“He can’t even look me in the eye and lie,” Brittany continued. “Isn’t that what women want? A man who treats them like a queen? Down to anticipating her every want?”
“Hmm. Sounds like a man who worships and adores you. And freaking owns everything,” Tanesha said. “So, how did he take the baby news?”
Brittany sniffed back tears. How had Jonny reacted when she’d barfed her brains out during sex? He’d found her on her knees in the bathroom, puking her guts out. He had clearly been scared, unsure of how to make her feel better.
When she turned to look at him, his eyes were wide. He had deduced it all on sight.
“You’re pregnant?” He seemed frozen by the bathroom door. She left his question hanging, got to her feet, and flushed the toilet. She squeezed past him to her room. He followed her. After grabbing a towel, she popped into the shower. Still stark, he sat on her bed while she washed off, waiting for her.
When Brittany stepped out in a towel, he got to his feet, hands balled into fists by his sides, a naked statue frozen in her room.
“Jonny…”
“I want it.”
“You don’t know what you want. This was going to end sooner or later.” Brittany brushed wet hair off her face. Jonny’s eyes followed her hand before returning to her face. “You knew that.”
“I know what I want.” He held his intensity. “I want you… I want it… I want us.” She shook her head, suppressing tears with hard bites on her lower lip.
“I can’t keep it.” She started to cry. “I can’t. It’s selfish to ask me to.”
“Please,” he pleaded.
“Jonny, this is insane. We both knew it wasn’t going to last.” She sniffed. “Your track record…”
“I love you.”
The words from Jonny landed before they were both ready. Gravity sunk them straight to the floor.
“What?” The barely audible word slid out of Brittany. Jonny closed the space between them, settling into his favorite spot inches from her face.
“I love you.” He said those words again, louder.
“You don’t know me.”
“I do.”
Brittany cried. “I don’t know what to do with a baby right now. My life in Alexandria…” He watched as she gasped for air. Jonny instantly reached out to stroke her cheek, trying to calm her breathing, before pressing closer to her.
“I swear to you,” he whispered against her cheek. “I’ll take care of you. I’ll take care of our baby.”
Those words from Jonny’s mouth had been too real for Brittany to process. Our baby. He had gathered her into his arms as she sobbed the rest of that night.
She relayed a condensed version of the events to Tanesha over the phone.
“That’s a good thing,” Tanesha said. “He’s stepping up to the plate. He promised to take care of you and his child. Heck, the dude said he loves you!”
“He’s not in love. He’s infatuated. There’s a difference.”
“How does he make you feel?” Tanesha asked.
“Everything else falls away when we’re together. When he looks at me…” Brittany felt her heart beating anew.
“Brit?”
Brittany hummed back. She knew what Tanesha was going to say. They’d been friends for nearly two decades.
“I think you love this Jonny guy, but it’s killing you to admit it because you’re stubborn.”
“Tanesha, you don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You’re stubborn, Brit. You don’t want to accept that you’ve fallen for this man,” Tanesha said. “Girl, I hear it in your voice. Do you love him?”
A long stretch of silence, and then a soft “maybe” escaped Brittany. She muttered the word so weakly that she wasn’t convinced herself. Jonny seemed to need her desperately. The wealthiest man she had ever met had given her such complete power over him. And that feeling was intoxicatingly headier than love.
She wasn’t sure she loved him yet, but it was only a matter of time. Right?
“It doesn’t make you weaker, Brit. He’s showing you he loves you,” Tanesha said. “Let him take care of you.”
* * *
Jonny came to Alexandria a few days later during Brittany’s break between her work schedule for August. Distance had given them both time to think. Jonny came back stronger, telling her he wanted this baby more than anything in the world because he wanted Brittany.
Her time was up. Jamal had stopped paying for their town home. With her tail between her legs, Brittany mentioned this to Jonny while they were in bed. He proceeded to immediately call Eva in London. A few melodic words of Swedish later, he hung up.
“It’s sorted,” he said, pushing the phone away. She thanked him, cocooning herself in the fact that he cared. That was why he was helping her out. Not because she was so desperate, she was now fully dependent on his charity. The chorus of the unholy trinity began singing within her, sounding like, Desperation! Desperation! to the tune of “Hallelujah.”
“Come to Stockholm with me,” Jonny said, planting a kiss on her belly. “Come meet my family.”
“It’s too soon,” Brittany protested.
“If they meet you now, they won’t be surprised when our baby comes later.” His logic made sense. He was already trying to protect her. She pulled his head up for a kiss, but he stopped her and peered at her instead.
“Do you love me?” Jonny asked, his eyes burrowing into her.
Brittany wasn’t ready for those words.
Instead, she gently pressed her lips to his in a featherlight gesture. Jonny returned her kiss fiercely, his left hand scaling the swell of her rear to crush her to his body.
