I want to keep trying to make her see sense, but the blankness has returned to her expression. This conversation really is over.
I do as she says and go up to my room, where I do my usual Bad Night Ritual: film myself crying as Ammi clatters around in the kitchen. I’m on edge, listening out for Abbu, but I’m asleep before he returns.
17
There are flowers on the dining table. Bright, colourful, expensive flowers. They take pride of place in a sparkling glass vase. There’s also a waft of cinnamon coming from the kitchen, where Abbu is making pancakes. This is the ritual of our family. The Morning After Ritual. The Apology Ritual. Ammi’s not at the table, as expected; she’s still in bed. Sleeping or hiding, who knows? Abbu must have gone out super early to buy those flowers. He usually likes a lie-in on Saturdays.
On mornings like this, I usually busy myself taking charge of Ismail. I help him get dressed, make sure he’s washed his face and brushed his teeth – basically do all the things Ammi would do on a normal day.
Ismail’s face lights up at the smell of pancakes, and he runs into the kitchen to see if Abbu will let him help. I hover at the opposite side of the kitchen, finding menial tasks to keep me occupied. I take a cloth and start wiping the already clean counter. Abbu notices me but doesn’t mention anything about last night. Just, once again, carries on as if nothing happened. But then, aren’t I doing the same?
‘Can I flip? Pleeeeeeease,’ I hear Ismail ask.
Abbu laughs. ‘Sure, I’ll help you.’
I watch them for a bit – watch how Abbu goes behind Ismail, holds his hands to help him flip a pancake, watch Ismail beam at his accomplishment.
Abbu turns and smiles at me. ‘Nutella and bananas for you?’
His words tug at my heart, and I involuntarily smile, and nod. Days like this mess with my brain. I’m mad at Abbu. So angry at him for yesterday, for the days before yesterday. And I know, in my heart, I know that this side of him, the pancake-making, smiling, playing with Ismail when he was so angry at him just last night, I know it’s not real. I know it’s temporary, because I’ve seen it time and time again.
But …
But somehow, every single time, my head starts to wonder … Maybe this is it. Maybe this is the moment of change. Ammi said he’s promised to change. Maybe he means it, and yesterday … last night … maybe that was his rock bottom – doing that to her in front of me. Maybe now that he knows I know, he’ll change …
‘Maani!’ Ismail calls from over by the stove. ‘Watch me flip!’ He grabs the pan and my heart lurches, thinking he’s going to burn himself, but then Abbu steps forward and puts his hands over Ismail’s, all gentle like, and they flip together. The pancake lands halfway out of the pan.
‘Wow,’ I say, laughing. ‘That was great. Who’s that one for?’
‘Hmm,’ Ismail says, looking between me and the pan. He’s got a look of pure struggle on his face, and it makes me laugh.
‘It’s OK,’ I tell him. ‘You did the hard work; you can eat that one.’
‘Thanks, Maani!’ Ismail says. Within seconds, the pancake is stuffed inside his cheeks.
‘You want a try?’ Abbu asks me.
I shake my head. ‘No, looks like you two have got it covered.’
Abbu smirks. ‘Oh, look, Ismail, your sister’s scared that she can’t flip a pancake as high as us.’
Ismail giggles, his laughter muffled by the pancake.
I don’t know whether it’s that sound, or the playful look on Abbu’s face, the way he seems like a completely different person, but his challenge brings a smile to my face.
‘OK, you’re on,’ I say, stepping up to the stove.
Abbu ladles in a scoop of pancake batter and steps back, giving me free rein. He stands with Ismail in front of him, hands on his shoulders, like the picture-perfect dad.
‘Amaaaaaaaani,’ Abbu chants.
I turn to him and he quickly looks up at the ceiling, a smile all over his face.
‘Maaaaaaani,’ Ismail copies Abbu’s sing-song, trying to put me off.
I can’t help but laugh. But I keep my concentration. The first side of the pancake is cooked.
‘OK, you ready?’ I ask Ismail and Abbu. They both take a step back, and Abbu whispers something to Ismail, probably trying to distract me. I brace myself, like a sportsperson. Both hands on the handle, hips square, shoulders set. I don’t know why I’m so desperate to get this to work, to prove myself to Abbu, even if it’s only in a jokey way.
