In Every Mirror She's Black

by Lolá Ákínmádé Åkerström

  “I just wanted some more,” he purred against her lips, and she deepened the kiss before pulling back again.

  “I’ve got to go, baby,” she said, trying to get up again. “I gotta work my next shift.”

  He wrestled her gently back down for another kiss, begging her to stay. She was always halfway around the world somewhere, and he was left waiting to wrap her in his arms for a few days before she was off again. They’d done this for too many years.

  They’d met at a rooftop terrace bar in the Dupont Circle neighborhood of the nation’s capital. Jamal had seen the svelte model, wearing a red catsuit, saunter in with a friend. She’d glanced around, looking to settle somewhere until she paused in his direction. He’d lifted his glass in a toast toward her, and she’d returned that gesture with a coy smile, one that suggested she also liked what she’d seen. Jamal navigated through the crowd toward her, but he was pulled here and tugged there by acquaintances along the way. By the time he planted himself squarely in front of her, they burst out laughing in tandem.

  “That was quite the obstacle course,” Brittany said before clinking her cocktail glass with his. “Well done.”

  “At least I got here.” He laughed.

  “Brittany.” She extended a neatly manicured hand in greeting, which he eagerly grabbed as if it were a prize for completing the course.

  “Jamal,” he introduced himself. “Do you come here often?”

  “Whenever I’m in town, yes.”

  “You’re not from around here?”

  “Not really. I pop in and out of Dulles for work. I’m a flight attendant,” she continued. For some odd reason, she felt comfortable enough to tell this stranger her routine.

  “I see. Which airline? If I may ask, of course.”

  She sidestepped his question. She wanted to know more about this tall, dark, and handsome brother who exuded confidence and class.

  “My turn,” she flirted. “Are you from around here?”

  “DC born and bred. I’m an attorney. Business attorney. I chase bad guys in suits.”

  “How valiant,” she teased him. “Do you enjoy your work?”

  “Maybe I can tell you if I do over dinner?” he said. She smiled, and they clinked glasses once more.

  That had been four years ago, and their relationship had grown stronger with each passing year. Everyone they knew said they made the perfect couple. Good-­looking, statuesque beings. The former model and former basketballer.

  “How long are we gonna do this?” Jamal broke off to stroke her back, running a finger down its smooth groove, momentarily lost in the task at hand.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Look, we’ve got time. I need to figure out my next move,” she started.

  “Can’t we figure it out together?” His caressing hand had stopped moving.

  She took a deep breath and bit her lower lip. They’d been existing in this comfortable space for the last twelve months of their relationship. Not moving forward, but not taking any steps backward either. They’d both talked about starting a family, but Brittany’s work schedule made it impossible. He often reminded her that she hated her work anyway, but still, that wasn’t enough for her to quit. There had to be another reason why she wasn’t rushing to leave it behind.

  “Babe, you hate your job. You’re tired of creeps pestering you all day long. Why don’t you just leave?” he said. “You know I’ll always take care of you, right?”

  “Same way you took care of Denise, right?” she said.

  “Jesus, Brit. We’re four years in, and you still bring her up?”

  “Because you lied about her when I met you. And it’s been bothering me ever since.”

  “I’ve explained and apologized a thousand times that I was afraid of losing you. Denise and I were long over when I met you!”

  “You were engaged to her. For three years!”

  “And I was the one who broke it off, okay? She was cheating on me!”

  Brittany remained silent. This she already knew. Yet, he’d lied with a straight face about just how serious his previous relationship had been. He hadn’t wanted to go into much detail besides the fact that his ex had broken his trust. It had been a sore spot he didn’t want to talk about back then, so he’d lied.

  Brittany detested lying men because Beaufount had lied to her with conviction too.

  “If anything, that episode of my life shows I can commit and that I’m a long-­haul kinda guy. I’ll take care of you if you want to quit your job.”