MUNA
VON LUNDIN MARKETING. Muna read the words on a small, gold plaque plastered onto the Birger Jarlsgatan address. The name “von Lundin” sounded very familiar, but she couldn’t place where she had heard of it before. The large, wooden door, distressed from old age, was locked. She waited for the cleaning crew Yagiz had told her about. Beyond having to wait, she knew nothing about them or how many people she was meeting.
She scanned the street, barren this early in the morning. There were a few joggers—lithe bodies with otherworldly proportions wearing skintight Lycra with swinging ponytails. The sound of their determined, pounding feet was interrupted by men rustling around in trash bins for plastic bottles and empty soda cans to recycle for money. A taxi or two whizzed by. One of Stockholm’s wealthiest streets was sparse at this hour.
She adjusted her black headscarf, feeling naked as she stared down at the blue T-shirt she was wearing over shapeless black pants she’d picked up at a secondhand store. She’d put her hair in two cornrows and wound the black scarf around them. She ran her fingers over her exposed chin and the top of her neck, cool air wrapping around her. It felt good.
At ten minutes past six a.m., two men wearing matching black polo shirts and black pants came tramping toward her, followed by a woman, all with olive skin, dark hair, and features that suggested Middle Eastern. The two men introduced themselves as Azeez and Qasim. Azeez was lean, and even though his limbs looked fragile, Muna knew they had carried him to Sweden, and with that came a certain kind of strength. The woman was short, barely reaching Muna’s shoulders, and was shaped like an orange. She already had her name tag pinned to her black polo shirt—Huda.
“Okay, yalla, let’s go!” Azeez pulled out keys, punched in codes, and waited for the sharp buzz of entry before the old door willed itself open. Lights flickered on as the crew walked down the gray halls of von Lundin Marketing. The Sunday cleaning crew had already prepped the place for Monday morning. All Team Azeez did on Monday mornings was make sure coffee machines and kitchenettes were properly cleaned and stocked, that it was tidy around desks and cubicles, and that the toilets were kept clean until four p.m. when they left.
Once they convened in the staff room, Azeez handed her an extra-large polo shirt bearing a matching logo with the initials of Yagiz’s cleaning company, YSR, which Muna would later find out represented Yagiz’ Städning och Rengöring—Yagiz’s Tidying and Cleaning. Menial tasks were doled out, and Muna immediately went for a mop. She reminisced about Solsidan, where she had made sure the verandah was always spotless, as she gripped the long, wooden handle with purpose. She would pour her heart into this. She would work so hard that Yagiz would make her boss.
Employees started streaming in between nine and ten that morning. Muna pressed into the wall as they came in and milled around the common areas. She watched groups casually stroll into the kitchen, pour themselves coffee, and chat about their weekends. Concerts, family activities, kräftskivor—crayfish parties. Words like Maldives, Greece, and Argentina floated in the air. Many of them had been away all July. Early August meant reconvening to brag about their luxurious holidays as much as they could as long as they were all bragging equally, Muna noted.
Envy knotted deep within her. The one thing she would pick if presented with those luxuries was family. Luckily, she had sisters now: Yasmiin and Khadiija.
She busied herself around the kitchen, rearranging, cleaning, eavesdropping. She might as well have been a phantom. They paid no attention to her moving around them. Their conversation died down when a pair of heeled footsteps came clunking into the kitchen area. Muna turned in time to see a Black sister, shaped like the number eight, come in. She had lots of hair on her head. Extensions, Muna could tell. She was wearing a black-and-white vertical-striped dress and a white jacket. Muna gawked at her, enamored by her presence in this space.
The Black sister’s gaze reached Muna from the group, and she nodded at her with a smile. Muna looked away and back down at her hands, which were holding a cleaning cloth.
The group switched to English. Muna’s English was weak, but she could pick out a few words. How are you? Excited. Move. Washington, DC. This Black woman must be American. Muna hadn’t seen any other Black faces on the three floors she had cleaned. She stopped tinkering around the kitchen and watched as the group surrounded this mystery woman, who seemed to be smiling and happy. She poured herself a latte from the automatic dispenser, turned to give the group a courteous wave, and clicked away down the hall.
Muna was about to turn back to her phantom tasks when she caught it. That wordless look they were giving one another over mugs of coffee upon her departure.
One of them, a woman, chuckled. “Alltså.. Det där var annorlunda…” So…that was different.
Muna frowned, unsure of how to process the remark, which was followed by low giggles. This group was laughing at that woman, and Muna needed to know why. What had she done wrong?
“Vilken vågad klänning!” Someone commented on her “brave” choice of outfit.
“Den där amerikanska auran… jag pallar inte!” That American aura…I can’t handle it!
“Men hon är nigerianska…” But she’s Nigerian, a guy with short, reddish hair jumped in.
“Strunt samma…” Doesn’t matter. All the same.
“Jag fattar inte vad hennes jobb går ut på…” I don’t understand what her job entails.
