This Is My Truth

by Yasmin Rahman

  ‘Huda, God … I don’t …’ I don’t know what to say, is what I want to say. But you can’t say that, can you? When someone’s baring their soul, when they’re looking for reassurance, help, sympathy.

  ‘It’s different with Ali and Nafisah though, right?’ I say. ‘You’ve been with them for four years now. They’ve taken you on holiday and you’ve met their family and stuff. They’re hardly gonna make you move, are they?’

  Huda laughs once, harshly. ‘Of course they are,’ she says bitterly. ‘They’ve got their own kid coming now. They’re not gonna have time, or space, for me. What even am I to them? Just a monthly cheque.’ She goes all quiet and still, and her words have tugged at me so much that I shuffle over and wrap her into a hug.

  ‘Oh, Huda, don’t be silly. It’s not like that at all. Ali and Nafisah freaking love you. Nothing will change that,’ I say, clinging on to her.

  Something in her switches, and she pulls away from me. ‘Oh God, look at me being all soppy,’ she says in a tone that’s trying to be a laugh but shows her discomfort. ‘Ignore me, I’m just being stupid. Let’s get back to work.’ She shuffles back against the bed and picks up the book from the floor. In her shuffling, she accidentally hits her elbow against my bedside table and knocks over the framed family photo I keep on there.

  ‘Shit, sorry!’ She picks it up. ‘Phew, not broken,’ she says, turning the frame over in her hand and looking at it.

  It’s a photo of all of us: Ammi, Abbu, Ismail and me. Taken a few months ago. We have a tradition where we take a family photo every year. Get all dressed up and go to a studio. Abbu’s idea. He always buys a big framed one and hangs them on the wall going up the stairs. They start at the bottom with the earliest photo – where Ismail is just a baby and I’m grinning in a bright pink dress I wouldn’t be seen dead in now – and go up the years with each step. This year there was an offer, so Abbu bought a bunch of smaller copies, and I thought I’d keep one beside me. Ismail is pulling the biggest grin in the photo, and every time I see it, it makes me smile. Huda’s smiling too, as she looks at it. But there’s a sadness in her eyes too.

  ‘You guys are like the perfect family,’ she says quietly. ‘Two parents in love, with their own kids – one boy, one girl. I mean, isn’t that the dream?’

  ‘It’s not real,’ I blurt.

  She looks up at me, confused, and I stutter for an answer. I’m shocked by my own outburst, shocked at how much I want to tell her the truth right now. But I know I can’t. Not ever.

  ‘I mean, like, that’s a posed photo. It’s not real,’ I backtrack quickly. ‘It … it doesn’t show the huge fight that happened just before we left the house that day, where Ismail didn’t want to wear a tie but Abbu really wanted them to match. It’s not … it’s not perfect. We’re not perfect. Anyway, you have Ali and Nafisah; they love each other, they love you. And you’re getting a sibling soon, so you’ll be just like –’

  Huda laughs bitterly. ‘You don’t get it, Amani. Your family … you have this history. You’ve got a whole staircase of memories. You’ve got baby books, and blankets and childhood toys. You’ve got … you’ve got blood. You can’t compare our situations, it’s not the same.’

  A rush of heat hits my face. ‘I’m not saying that,’ I say defensively. ‘I’m just saying that you can’t judge perfection based on photos, or surface-level things. We’re not as idyllic as you think.’

  Huda groans. ‘You don’t appreciate what you have, Amani. It really winds me up. Do you know what I’d give to have what you have? To have the permanence you have? To know that no matter how much I screw up, there are people who will always love me and accept me? You have no idea what it’s like, living with this fear that any day things could come crashing down. That Ali and Nafisah could simply say they don’t want me any more, and that’s it. And what about when I turn eighteen? Even if they keep me that long, they can get rid of me and not feel bad, because I’m supposed to be able to support myself by then. Sure, the government will still help me for a bit, but that’s not the same, is it?’ She takes a breath, pierces me with her eyes. ‘I have literally no clue about what my future holds, Amani. But you, you’ll always have your parents. You’ll always have a home.’

  ‘You can’t get mad at me for that. It’s not my fault –’ I cut myself off before I say anything I can’t take back.

  ‘It’s not your fault my own parents didn’t want me,’ she spits. ‘You can say it.’

