In Every Mirror She's Black

by Lolá Ákínmádé Åkerström

  Muna could count on one hand how many times she’d been to the photogenic capital. Solsidan was just too far away to casually hitch a ride to Stockholm. Most trips had been for meetings at Migrationsverket with a legal counsel provided by the agency from their local municipality.

  Newly minted Swedish residents, fresh from Solsidan’s treasury, all strolled into the train station, merging with crowds of people quietly bustling about. They headed underground toward the metro—­tunnelbanan. They shared hugs once more, promising to keep in touch, before spreading off in varying directions, immediately discarding those promises at the station. With Stockholm’s tentacles of trains leading them off, they were heading into new lives buried at different margins.

  Muna was now alone. She moved with languid steps, each step trying to give her hope in a world quickly becoming pointless to her. In his final act of guardianship, Mattias was guiding her again through words scribbled in Swedish on a yellow Post-­it note.

  Take the blue line toward Hjulsta. Get off at Tensta station and wait outside.

  She was to meet a “Gunhild” right outside Tensta metro station, an administrative officer from Spånga-­Tensta municipality. She was now going to be Muna’s point of contact.

  She sat silently on the train as it bobbed and weaved, moving her away from Stockholm’s beating heart to its resting toes. Tensta metro flooded her with Technicolor bulbous artwork etched across its stone walls. Stylized leaves and flowers, vivid animals, symbols celebrating unity and diversity. The richness of those colors fascinated her, and she wished she could transport some of that underground vibrancy into life aboveground.

  When Muna breached the surface, she didn’t have to wait for Gunhild. If there was one thing she’d learned in her few years here, Swedes were married to punctuality.

  The minute she walked out those doors, an older woman in her late fifties or early sixties padded toward Muna. She wore her graying blond hair in a bob, sporting oversize glasses with thin rims resting on the tip of her nose. She was lean with no extra fat, a build that suggested long walks every morning—­or days spent escorting a steady stream of immigrants to various apartments all over Tensta.

  “You must be Muna,” Gunhild said in Swedish, her kind, turquoise eyes twinkling, ringed with wrinkles and crow’s-­feet. “Welcome home! Mattias’s description of you was perfect!” She reached out a slender hand, which Muna took gently, lest she crush the woman’s fragile fingers.

  “I’m Gunhild from the municipality, and I will be showing you your new apartment,” she said before turning on her heels. Muna followed. “It’s close by, and the other girls, Khadiija and Yasmiin, are already waiting for you. They arrived earlier this week.” Muna couldn’t keep up with the lady’s seasoned steps.

  “Mattias mentioned you’re duktig and your Swedish is good.” Muna nodded silently. “You don’t have to worry, Muna. I will help you get settled in.”

  The apartment was four long streets away. It was one of hundreds of evenly sized apartments spread across a cluster of identical four-­story buildings reminiscent of honeycombs. Unlike the glistening gold of honey though, these buildings were designed with modest grays and beige brick to blend in with their surroundings.

  Gunhild opted to take the stairs up to the fourth floor where Muna’s new apartment was wedged into a corner with views of a nearby park and wooded area. Gunhild rapped thrice on the door before digging for her spare keys, Muna’s new keys, to unlock it.

  “Hej, tjejer!” Hi, girls! Gunhild called into the room as they both kicked off shoes by the door and pushed them into place with sock-­clad feet. Muna and Gunhild rounded the tight entryway into a living space. Two women were seated, one on a smoky-­gray canvas sofa and the other on its matching loveseat, fingers scrolling over smartphone screens. A quick scan around the living room revealed sparseness—­an empty canvas Muna hoped they could make their own together.

  Khadiija and Yasmiin turned to take in their new roommate, smiles spreading across varying shades of brown. Khadiija had impossibly sharp cheekbones and wore a pink hijab, which stopped just over the bust of her long, floral-­patterned summer dress with splashes of fuchsia, lime green, and butter yellow. Yasmiin’s shoulder-­length tresses were uncovered and flowed down in waves, framing an apple-­shaped face with chubby cheeks.