  “I know, but I need something of my own too. I can’t be some trophy girlfriend with nothing to do. I gotta work.”

  “Find something on solid ground. Get something in DC. Heck, you could go back to modeling again.”

  “Seriously?!” Brittany rolled her eyes. He was picking at her old scab.

  “Babe, you shut down traffic when you cross the street. You can pick it up again.”

  “I’m not going back to modeling.”

  “Why not?”

  “Drop it!”

  He let out an exaggerated sigh and stared into her cocoa-­brown eyes, his arms wrapping tightly around her once more. Brittany knew he loved her deeply. Desperately, even. She wasn’t sure she was equally as desperate about him though.

  “Look, I don’t want to lose you to some rich white boy, okay?”

  “But a loaded brother is alright?”

  He laughed, and she joined him. He was insecure. Brittany understood. She’d been working both first- and business-class cabins for a while now and had batted off advances of every nature from wealthy men and women.

  “Is this what this is all about? That darn card?” She pointed at the business card lying on their bedside table. “Look, baby, I love you. It would take a lot to shake me off you, and money is the least of that. You ain’t so bad yourself.” She kissed his cheek.

  Brittany reached for Jonny’s card and made a grand show of ripping it apart in front of Jamal. A difficult task, because his card wasn’t made from cheap stock paper, so she crumpled it in her palm instead and threw it across the room.

  “See?” She looked to him for validation.

  Jamal grabbed the back of her neck and pulled her down for another deep kiss before rolling her onto her back and making love to her once more.

  * * *

  “We meet again.” Jonny broke their stare-­off as he stepped onto the plane heading to London from DC the next day. She quickly collected herself after faltering upon seeing him.

  “Welcome aboard, Mr. von Lundin,” she greeted him, pulling out of her momentary daze.

  “Jonny,” he whispered as he squeezed past. He found his seat and settled in while Brittany calmed her breathing, shocked and disappointed by her own reaction upon seeing him.

  Yes, he was an arresting man, but he meant nothing to her. She had waited on equally stunning passengers over the years. She was obviously shocked that he had strolled back onto her flight a few days later. The disappointment she felt in herself, though, was a heady mix of guilt and shame because Jonny was now sparking heat within her. The kind she had reserved for Jamal.

  She came around with a tray of welcome drinks, and he flashed her a grin, seemingly in good spirits. He grabbed some orange juice in an unhurried fashion.

  “Not as thirsty as the last time?” she joked. “Where is your business partner?”

  “She had to get home to her family, so she took an earlier flight.”

  Jonny himself had spent the day roaming around DC, playing tourist for the umpteenth time, hiding behind his sunglasses, he told Brittany. A pitiful attempt that hadn’t deterred fellow tourists from accosting him for photos.

  “They keep thinking I’m that Swedish actor who became famous playing a vampire.” He grinned.

  “
Yeah, I can see it.” Brittany laughed, nodding in agreement. “And you? No family?”

  “No one to rush home to right now.” His clear gaze held hers, the humor falling off his face.

  “You will someday.” She smiled at him.

  “You seem so sure.” Jonny didn’t return her smile.

  Once airborne, he wasn’t as indecisive about his meal choice this time around, and he ate with an appetite that couldn’t be sated. Brittany brought him extra pillows, extra drinks, extra snacks, extra attention. The next time she strolled down the aisle, he grabbed her hand lightly. She jerked at first, frightened. His grasp tightened softly, pulling her toward him. She squatted down next to his seat.

  “Please have dinner with me in London,” he whispered out of earshot of other passengers. She was about to shake her head in refusal when he solicited again.

  “I know you have a boyfriend. It’s a harmless dinner. I would love to get to know you.”

  “Mr. von Lundin…” she started.

  “Please call me Jonny.” He pulled out another card and a pen and scribbled Canary Wharf—­Yamamoto 20:00 with his left hand.

  “Please,” he said one more time before pressing the card into her palm and letting go of her hand. He leaned back into his seat and pulled down his sleeping mask.