  ‘Huda, that’s not …’

  ‘Ugh! It’s fine, Amani.’ She shakes her body, shrugging off the conversation, and puts the photo back on my bedside table. ‘I just wish … just, please appreciate what you have more.’

  ‘Me?!’ She has no idea. No idea what my life is like. How dare she paint it as idyllic? ‘You’re the one who doesn’t appreciate what you have. Ali and Nafisah are, like, the best parents ever. I’ve seen the way they talk to you, talk about you. Trust me – not everyone has such a loving household. You think I’m the one who’s ungrateful? Take a look at yourself.’

  I’m breathing hard now, and there’s something coursing through me. Anger, yes. But also anxiety. Huda and I have never fought like this. We’ve never really fought at all. But this is serious. And she’s being stupid. I’m on the verge of telling her about Abbu, about how our family is the opposite of perfect, but she’s just sitting there, seething, and I know that if I reveal the truth during an argument, I’ll regret it.

  It’s silent in the room; all I can hear is the pounding in my ears. Huda opens her mouth to say something, but just at that moment there’s a shout from downstairs.

  ‘IT’S ALL YOUR FAULT.’

  Shit. Abbu’s home. And he’s angry. Oh God. No no no, not now. Please, God, not right now. What can I do? Huda can’t hear this. How do I get her away from it? We can’t leave the house – that would mean going downstairs, past Ammi and Abbu. God, why hasn’t Ammi told him that Huda is here? He wouldn’t be doing this if he knew, or at least he wouldn’t be so loud. Why does he have to be so loud?

  I pull out my phone. ‘Let’s put some music on!’ I say quickly. Far too quickly. I get up and rush over to my desk, where my iPhone dock is, and start scrambling around, trying to find the lead.

  ‘I ONLY TOOK THAT STUPID, EMBARRASSING JOB TO SUPPORT YOU AND YOUR SPENDING HABITS.’

  Where’s the plug? Why isn’t this plugged in? It’s always plugged in. We need loud music now.

  ‘AND SO I’VE HAD TO QUIT. ARE YOU HAPPY NOW?’

  ‘Maani …’ Huda says slowly.

  ‘It’s fine!’ I say. ‘I just need to find this plug. It’s fine, it’ll be fine. Maybe, uh … maybe you could help me look for it? Yeah, come here. Come away from the door.’ I go over and almost yank her arm out of its socket so she’ll come to the far end of the room.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?!’ she says, snatching her arm away from me. She doesn’t get it. I can’t have her hear. I can’t make it stop, so I need to mask the noise.

  ‘WHERE IS THIS STUPID PLUG?!’ I shout. I get down on my hands and knees and crawl under the table in a panic. Everything has become so tangled, and I’m annoyed at myself for being such a slob and not tidying this up earlier. It’s my fault. All my fault.

  ‘Amani, you’re being …’ Huda doesn’t finish her sentence. But I know what she means. I’m being stupid. I’m being weird. I’m being pathetic.

  I finally find the plug and push it into the extension cord. I jump up from the floor and jam my iPhone into the dock. I’m so close to starting the music, when the resounding sound of a slap echoes across the house, up the stairs and through the door to my room. The door that’s somehow now open.

  I look over and see Ismail standing there, on the verge of tears.

  I look back at Huda, and see so much written on her face. Confusion, concern, anger. I look back to the door. Where the sounds of Ammi whimpering and Abbu continuing to shout come through loud and clear.

  It’s over.


  My family’s deepest darkest secret is out.

  9

  Ismail scampers into my room, towards Huda. He leaves the door wide open, so I rush over to shut it as Huda wraps him in a hug. Thankfully he’s not crying. Yet. I look into Huda’s eyes again. She’s heard. She knows everything. The secret I’ve been desperate to hide from the world for so long. The secret that could split my family apart. If she tells anyone, then that’s it. They’ll break my parents up, take Ismail away. I can’t have that. I can’t. I stand with my back pressed against the door, hoping I can somehow push away any remnants of noise that are still coming up.

  ‘Ismail, c’mere,’ I say, strangled.

  He rushes over dutifully. He goes in for a hug, but I don’t let him. I bend over and put my hands on his shoulders. I force a smile onto my face, hoping it’ll convince him there’s nothing to be upset about.

  ‘You wanna watch a video on my iPad? It’s over on the bed.’