  Both rose to their feet to pull Muna, the youngest of the lot, into a three-­way embrace while Gunhild looked on. “Soo dhowow.” Welcome.

  But they didn’t pull apart. Not right away because both Khadiija and Yasmiin felt Muna trembling, shaking in their arms.

  Then the sobs came. Violently. Eyes shut tightly, mouth arched in a grimace, heart beating wildly. The way a toddler reacted when something frighteningly unexpected happened.

  Silently, they cradled Muna as she hiccupped out the hurt, cried despair away, and slowly let isolation ease its grip on her.

  Five

  KẸMI

  “Taiwo? Taiwo? Are you there?” her mother, Iya ibeji, crowed over the phone sitting on Kemi’s mahogany nightstand.

  It was the last Saturday of May, and Kemi was packing for her initial trip to Stockholm to meet her future von Lundin Marketing colleagues and get a glimpse of her new life. Ingrid and Jonny had planned this introduction to Stockholm.

  “Taiwo?” No response from Kemi. Her mom still refused to call her Kemi.

  “Okay o…” she continued. “Maybe there’s something wrong with your phone. Call me back sha.” Click. Her mother disconnected the call.

  Seven minutes. It had taken Iya ibeji seven whole minutes to realize Kemi hadn’t been paying attention to words she’d been firing in rapid succession like bullets. The trigger of that barrage was Kemi’s mention of her new job offer and impending move to Europe. It had taken Kemi weeks to divulge this information to her mother.

  Usually, a pang of guilt ate at Kemi whenever her mother’s prepaid minutes dwindled away, making calls from Lagos on one of her three cell phones, each tied to a different telecom provider. Iya ibeji needed a backup of the backup in case she ran out of minutes with idle talk.

  “Sweden, ke?” Her mother had launched into a tirade. Sweden? What was dragging her there? Who was forcing her? She should be careful. They didn’t know anyone there o!

  Kemi’s thirty-­four years on earth weren’t enough to warrant common sense. There had to be a sinister force beyond Kemi’s control that Iya ibeji was certain was luring her daughter to that cold place Africans weren’t supposed to willingly venture to.

  “Isn’t it minus thirty degrees in that place? God o!” her mother’s voice had half cried into the citrus-­scented air of Kemi’s spacious bedroom as she continued packing a small Samsonite hard case.

  She made the trek from her walk-­in closet to the navy-­blue suitcase splayed open on her bed multiple times. Reducing her choices down to six statement pieces had been challenging. Two V-­neck blouses that flattered her bust. Two wrap dresses that followed her curves. A pair of tailored black trousers that complemented her rear. Her prized indigo-­blue Prada spring jacket. A striped navy-­blue-­and-­white nautical blazer. Items that she hoped would communicate confidence with a sprinkle of cachet. She packed them with unease because “skintight” and “elegance” always seemed to be at odds. She carried the same struggle inside. Was she ever going to be enough without accentuating herself?

  The possibility of potential suitors crossed her mind too, so she raced over to her antique chest and pulled open a drawer of lingerie, fishing out favorites. After all, she could switch country of choice to “Sweden” in her dating app once on the ground.

  As she stuffed black lace underwear into the bulging case, her phone rang once more, shimmying across the nightstand. She didn’t bother. She knew a quick glance was going to reveal “Mommy.” It shrilled defiantly as she pressed her case shut. The phone rang until it lost its voice. Silence filled her room once more.r />
  She moved her suitcase, along with her oversize handbag, to the living room of her Penn Quarter condominium. Indecision had made her crappy at packing, and now she had to check in a suitcase as opposed to her initial plans for carry-­on only.

  Indecision had also choked her right before she made the wallet-­denting condominium purchase two years prior. Kehinde had exhaled sharply at the price before finishing off with: “If God wants you to have it, then it’s yours.” Her mother had danced and sung at the news on the other end of the receiver. Praising the Looooord always… Kemi was certain her mother had mentally omitted a zero from the price, hence her jubilation.

  Zizi had egged her on. “Buy a place worthy of your career,” she had said during one of their lunches. “You deserve it. Or are you waiting for some sugar daddy to come buy it for you?”

