbles up the stairs and through the walls.
There’s a shadow at the door. Ismail.
I guess Abbu’s good mood from earlier about my fake upcoming good grades could only last so long.
‘YOU THINK IT’S FUNNY, DO YOU?!’ I hear booming from the living room.
Ismail actually quivers as he stands in the doorway. Poor kid – I’d have thought he’d be used to it by now too, but I keep forgetting how young he is. He doesn’t ask if he can come into my bed, but he doesn’t need to any more. It’s sort of become our ritual on the Bad Nights. I’m ashamed to say I probably would have slept through this argument if it weren’t for Ismail.
I put on a reassuring smile and flip down the corner of the duvet as an invitation. He starts to approach but suddenly stops halfway. Before I can ask him what’s wrong, he turns around to go and close the door, to close out the shouting. Well, to an extent. You can still hear it, but it’s muffled. It’s dark in the room now, so our senses are tuned to listen to the noise.
‘YOU’RE A FUCKING IDIOT!’
This Is My Truth Page 3
