In Every Mirror She's Black

by Lolá Ákínmádé Åkerström

  KẸMI

  The end of May rolled around, and it was soon her last Friday at Andersen. Kemi sat on the edge of their communal table at the office, wrapped in a bubble where the voices of colleagues floated inaudibly around her. Rapturous muffled laughter at a joke offered. Humming and slow-­motion bobbing of heads in agreement with a shared anecdote. Everyone coming to the same conclusion: she was going to be terribly missed. “Irreplaceable” was the word her assistant, Nicole, shared. Connor was leaning against a wall across the room, arms folded, observing her with eyes hooded in a sadness she’d never seen in him before.

  A month had flown by in a flurry of handovers, wrapping projects, and tying up loose ends. The last of Kemi’s boxes had been delivered to her house the evening before, so she came into an office with an empty desk and a workday dedicated to reminiscing and saying goodbyes.

  They were all going to miss her, but Connor… He was going to mourn her, this she knew.

  He never made it to the fridge in time for his midnight snack. Her leaving was unfinished business for him. His disposition told her this from across the room, and something familiar bubbled up within her along the lines of pity, not the relief she had anticipated.

  She made her way through the line waiting for farewell hugs, and in her final act of acquiescence, she headed toward him. When she reached him, his arms fell to his sides in resignation. He didn’t touch her.

  All Connor could do was let out a small, forlorn sigh and wish her well.

  Then he turned and left.

  * * *

  Later that evening, she silently watched Andre—­the electrician from her dating app—­tuck into jasmine rice at one of her favorite restaurants in Arlington just outside Washington, DC. They weren’t officially dating, but over the last couple of weeks, they’d been occasionally trying out different Thai restaurants around town. He’d been giving her workout tips on the best way to tone up without losing her curves. She’d been warming his bed in return and had finally bounced a quarter off his washboard abs.

  He stopped chewing. “Rough day at work, huh?” Andre asked, reaching for his glass of Singha beer.

  “Don’t worry about it.” She shrugged.

  “I wish I could, but I’m not a robot,” Andre said.

  She was unsure of how to process his words. Was he admitting he’d developed feelings for her?

  “I…I don’t know what to say.”

  “You don’t have to say anything. Look, I know I can’t take care of you the way you deserve, so I’m happy with what you’ve given me so far.”

  “Don’t talk like that. Of course you take care of me. Life isn’t all about money,” Kemi retorted. “Besides, electricians make good money.”

  “You really believe introducing me as an electrician versus an electrical engineer doesn’t make a difference to you?” he challenged her with a smirk. She remained silent.

  “You’re ambitious and driven,” he continued. “You’re fierce and a freak in those sheets. You deserve more than I can give you.”

  “What is this, Andre?”

  “I care about you. A lot. But I know I could never please you because I’ve got imaginary shoes to fill. You’re always looking over your shoulder like you’re gonna miss something or someone better.”

  Kemi couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

  “Are you joking?”

  “I mean, it’s not like we’re exclusive or anything. You’re not my girlfriend.”

  Humiliation pulled her eyelids shut like window blinds. Andre was dumping her despite getting sex with no strings attached. Even that wasn’t enough to keep him around, and her ego scattered into a million pieces, spilling over their plates of spicy chili basil pork. When she opened her eyes, it was to his face contorted in anticipation of a backlash.

  “You’re ending this because you care about me,” Kemi stated.

  “Yes.”

  Lately, the way people were showing they cared about her was to act like assholes. Zizi with her indifference, Connor with his aloofness, and now Andre with his insecurities. Sweden was the right decision, and she couldn’t wait to board her flight on Saturday evening for her whirlwind introduction.

  That night, their goodbye sex was demure and comatose. The freak, as Andre often called her, died a quick death.

  BRITTANY-­RAE

  A week after the statement bouquet arrived, another one was delivered. Brittany explained the second bouquet away by telling Jamal that Jonny was obsessed with her.