I lift up the pan and flip just as Abbu and Ismail both shout, ‘BOO!’ As intended, the sound startles me, causing me to yelp and miss the pancake as it falls back down. It lands with a flop on the counter. Ismail and Abbu crack up. I should be angry, or at least irritated, but just one look at them … makes everything else disappear.
‘Not fair!’ I fake whine.
Ismail begins cackling.
‘Not our fault the pancake-flipping gene didn’t get to you. Maybe it’s only in the men in the family. Right, Ismail?’
‘Yeah!’ Ismail shouts, even though I’m sure he doesn’t even know what genes are.
‘I want a rematch!’ I declare.
Abbu laughs. ‘Fine. You practise while I make a lemon-and-blueberry batter for your mum.’ He goes off to the fridge, while Ismail sneakily starts eating the collapsed pancake on the counter.
Why can’t it always be like this? Why can’t every day be a Morning After? Why can’t Abbu always be like this? I look through to the dining room and the flowers on the table as I hear the shower start in the bathroom upstairs.
Maybe, like these flowers, something new is blooming in our house.
Maybe, just maybe, this is the beginning of the change.
I know I’ve felt like this before, but last night was different, so maybe today is different. If anyone were to look through our window, they’d see the idyllic family. Like Huda saw in our photos. And if we can be that, even just for a morning, what’s to say we can’t we stay like this forever?
Last night, Abbu stopped because I stood up. Because I spoke out. Yesterday, I made the effort to ask about his day, and he responded. That’s the key. I just need to try harder.
‘What are your plans for today?’ Abbu asks, his head buried in the fridge.
I was supposed to be meeting Huda for another Perfect Daughter lesson. But I think today I’m the one who needs to try to be perfect. Maybe it’s what will make the difference.
‘Nothing,’ I reply, pouring another dollop of pancake mix into the pan. ‘I was just going to hang at home, do some revision.’
‘Good,’ Abbu replies, emerging from the fridge with some lemons and a tub of blueberries. ‘We can have a family day then.’
‘Can we go to the zoo?’ Ismail asks desperately.
‘Hmm, let’s see what your mum thinks of that. You know she’s scared of elephants.’
Abbu smiles at Ismail, smiles at me, then starts preparing the batter for Ammi’s favourite pancakes.
This is different.
It is.
This is when everything changes.
I can make it happen.
18
We’re at a wedding. Ammi’s second cousin’s daughter is having her reception tonight. It’s in some fancy hall – chandeliers and centrepieces. There’s even a candy-floss machine and a photobooth. Ammi, Abbu, Ismail and I are sitting at a table together. Ismail’s diving into the tiny bags of sweets they’ve left as party favours. Everyone’s been in really good spirits all weekend. Abbu’s still being … normal. Yesterday, on our ‘family day’, we ended up just taking a walk in the park (Ismail kept bugging Abbu to take us to the zoo – Ammi obviously backed Abbu’s idea of a walk, and that settled it. Ismail was not happy). In the evening we watched a film together, in silence. It was … awkward. I kept thinking, as we all sat and watched Frozen, that maybe this was OK. Maybe this was what counted as normal. Not ‘good’, but just ‘fine’.
I try to shake off all these thou
ghts and enjoy the wedding. Because I am a huge fan of weddings. It’s the one time Ammi and Abbu are guaranteed to be the best versions of themselves. There’s no tension between them, or at least it’s really well hidden. Like how Ammi has draped her scarf in a way that covers the bruises on her arms. It’s even better than the ‘normal day’ we had yesterday. Because there is absolutely no risk of things kicking off in front of all these people. I imagine that, for Ammi, weddings are like a date night – when Abbu’s on his best behaviour. And when it’s like this, like this whole weekend has been, it’s easy to think it’s always like this, to forget the nights where the shouting pierces the walls and the thuds reverberate around the house, to forget the bruises and the wincing and the broken plates. When it’s like this, I start to think that I catastrophise those nights. Make them more than they are, in my head. Sometimes I doubt they even happened. And then I remember the folder of videos I have on my phone – the ones of me crying my eyes out as Abbu abuses Ammi in the background.
But the thing is – the Morning After, when Abbu apologises, or tries to make it up to her with flowers and pancakes, I truly believe, start to hope again, that he has changed. Until the next bruise appears. The next fight happens. And we’re back to square one. I know this is the pattern, and yet this weekend has given me more hope than I’ve had in a while. I just wish, with all my heart, that my parents could always behave as they are right now. But that’s just it, isn’t it? They’re putting on a show. Only the four of us at this table know the behind-the-scenes details.