  Brittany got up and straightened her skirt while slipping his card into her breast pocket. She headed back to the galley feeling flushed and warm. Her stomach churned, throwing off her appetite. She couldn’t stop the fire bubbling within her, making her sweat in the cool cabin.

  Jonny, on the other hand, slept through breakfast and awoke when she asked him to adjust his seat for landing. At first, he seemed disoriented, his hair wild from sleep. His fingers seemed to switch into some finicky autopilot as he started fidgeting instantaneously. His gaze finally settled on her in recognition, and he relaxed.

  “Can I get you something to drink? Unfortunately, it’s too late for breakfast, as we’ve started our descent.”

  “No worries. Thank you.”

  “Of course,” she said before continuing down the aisle, feeling his eyes on her as she walked away.

  MUNA

  “Muna! Muna!” Caaliyah’s cries cut through a thick, opaque cloud of smoke.

  “Hooyo!” Muna screamed back, trying to make her way toward her mother’s voice like a beacon from a lighthouse.

  They collided, and Caaliyah’s large arms pulled her tight into her grasp. “Oh, Muna!” was all she managed as her grip around Muna tightened.

  Something terrible had happened. Enough to have flattened half of the small stack of apartments they lived in. The room that once held her father had crumbled into rubble, and as they turned to try to make their way toward it, a loud roar filled the air. Half of their apartment block fell down, giving way to four floors of daylight. With eyes widened and cries snuffed out in shock, Caaliyah and Muna stared out into the sky from their wall-­less fourth-­floor apartment in the only section still standing of the collapsed building.

  * * *

  Muna wasn’t sure what possessed her to pull out those photos that afternoon at Solsidan, but the repercussions were immediate. A tear snaked its way down her cheek and landed on her brother’s face in the small, matte photo she was holding. She frantically rubbed it away, worried the tear and its salty sting would wash away all she had of her family. Overwhelmed, she put the photo back in its little envelope, browned from use, and stuffed it into a small pouch that held whatever documents were left to prove her existence. She wrapped the pouch in a scarf, placed it in the bottom of her sack, and then locked that sack in a tiny locker at the far side of the room she shared with eleven other women, who were all in the cathedral eating lunch at the moment.

  Her chest heaved as she tried suppressing tears. She needed fresh air, and she needed it fast. So she ran and ran, her jilbab billowing in the light spring breeze like the ghost she was, as she made her way toward Solsidan’s beautiful lake and the lovely trail that meandered about a mile and a half around it. She pushed past two old, Iraqi men with walking canes taking a leisurely stroll. The men mumbled in high-­pitched Arabic in response to her startling them as she breezed past. Muna overtook four Eritrean women dragging toddlers along the path. One toddler, a girl no more than three years old, burst into tears, and her mother lifted her in one fluid motion and settled her on her right hip. Muna ran past a family of ducks, which scattered in every direction, flapping angrily, as she cut through them.

  She ran until she found Ahmed under that old oak tree. This was one of many spots where they often sat together in silence, looking out at shimmers dancing off the lake. He sat on the damp ground under the tree, throwing small rocks into the lake, looking tired. He’d skipped lunch again, and with each passing day, his handsome face was chipping away into a gauntness she barely recognized.

  Ahmed saw her frantically approach him, and he rushed to his feet, concerned.

  “Muna? What is wrong?” He kept his distance but was now squarely on his feet. She continued to hiccup her cries, overwhelmed and afraid that she was going to suffocate. She kept gasping, short of breath, willing her lungs to open up. Her right hand clawed at her neck.

  “I can’t breathe.” She pushed the words out in Arabic.

  His brows furrowed in pain as he watched her cry, tears streaming down her face. Her milk-­chocolate face, he’d often said fondly.

  He took a few steps forward and grabbed her as Muna crumbled toward the damp earth. They stood in that embrace for a few more minutes until she could feel her breath evening out against his chest.