  Then radio silence from Jonny for three weeks until a dozen light-­pink roses were delivered to their town home with a note that read, “I’m coming to see you. Jonny.” That was Jamal’s breaking point.

  That evening, Brittany sat on the edge of their bed, next to crumpled pieces of damp tissue. She’d blown her nose, wiped her tears, rinsed, and repeated that action as Jamal started pulling clothes off hangers and shoving them into two large suitcases he’d flung onto the floor.

  Every time she tried calling his name, she was silenced with a hand held up to her face. Stop, his hand said. Just stop.

  “This is too much,” Jamal mumbled to himself as he moved from closet to suitcase and back.

  “Jamal,” she called out.

  “That one business card you just couldn’t throw away, huh?” He stopped in front of her.

  “I don’t know him.”

  “I googled the bastard.” Jamal caught his breath. “He collects Black women like trophies. Did you know that? Huh, Brit?”

  “I swear to you,” she cried out. “I don’t know him like that.”

  “Then why does he keep sending you goddamn flowers? What the fuck is he apologizing for?”

  “For being an asshole!” Brittany wanted to scream, but she couldn’t tell Jamal. She had agreed to that dinner. She had been complicit in the derailment of their relationship, and she had no one else to blame. Jamal hadn’t deserved any of this.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Why him?”

  “What?”

  “Why him, huh?” Jamal was furious as he stormed around the bed and planted himself in front of her.

  “Baby, don’t be like that,” she cried, but he cut her off.

  “Is it because he’s white?”

  “What?”

  “So he can protect you?” he continued. “Can he open doors I can’t?”

  Jamal’s stunning words propelled Brittany onto her feet as she tried to reach for him, but he grabbed her by the wrists to hold her back.

  “Brittany,” he started, his voice beginning to give way, “I deserve the truth.”

  “I swear to you. I don’t know this man. I don’t care about him.”

  “Why did you keep his card?”

  “Because I was curious, baby. That’s all.”

  “Why were you curious?”

  Brittany had no words for him, so Jamal let go of her wrists, and fresh tears filled her eyes.

  “Please, baby. Let’s talk about this. We can get through this.”

  “We have nothing if I can’t trust you,” he said before resuming his packing. The shrill buzz of the doorbell interrupted their fight, and Jamal turned to her.

  “I swear to you, if that son of a bitch is behind that door, I’m going to kill him,” he said with an unnerving calmness.

  Brittany took a deep breath. Jonny wouldn’t dare. He’d already upended her life from a distance. As Jamal strode toward the front door of their town house, Brittany quickly grabbed a bathrobe, slung it around her purple night slip, and dashed after him.

  Jamal peered through the peephole, dropped his head, and stared at the ground for a second or two before glancing back at her.

  Brittany knew.

  He opened the door to Jonny standing on their steps wearing a white polo shirt over form-­fitting
jeans, a single sunflower in his left hand. Jamal breathed out through flared nostrils. It must have been a maddening sight. A strange white man standing quietly at their door, staring at him, not blinking.

  Jonny’s gaze moved over to caress Brittany, who was now standing next to her boyfriend. At this provocation, Jamal stepped forward and headbutted Jonny, sending him flying backward down the stairs and knocking him unconscious the second he hit concrete.

  Brittany screamed and rushed down to help him. She checked for a pulse. He was limp, blood gushing from his left nostril and from a gash on his forehead. She pulled his polo shirt up to his face and used the cloth to keep pressure on his nose as Jamal watched.

  That his girlfriend would swoop down to this stranger instead of calling the cops about a stalker must have confirmed Jamal’s worst fears. She had to have been having an affair with him. Jamal strode back in to finish loading his suitcases, while Brittany was left outside in her bathrobe, hooking her arms under Jonny’s armpits and dragging him up the stairs.

  By the time she hoisted the unconscious man onto their couch, Jamal was heading back to the door, two suitcases in hand. His laptop satchel was slung across his chest. He didn’t turn around to acknowledge her or say goodbye. He simply left with a hard slam of the door. Brittany continued sobbing as she sat next to the stranger who was unconscious and breathing slowly.