The food comes and we eat under the watchful eyes of the cameramen. Then Ismail runs off to get some candy floss and I go to sit with my closest cousins, Sofia and Jaz.
‘I can’t believe Sabrina’s married,’ Jaz says. ‘Like, married married. Crazy, innit?’
Sofia laughs. ‘What’s crazy about getting married?’
‘I mean, she’s only twenty-one. Twenty-one,’ Jaz expands. She loves emphasising things. ‘That’s only five years older than us. There’s no way I’m gonna be ready to get married in five years.’
‘I dunno,’ Sofia says. ‘I guess it depends on the person. If they’re the one, why not?’
I roll my eyes. ‘You really believe in The One?’
‘God created us in pairs, Amani.’ Sofia references the Quran, in a sing-songy voice.
I laugh and roll my eyes again.
‘Do you think you could actually achieve everything you wanted in five years?’ Jaz asks. ‘There’s so much I wanna do before settling down.’
‘Being married doesn’t stop you from doing things,’ Sofia argues.
I raise an eyebrow. ‘Really? You think there’s no pressure on you to give a piece of yourself up to your husband and his family?’ I stop myself from saying any more, from blurting out that I think marriage sucks out the life of you. I don’t tell them that I don’t see myself getting married any time soon, or maybe ever.
‘Not necessarily,’ Sofia says. ‘Loads of girls keep their jobs, get to go out with their friends and whatever. It doesn’t have to be such a big change.’
‘Then what’s the point?’ I counter. ‘It’s more hassle than it’s worth. I’d rather just stay single.’
‘Yes, exactly!’ Jaz says, suddenly enthusiastic. She raises a hand for a high five and I give her one. ‘I mean, I am not busting my butt this hard to pass my GCSEs, do my A levels, get into uni and then do an MA just to waste my time picking up some lazy boy’s socks.’
‘You’re gonna do an MA?’ I ask, genuinely shocked. ‘I mean, you’ve thought that far ahead?’
‘Of course,’ Jaz replies, eyebrow cocked. ‘It’s hard getting into screenwriting. Competitive as hell. Having an MA lifts you above the pack. What about you, Amani?’
‘Oh, you know,’ I reply, flustered. ‘Veterinary medicine. My dad has some contacts he says can help me get work, so that’s good. Taking all the sciences at A level to get in.’
‘Ugh, you’re so lucky,’ Jaz says. ‘If my parents knew I was trying to get into screenwriting, they’d freak out.’ She puts on a voice I assume is supposed to be her parents. ‘That’s no job for girls. What will people say? Why can’t you get a decent job like a lawyer, or an accountant? Or become a doctor like your cousin Sofia?’ She rolls her eyes.
Sofia laughs. ‘Vet school though, Amani. I’ve heard it’s more competitive than actual medicine. I’m so scared about getting in. I completely bombed my biology mock. I got my one and only 7.’
Her one and only 7. That’s what she counts as bombing?! I don’t think I’ve ever gotten as high as a 7, except in media studies.
Jaz and Sofia start comparing grades, going through each of their subjects, and even talking about the topics they hope will come up in the exams. I start to feel heat rising in my body. They’re so … calm, about everything. About their exams, about their careers, their future. They seem to have everything mapped out, and are happy with it. I guess it really is just me who feels this lost. The only one who freaks out when they think about what comes after GCSEs, after A levels. The only one who’s freaking out about what life has in store for her. Jaz seems so set on being a screenwriter, even though she knows her parents won’t approve. If she can do that, why can’t I tell my parents I don’t want to be a vet? Why can’t I pluck up the courage to say that I don’t want to be like Abbu? In any way.
‘Do you want to go to the photobooth?’ I ask suddenly, cutting off Jaz recounting the questions from her latest French practice exam. Weddings are supposed to be fun, an escape. All their talk about exams and the future is flooding my body with so much anxiety that I might combust.
‘Sofia!’ Someone, an old lady, calls from a few tables down. ‘Come here!’
‘Ugh, looks like Nani is trying to brag about the fact I’m going to be a doctor again. I swear, she tells everyone. I haven’t even got my GCSEs yet, and she’s practically telling people I’m qualified. God.’