  “I miss them too,” he finally said in Arabic. Those words were enough to pull her head from his chest. She watched as his face started to contort, making way for tears. “I miss them every day.”

  Before she could console him too, his mouth found hers in a forceful gesture that jerked her head back. His breath was stale from not having eaten in over a week, but she let him kiss her anyway because she sensed Ahmed loved her, and she loved him, and they were all they had in this seeming paradise of a place, where they were safe from bombings and beheadings.

  His beard tickled her face. She was unsure of what she was supposed to do with her mouth because she had never kissed before. He pulled her closer to him, but he seemed tired, with no energy to fumble with her layers of clothing. Instead, he fell to his knees in front of Muna and hugged her legs, staying in that position and crying against her gown. All she could do was run her fingers through his thick, brown hair, which felt like the finest silk. She didn’t want to stop touching it.

  “How can a man have such baby-­soft hair?” Muna’s whispered words cut through their moment. It was the most amazing thing she had felt in a long time, she told him. She kept stroking it, feeling its strands glide over her palm and through her fingers.

  Muna felt her heart swelling for the broken man on his knees at her feet.

  * * *

  That night, as they all dined in the cathedral on boiled potatoes and baked salmon in desperate need of salt, Ahmed stormed in with a wild look, a full bottle in one hand and a sack in the other. Muna had seen sadness cloud his golden gaze before. She had seen jovial mischief play across those eyes once in a while too. But this expression? She had never seen it before.

  Ahmed’s presence was enough to silence all the voices in that grand hall as everyone turned to look at him. Most hadn’t seen him in days, and some knew he’d been starving himself out. They weren’t sure if it was in protest or if he had simply given up. No one was going to notice him. No one cared about him. Muna had witnessed them frequently laugh in his face. “Who are you starving yourself for, you crazy man?”

  He walked over to where Muna was sitting with two other Somali women and her Eritrean bunkmate, Fatimah, who was cradling her baby boy. Ahmed held his hawklike intensity as he approached Muna in silence. When he got to her,
he handed over his worn-­out sack, carefully placing it on her lap. Muna observed him quietly. He gave her a weak smile before saying in Arabic, “This was my family. I couldn’t save them.”

  “What’s going on, Ahmed?” she asked him as quietly as she could amid all the eyes on them.

  Ahmed turned without responding and headed over to a corner of the cathedral where a few Syrian men were gathered. “The crazy man,” they cackled upon his approach. As he got closer to their table, they got to their feet defensively. Ahmed assessed each man wordlessly.

  Without warning, he jumped onto their table, doused himself with liquid from the bottle, and pulled a cigarette lighter from his pocket. Before the men could register what was happening and reach for him, he set himself ablaze.

  The cathedral went up in flames, and people rushed frantically out of harm’s way. Everyone was screaming, all except the man with the eagle eyes who stood as quietly as he could while fire opened tracks of raw flesh across his skin and face. He stood silently until the flames engulfed him so completely that he growled in agony.

  Muna’s face contorted in confusion at what was unfolding. Ahmed? On fire? She sprang to her feet and ran toward the burning pillar while everyone else ran out of the building into the late April evening.

  “No. No. No. No. NOOOO!” The words roared out of her in rapid succession.

  Before Muna could reach him, Ahmed tumbled off the table and onto the polished floor like a charred obelisk.

  Three

  KẸMI

  Kemi had promised Kehinde she would drive down to Virginia that very weekend. She hopped into her Lexus SUV on Saturday and arrived in Richmond two hours later, just in time for lunch. Her six-­year-­old twin nieces, Shola and Sade, and their nine-­year-­old brother, Bolu, came rushing to the door to welcome their cool auntie. As usual, she came bearing gifts. Her brother-­in-­law, Lanre, bellowed in short fits, which made him even more endearing.

  “You’re going to spoil these children, o,” he reprimanded before giving her a hug.