  Then she called her best friend, Tanesha, in Atlanta. Tanesha listened quietly as Brittany unloaded everything. The encounter. The date. The flowers. The breakup. The headbutt.

  “Listen, boo,” Tanesha started. “I better be hearing sirens right now!” Brittany hadn’t called the cops, and Jamal’s words had come back to her. “Is it because he’s white?”

  Tanesha tried comforting her over the phone. “No, he’s the freak. No, you’re not racist. No, Jamal doesn’t hate you. Sounds like you want Jonny. Wait, where is Jonny from again? No, you’re not crazy. Yes, chase his ass out with your… What are you holding again?!”

  * * *

  Brittany had attacked a man once in self-­defense. Samuel Beaufount had backed her up into a corner and assaulted her in his massive Atlanta villa.

  “I have a gift for you.” Beaufount had smiled before motioning for her to follow him toward that grand closet of masterpieces he was still designing. Once inside, he pulled a sheer frock off a hanger and held it up in front of her. “Go on. I want to see how it fits.”

  She assessed the featherlight outfit bound to cover nothing and shook her head. “Samuel, I can’t wear this,” she said.

  “I’m thinking of branching into women’s fashion and want you as my muse.” He smiled at her. “I want it draped over that body of yours.” His eyes trailed those words over her body. She nodded shyly and pulled her dress over her head, standing in front of him in her bra and panties. When she reached for the gossamer gown in his hands, he charged at her instead, hands circling her neck, his mouth coming down hard on hers as he pushed her onto the floor.

  For several minutes, with one hand trying to pry off Beaufount’s chokehold, Brittany’s other hand flailed in search of a makeshift weapon. His strength consumed her, his girth excruciating, his breath hot on her face as he choked her. Brittany’s free hand landed on a metal hanger lying barely within reach. Her fingers worked furiously to grab it, those delicate limbs inching as far as possible. When she finally did, she swiped its sharp hook across his face as hard as she could. He growled, releasing her, and she fled, not daring to look back or bothering to gather her clothes.

  In response to the scar that it had left, the legendary designer’s team sent out a press release blaming the attack on a crazed fan.

  She enrolled in flight attendant training the next week.

  * * *

  That Jonny, in his delusion, could sweep into her life, destroy it, and somehow justify it blew her mind. She’d met him three times, and those encounters had been brief.

  She watched Jonny slowly regain consciousness on the sofa she’d hoisted him onto. He tried lifting himself up but then looked down at his bare chest. She had stripped off his bloody top, which was now soaking in her sink.

  As he tried sitting up taller, she switched on the table lamp next to her. He turned sharply toward her.

  “I’m sorry.” He winced as if seized by pain. Something didn’t feel right to Brittany, and she knew he probably needed to see a doctor.

  “Sorry? Why did you come to my house?”

  “I needed to see you. I…I can’t stop thinking about you.”

  “Am I supposed to be flattered? You’re stalking me! You’ve been sending unwanted flowers, and then you disrespectfully show up at our house…at my boyfriend’s…” Her lips began to quiver. Growling in frustration, she sprang to her feet and stormed up to him.

  In the span of a week, Jonny had destroyed everything she’d been building for years. Now, he was staring at her like a confused puppy, wondering what he’d done wrong, as she held a metal clothes hanger inches from his face.

  “I’m so sorry.” He put his hands up to stop her and winced again. “I swear I didn’t mean to make you sad.”

  “Stop talking!” she cried.

  He reached for the arm holding the hanger, slowly running his palm up her elbow. Then his eyes followed his exploring hand as it slid up and down her arm, mesmerized by the repetitive motion.

  Brittany was taken aback. Had she attracted a psycho?

  She yanked free from his grasp and slapped his face. He received her blow, pupils growing wider in the low light. She tried hitting him again, but he grabbed her wrist and got to his feet, crushing her to his bare chest.