  Zizi.

  Kemi was surprised by how quickly thoughts of her friend had drifted out of her daily existence since their wordless fight. That emotional space for a sounding board was now slowly being filled by a deep conviction and nagging belief that Zizi had always been jealous of her. After all, they did work in the same industry and Kemi had won National Marketing Executive two years in a row.

  She rewound several heart-­to-­hearts they’d had over the years. Zizi’s impatience with her each time she’d needed help in making a crucial decision. Zizi rallying around her, flying in on the wings of body positivity and twirling back out, sprinkling shade like confetti upon her exit.

  Kemi saw it now. Zizi was never going to be happy about this big move. It meant a role reversal for Zizi. That Kemi had decided to break free, expand her options beyond the States, and had chosen not to settle quite yet. After all, she always imagined Zizi to be the free bird that had clipped its wings too quickly with marriage.

  Her phone convulsed once again, and she contemplated silencing it until she remembered she was waiting for her taxi to Dulles Airport.

  Sure enough, the driver’s voice, tinged with a West African accent, greeted her. “I’m downstairs,” he casually informed her before cutting the call, as if he paid for phone usage by the second. After a quick check around the condo to make sure anything that could potentially explode in her absence was switched off, she locked up and took the elevator twelve floors down to F Street where the unmarked black Chrysler sedan was waiting. Upon giving her a short wave, the driver pushed himself out and regarded her with a wide smile.

  “Good afternoon, madam.” He reached for her bag, making a grand show of courtesy, leering suggestively with a toothy smile never leaving his face.

  “Where are you going?” His first question came before they’d even left her block in the district. She pretended not to hear him and busied herself with her phone. He wasn’t easily deterred.

  “Hello? Hello o?”

  “Yes?” she answered curtly. He smiled at her through the rearview mirror.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To the airport.” He burst out laughing, a booming bellow that vibrated throughout the car. One she suspected many women had heard in the back of his taxi.

  “You’re a funny woman,” he said. “I know you’re going to the airport. I am the one taking you there.” He looked back at her again. She gave him a half smile and bowed back to face her phone.

  “Are you going abroad? It says Scandinavian Airlines on your reservation.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Are you going to Switzerland?” He studied her through his mirror. She hoped he didn’t plan on killing her with mindless conversation, because he was distracted from the road.

  “No. Sweden.”

  An unexpected silence hung between them, one she quickly wrapped herself in. They were barely five minutes into her ride when he promptly broke it.

  “Are you married?”

  She cut him a stern look.

  “I’m just joking. Me, I’m happily married with four small children,” he continued. “I was wondering if you’re meeting your husband in Sweden.”

  “Thank you for your concern.”

  He cackled once more. “My name is Kweku.”

  “Nice to meet you, Mr. Kweku.”

  “Please call me Kweku. What is your name?”

  “You already know.”

  He guffawed. Kemi wasn’t sure if Kweku was laughing at her uptightness or chuckling to mask his own embarrassment. He continued laughing, scanning traffic as he merged onto the expressway.

  “I know your kind.”

  “Excuse me?”

  His shining eyes laughed at her through his mirror again. He certainly had her attention now.

  “I know your kind. You and your white boyfriends. Always acting jumpy when your brother tries to talk to you.”

  Kemi didn’t know how to parse through the layers of his insult. Besides the fact that her last few dates had all been “brothers” and her Thai-­eating, gym-­hitting, friends-­with-­benefits electrician Andre was also African American, she was incensed.

  “You’re dangerously crossing the line, Mr. Kweku,” she threatened.

  “I’m not trying to offend you, madam.”

  “You’ve done a fantastic job so far!”

  He cackled once more, but this time, it was a weaker, less confident gargle. Like he’d realized that he had indeed crossed a line and tossed his tip away. His apology was silence the rest of the way to the airport.

  When he deposited her on the sidewalk at Terminal 1 to catch the first leg of her trip via Copenhagen, his face had assumed a resting flatness in anticipation of no gratuity. He got out, pulled her case from his trunk, and mumbled something along the lines of thank you and goodbye.

  She kept his tip.