  He hesitates a second, and I’m scared he’s going to say no. Go into a full-blown crying tantrum. I send him another smile, encouraging him to listen to me. I say in my head, Please please please … He goes over to my bed and sits there cross-legged while he fiddles with my iPad.

  ‘Use the headphones, please,’ I tell him. ‘Huda and I are studying.’

  He listens. Thank God, he listens.

  I look again at Huda; she’s standing in the middle of the room, gawping at me. I need to act normal. If I act normal, she won’t make a thing of it. I go over to the desk again and open up Spotify on my phone.

  ‘I found the best playlist. You’ll love it.’ I scroll through the app, trying to find it as quickly as possible, while also trying to stop my hand from shaking. ‘Where is it?’ I mutter to myself. ‘I swear I saved it.’ I laugh a little, but it comes out like a squeak. ‘Argh, forget it.’ I just put on my Favourites and let it play out across the room. I adjust the volume so it’s loud enough to cover up what’s happening downstairs, but quiet enough that Abbu won’t hear it and get mad.

  ‘Should we go down?’ Huda asks quietly. ‘See what’s happening?’

  I avoid eye contact as I walk back over and sit down on the floor with the textbook again. ‘No, no. There’s no need for that. It’s fine. Everything is fine. Let’s get back to maths.’ I look up at her, but she doesn’t move, so I pull on her hand until she drops down.

  ‘Maani, I really think we should go and check on your mum. She sounded –’

  ‘No, no, it’s fine, Huda, honestly. It’ll be fine. She’ll be OK. She always is.’

  Oh, crap. I shouldn’t have said that. Stupid Amani. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  ‘What do you mean “always”?’ Huda asks before I manage to distract her again.

  I ignore her question, trying to focus on the book, but it all looks like hieroglyphics again.

  ‘How … often does this happen?’

  She says this so slowly that I can tell she’s trying to piece it all together. I need to stop it. Stop her from figuring it out.

  ‘Oh, it doesn’t,’ I assure her in my most confident voice. ‘He’s not always like this. It’s just –’

  ‘Just what?’ she says sharply, cutting me off. ‘You’re trying to tell me what we just heard was normal?’

  ‘No!’ I tell her, flicking through the textbook. ‘You’re making a big deal out of nothing.’

  She sits down next to me, finally, but facing me instead of leaning against the bed. Thank God, she’s buying it. I just need to keep this up for a bit and then I can get her out of the house, and we can move on. I knew I shouldn’t have let her come over.

  ‘Maybe we should do these practice questions,’ I say, showing her a page of the book.

  She’s staring daggers at me. ‘Amani, talk to me. You can’t just brush this off. What we heard – your dad shouting at your mum, him … hitting her. How can you not want to go down there?’

  ‘It’s nothing, I told you,’ I say. ‘You’re imagining things.’

  ‘So now you’re saying it didn’t happen?’

  ‘What didn’t happen?’ I look at her with a blank face. Maybe I can convince her like this instead.

  ‘Amani, come on. Stop being weird. Talk to me, please. You can’t say that was nothing. The way you’re acting, the way Ismail came in here all upset …’

  I force a laugh out. ‘You and your overactive imagination again, Huda. Miss Cuthew was right when she said you’re talented in the storytelling department.’

  I can’t have her telling anyone. She wouldn’t, would she? I stare at her sternly.

  ‘OK, fine,’ she says. ‘How about I go and see for myself?’ She raises an eyebrow – a challenge. My heart’s thumping again, but I just stare back. If I win this stare-off, she’ll get that there’s nothing worth looking into.

  Believe me.

  Don’t believe me.

  Don’t go downstairs.

  Go downstairs.

  End this.

  What feels like a whole minute passes, with us just staring at each other. And then suddenly she stands up.

  I grab her wrist again. ‘No, don’t!’ I plead. I stand up too and hold her so tight that it must be painful, but she doesn’t say anything. She’s just staring again. Full realisation has hit her now, and she’s looking at me with the pity eyes. The ones I can’t stand. The ones I wanted to avoid. Especially from my best friend. All of this suddenly gets to me, and I start to cry.

  ‘Huda, please … you can’t … You can’t tell … You can’t go …’ My words are coming out in little hiccups, as if I can’t catch a breath, can’t finish a sentence.