  He seemed to be replicating the rhythm of her heaving chest. Breathing at the same tempo, he inadvertently calmed her racing heart, slowing her down until her anger fizzled out. Though he was still holding her wrist, he didn’t try to take the hanger away. Instead, he traced his free fingers along the length of her neck, his attention locked on the movement of his fingers.

  Brittany looked away, half expecting his lips to cool down the scorching trail his fingers left along her neck. When moisture from his mouth never came, she turned back to find him drinking her in intensely with a look that shook her core. And when his kiss came, it wasn’t a maddening possession but rather a slow pressure that plied her mouth open. As he deepened their kiss, he slowly spun them around so she was now positioned in front of the sofa. He released his hold on her forearm and moved both hands up to cup her face, his mouth claiming hers completely.

  With the hanger still in hand, she reached behind him to feel his bare back, splaying her fingers over the muscles working as he kissed her with renewed fervor. She could still do it. Drag the hook across his bare skin and send him the message that he couldn’t always get his way. But she let him pry it from her fingers.

  Her surrender was apparently the shot of adrenaline he needed to fully possess her. She gasped at his revved-­up passion, lips parting. He reclaimed them once again. His hands moved down to wrap tightly around Brittany’s waist, gently lowering her to sit. Breaking off their kiss, he fell to his knees in front of her.

  Jonny never joined her on that couch. Instead, his eyes, dark and brooding, hooked hers as he slowly pried her legs apart before dipping down.

  MUNA

  When Muna left Solsidan on a minibus with nine other asylum seekers who had been granted residency, there was no fanfare. Those leaving shared goodbye hugs with residents they cared about. Mattias stood at the entrance as they loaded themselves and their sparse belongings onto the bus, which was arranged for free by the municipality’s “strategic saints,” as Mattias often joked.

  Though she’d arrived with a small, rather lightweight sack, she was now leaving with a modest duffel bag filled with secondhand clothes, a winter coat, a few toiletries, and other bits and pieces she’d squirreled away over the years. Her secondhand smartphone was tu
cked in a pocket. Ahmed’s sack was tied to a belt under her garment.

  The crimson-­faced officer had stopped harassing her for it. He no longer cared, he’d said. They had more important work to do. It seemed her “boyfriend” had been unpopular, the officer had underscored calmly. His eyes did all the screaming for him, and Muna feared the thoughts that lived comfortably in that man’s heart.

  “Muna Saheed.” Mattias met her with a smile when it was her turn to say goodbye. “Don’t forget us when you become statsminister.” Prime minister. He hugged her, gave her three small pats on the back, and whispered that she would go far.

  Because she was duktig. Smart.

  As the minibus hurtled down Solsidan’s driveway before turning onto smoother, backcountry, single-­lane roads, Muna didn’t turn to look over her shoulder. There was no need to give one last glorious look of gratitude. Or marvel at the sprawling property that had camouflaged her for two years in the middle of nowhere. She didn’t want to see the spires of that cathedral turned dining hall for Muslims. She didn’t want to see Mattias standing there, looking on and waving to those who’d turned around with frenzied waves for him.

  She wasn’t ungrateful. She simply couldn’t justify looking back longingly at a place that had claimed her heart as penance just for being there. She, Ahmed, and fifty others had raised Sweden’s modest population of roughly ten million by fifty-­two more bodies—­well, fifty-­one, since Ahmed was now dead—­the night they arrived. She knew deep down, Sweden was never going to forgive her for coming.

  At least you’re alive, those aging walls seemed to scold her. Through long, deep winters, bouts of isolation, and the type of boredom that bred insanity. Du borde vara tacksam. You should be grateful. That was society’s mantra for the likes of her. Because only ingrates went up in flames, burning themselves alive.

  Three and a half hours later, after meeting mild traffic along the E4 highway, the minibus deposited the group in front of Stockholm’s Central Station. Various accented versions of “Tack!”—­Thanks!—­floated from the seats. “Det var så lite.” You’re welcome. The driver’s first words since he’d picked them up at Solsidan. He climbed out of the van and opened the double doors of the trunk so they could grab their bags.