  * * *

  After her dinner of Arctic char and dill potatoes, Mr. Kweku cackled his way back into her mind. Good riddance, she thought as the cabin lights were dimmed for the night flight.

  I know your kind.

  His words dug into her. They felt unfair. Unnecessary. Uncalled for. She had tried. Had opened her arms wide, seeking love and companionship where she could. Yet, Kweku had sniffed the air around her and assumed she was prejudiced. She had really liked Andre, but he dumped her before they were officially dating. It didn’t matter now anyway. She was leaving town.

  She thought of Connor. If she were being completely honest with herself, she had basked in his attention despite his occasional cringe-­worthy gestures and that nasal Boston-­Irish lick. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have hurt so badly when he gave her a terse goodbye without so much as a hug after all their professional years together. They had been a great team at A&A. They had worked on many successful projects together. Instead, Connor had decided to end it selfishly by cowering in the face of his desire.

  By the time she arrived in Copenhagen, she had breezed through three movies with no sleep and was still wide awake.

  Late Sunday morning, her connecting flight landed smoothly in Stockholm to glorious spring weather. The descent into the city of islands had given her an impressive view of its landscape. The people milling around baggage claim were a lot more subdued than those at Dulles. Besides the clanking of heels and jiggling of luggage carts, the air was devoid of loud, boisterous chatter.

  As she waited for her Samsonite case to roll out, she felt a presence position itself next to her, and she glanced toward it. Her eyes met a shoulder clad in a baby-­blue dress shirt before working their way up to its wearer. Lush waves of brown hair settled around his neck. The same coloring matched a neatly trimmed, full beard. The white man easily cleared six feet, and when he sensed he was being observed, he flashed her an icy glare. She quickly averted her gaze in response.

  When her bag rolled out, she struggled to pull it off the belt. In an exhibition of the antithesis of chivalry, the man hopped out of the way to give Kemi better access to her bag as she traveled with it down
the belt. She pulled it off on his other side. She hadn’t been anticipating that chill.

  Ingrid had arranged transportation for her with a few recommendations on where to have brunch, lunch, and dinner within walking distance of her waterfront hotel on Blasieholmen. She would have joined her, Ingrid quipped, but it was Sunday—­she had to be with her family and prepare her two young kids for dagis on Monday. Daycare.

  They planned to meet each other at the offices of von Lundin Marketing Birger Jarlsgatan early the next day.

  MS. ADEYEMI, the digital tablet read in block letters as double doors parted, and she was thrust into a low-­key arrival hall of waiting families, friends, and chauffeurs. The driver, a middle-­aged white man with thinning curls and glasses on his nose, waited until she walked up to him.

  “I’m Ms. Adeyemi,” Kemi said. He smiled at her, introduced himself as Kalle, shook her hand, and grabbed her suitcase, which he wheeled quietly into his taxi. The next words Kalle spoke to her were forty minutes later when he dropped her off in front of the avant-­garde, cream-­colored Lydmar Hotel with waterfront views of the Royal Palace.

  This time around, Mr. Kweku’s intrusion would have been appreciated in lieu of Mr. Kalle’s silence. She didn’t realize how comfortable she’d become with superficial chauffeur banter asking her who she was, where she was going, and welcoming her to town.

  Her mind raced back to the rude man at baggage claim and Mr. Kalle’s detachment, and she began slinking back into that dark space paranoia had carved out within her.

  BRITTANY-­RAE

  Brittany awoke at four thirteen a.m. to muffled sounds coming from the guest toilet. She’d woken up on her couch in her purple silk night slip, her bathrobe heaped onto the hardwood floor next to the sofa. The single light source was a sliver coming from the partially cracked door to the toilet. She slowly got to her feet.

  The muffling continued as she tiptoed closer. Through the gap, she could see a topless Jonny on his knees, wiping tiles aggressively with one hand while holding a phone to his ear with the other. His Swedish sounded berserk. Frantic. When she pushed open the door to inspect closer, he sprang to his feet with wild eyes. A blue-­black bruise had spread across the bridge of his nose, and the small cut above his left eyebrow had started bleeding again, flowing down in a thin red line.