Jaz and I laugh as Sofia leaves.
‘I’m gonna pop to the loo,’ Jaz tells me. ‘You coming?’
‘To hear you pee? No, thanks.’
‘Who said it was a number one?’ She winks at me.
‘Gross.’ I laugh.
I wander back over to the table where Ammi and Abbu are still sitting. Ammi’s sister, Auntie Kameela, has joined them. She’s got a plate of food in front of her, although she’s not paying it much attention. Her chair is turned so she’s facing Ammi. Her hands flap, and she’s leaning in so far it looks like she’s about to fall off her chair. She’s got some good gossip, by the looks of it. Ammi, on the other hand, is just sitting there, not really engaging. There’s a strange look on her face that I can’t decipher. Her lips are pursed, her body tight. I look to Abbu, and he’s looking down at his phone, though his fingers don’t move. He’s got a stern expression. I sit down at the table, opposite them. They’re all too preoccupied to notice me.
‘Everyone’s shocked,’ Auntie Kameela says. ‘She can’t do that. There’s rules. Can you believe the audacity? To just take the children and leave. In the middle of the night too.’
Ammi doesn’t respond. This doesn’t stop Auntie Kameela, obviously.
‘I spoke to her mother, to get her to talk some sense into her. But she’s just embarrassed. She’s ruined. Everyone’s gossiping about her and her daughter. Imagine! Imagine if your daughter grew up, got married and then left her husband all over some silly row. Does Aisha not realise how much shame she’s bringing to her poor parents?’
She pauses, waiting for Ammi to give her something, but Ammi remains tight-lipped. She tends not to indulge Auntie Kameela in her gossip, although she is usually a bit more encouraging than this.
‘And over what?’ Auntie Kameela continues, oblivious. ‘A little slap? These girls nowadays, I tell you, Shirin, they don’t understand what it takes to maintain a marriage. They run at the first sign of trouble.’
My heart skips a little, and now I understand Ammi’s reaction.
‘Her mother’s in bits, she is. I told her to try to get Aisha to give him another chance. OK, so he’s not perfect, but what man is?’
‘It’s none of our business really,’ Ammi says quickly, as if on cue.
Abbu’s phone is still out, but he’s not paying any attention to it any more. He’s staring at Ammi, relying on her to change the subject.
‘Everyone’s just looking out for her,’ Auntie Kameela carries on. ‘The best thing for her is to stay with her husband. It’s common sense. They’ve got kids, after all. Those poor children shouldn’t have to live in a broken home just because their mother can’t handle it.’
‘That’s not fair!’ I blurt. ‘You can’t put all the blame on Aisha.’
‘Amani!’ Abbu barks immediately.
I jump in my seat, causing a glass to clatter against the plate. I shouldn’t have said that. I shouldn’t have said anything. Stupid Amani. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
‘Don’t you dare talk back to your elders,’ Abbu growls, his dark eyes piercing me. I feel sick. I’m going to be sick. Right here. Right now. The way he’s looking at me … He’s only ever looked at Ammi like that before.
‘Go back to your cousins,’ Ammi says, quickly, decisively. ‘Now.’
I practically jump out of my chair and scuttle away. My heart’s still racing, the image of Abbu’s stare seared into my eyelids.
I don’t go back to Jaz and Sofia. I go to the dessert buffet instead. I need sugar to calm me down. My favourite dessert is this pudding called firni. It’s a sort of ground rice pudding, usually served in small individual containers, and thankfully there are loads of them on the table. I grab myself one and tuck in, feeling the sugar rush through my body. I stand by the table, secretly watching my parents and Auntie Kameela, and can’t help but get mad.
People have such high expectations of women in our culture – it’s bullshit. Wives are expected to put everyone before themselves, to completely lose their sense of self and give their everything to their husband. I know it, Ammi knows it, and Abbu feeds off it – the fact that Ammi is effectively trapped. If she tried to speak out, the gossip would destroy her. Auntie Kameela, her own sister, would say it was Ammi’s duty to change Abbu, that she should just put up with it, like she’s saying about Aisha. Then there’d be someone who tries to link it back to religion – as if it says in the Quran that women are obligated to stay with their husbands even if … even if. I know it’s till death do us part, but what if the marriage itself turns out to be the cause of that death? Is that part of the vows? If so, I can’t see why anyone would get married.
This Is My Truth Page 10