  ‘Hey, hey, calm down.’ She puts her hands on my arms, pins them to my sides firmly but gently. She’s restraining me, keeping me rooted to the spot, keeping me grounded, as if I’m going to explode, or take off like a rocket. It feels weirdly comforting.

  ‘You … you can’t … Please.’ I look right in her eyes, begging.

  ‘Amani, this … this isn’t right,’ she says.

  ‘Huda, please … promise me you won’t tell anyone. You can’t say a word. They’re gonna … If anyone finds out, they’ll break up my family, everything will fall apart. PLEASE, Huda.’

  ‘God, Amani, you’re shaking. Here, sit down.’ She sits down on the edge of the bed and pulls me down next to her. Ismail sits behind us, happily glued to the iPad, music blaring out of his headphones, thankfully. He’d be so freaked out if he heard me like this. I have to remember that this is all for him – to keep him safe, and with me. I wipe my eyes.

  ‘Huda, they’ll … If anyone finds out, they’ll split us all up. They’ll take Ismail away. Don’t you understand? No one can know.’

  ‘Amani, that’s not … that’s not how it works. No one is going to split you up. You can’t … you can’t just ignore this, let it go on, just because of this fear. It’s not right.’

  ‘I know,’ I wail. ‘You think I like it? You think I like hearing him … do that? You think I like hiding in my room pretending not to hear her cries? I hate it, Huda. I hate it so much.’ My snotty cries start up again as Spotify flips over to an advert. A montage runs through my mind of all the times it’s been happening downstairs and I’ve hidden in my room. All the times Ammi’s cried out in pain and I could have gone down and maybe helped by just being there, but didn’t because I was too scared.

  ‘It’s all my fault,’ I whimper. ‘I could have stopped it. All those times … He never does anything when there are people around.’

  ‘It’s not your fault,’ Huda says firmly. She holds my hands, which are in my lap, and squeezes them tightly. ‘Not your mum’s fault either. It’s not on either of you to stop it. But you can get help.’

  ‘No!’ I snatch my hands away. ‘You don’t understand! Just please. Pretend you didn’t hear anything. Just pretend this never happened.’

  ‘Like you have been?’ she snarks.

  I snap my head up. ‘You have no idea!’

  ‘So tell me,’ she says,
quietly, calmly, kindly. ‘Tell me about it.’

  Her words stir something inside me, a yearning to talk to someone about all of this. I’ve kept the truth locked inside for so many years, pressed it down. If I don’t talk about it, it’s not happening. But Huda’s right here. She’s heard. She knows. She would understand. Huda’s probably the only person in the world who has my back, no matter what. Surely she’s the best person to talk to about this.

  And so I do …

  I tell her about the first time I knew it was happening, how I had convinced myself it was a one-off, that Abbu was stressed. How I heard him apologising profusely the next day, and believed every word of it. I tell her about conversations I’ve overheard at family gatherings, where aunties and grandparents have flat out stated that this kind of thing is acceptable in our culture – some of them going so far as to blame the woman, as if she’d asked for it, as if she deserved it, as if it’s her responsibility to change the man or put up with him. I tell Huda how backwards it all is, and how much it’s been stressing me out. I tell her that if any of our family found out, they’d treat Ammi the same way, as a pariah, as if it was her fault.

  I tell Huda everything, and end up feeling weirdly so much lighter.

  ‘Amani,’ she says when I’m finished. She takes my hand and squeezes it again. I look at her, to find she’s got tears in her eyes too. ‘I can’t believe you’ve been hiding that from me all this time. You could have told me, you know? There’s nothing you can’t tell me.’

  I shake my head. She doesn’t understand how hard it is being so open with her, how hard it’s been being so closed off from everyone. ‘Everything’s going to fall apart,’ I say quietly. ‘I don’t want that.’

  ‘That doesn’t have to be the case. C’mon, Amani, even you must realise that this isn’t going to get better if you keep it hidden away. What does your mum say about it?’

  ‘We don’t discuss it. I tried at the beginning. Over and over. But she just excuses him. Blames herself. She used to get so angry when I asked her about it. Said I was being disrespectful to Abbu. Told me I was being a bad daughter. And so … I stopped.’ I shrug, before pinning Huda with my gaze again. ‘But it’ll be worse, so much worse, if other people find out. You know what Asian aunties are like. They’d destroy Ammi. They’d take his side. She’d be humiliated. And then if it reaches anyone official –’