“Vi behöver mer bruna och svarta ansikten hos oss.” We need more brown and Black faces here.
“Oavsett deras kvalifikationer?” Regardless of their qualifications? This came from an older lady exuding irritation. Muna couldn’t guess her age, so she estimated higher. Early sixties?
“Men Greta… Hon är den bästa i hela USA på det hon gör.” She’s the best at her job in the whole U.S. The redhead guy seemed to be defending her.
“Strunt samma…” Doesn’t matter, that lady said before sipping scalding coffee from her mug once again.
Muna wanted to leave, but she was rooted on the spot, as if in invisible service as an undercover agent—a sister spy. She could gather intel for that curvy Black woman who had been smiling at them minutes ago.
That was when they spotted Muna, frozen like a statue, observing them. After clearing their throats, they quickly disbanded, leaving her to fully digest their conversation.
On the ride back to Tensta after her shift, her mind drifted back to the group and the way they were talking behind that Black woman’s back. Was that how Mattias from Solsidan talked about her? About them? And Gunhild with the kind eyes? Mr. Björn at Migrationsverket with his flatlined demeanor?
Paranoia gripped her. Who could she fully trust that wouldn’t see her as someone to be talked about behind closed doors?
When she walked into their apartment, it was into a waft of sesame and cardamom. Khadiija was in the kitchen cooking cambuulo, a rice and bean dish. Muna’s stomach grumbled, and she realized she hadn’t eaten all day.
Yasmiin was sitting with her feet propped atop their coffee table, painting her toenails neon turquoise. Muna shuffled in, dropped her bag by the door, and dragged herself toward the living room. She plopped her tired bones onto the sofa.
“How was it?” Yasmiin asked in Somali, examining the glittering nails in front of her. Muna pulled off her black scarf, staring past Yasmiin into space. The heavy silence was enough to drag Yasmiin’s face away from her task.
“Was it that bad?”
Muna needed to think. First, that Black woman. Second, those Swedes talking about the Black woman behind her back.
“Please thank Yagiz for me,” Muna said in a flat tone. At the mention of Yagiz’s name, Yasmiin stopped painting her nails and looked up at Muna once more, her eyes hard.
“Trust me, I’ve thanked him enough.”
Muna felt a fracture of vulnerability with light streaming through. She wedged her foot into the space, hoping to hold the emotional crack open. She’d been treading lightly around the two girls, afraid they’d someday fight and no longer be sisters.
“Why? Does he want something from you?” Muna asked softly. Yasmiin looked at her, laughed, then resumed her painting.
“How was your first day?”
“Okay. Not too much to do,” she said. “Those Swedes…you wouldn’t believe the things they talk about.”
Yasmiin snickered. “I can only imagine.”
“There was this beautiful sister there,” Muna continued. “Dressed like she had money. I was so proud of her. But you should have heard what they said when she left.”
“Like what?” Khadiija yelled from the kitchen over a sizzling pot. “What did they say?”
“I don’t really know,” Muna said, still processing. “They don’t like her Americanness. But she’s from Africa too. Nigeria. I don’t know what she does, but they were complaining about more brown and Black faces…something like that.”
“Hmm,” Yasmiin let out. “What else? Was that it?”
Muna seemed perplexed. “Yes, but…”
Yasmiin cackled then stood, being careful not to smudge her nails.
“They could have said worse,” Yasmiin said. “Like placing bets on who she fucked to get that fine job!” Yasmiin shuffled toward her room, her safe space.
“Yasmiin!” Muna called out, halting her exit. The older girl turned to her.
“What?”
“How did you meet Yagiz?”
The question threw Yasmiin off guard, and she frowned curiously at Muna.
“Why do you want to know? You like him?”
“No, no… I was just curious. He seems nice,” Muna said. Yasmiin laughed at her.
“You know what they say about curiosity and the goat.”
Muna hadn’t heard that version, but she didn’t mind being a goat to find out. “Tell me.”
Yasmiin let out a sigh then padded back to where Muna was sitting.
“Well, you’ve seen Yagiz. Fine man,” she started. “That hair, that moustache.” Her hands mimed h
is features in the air. “I met him at that reggae dance hall club in Akalla. You know the one?”
Muna shook her head.
“Anyway, he and his Turkish boys came, stood in a corner. Looking like bosses.” She chuckled. “We danced and danced. Said he loves African booty.”
Muna shifted in her seat.
“We kissed and kissed—deep with tongue and everything… Have you kissed before?”
Muna remained quiet. She wasn’t ready to share Ahmed. The girls had kept their own secrets from her, the pasts they were also running from. If there were a superpower she was slowly cultivating, it was patience. She could wait forever.
“We continued outside in some dark corner, and then BOOM!” Yasmiin pounded a fist into her open palm, laughing. “Two Eritrean brothers dragged Yagiz off me, but he laughed and gave me his business card.”
“Why?” Muna asked.
“Why what?” Yasmiin seemed perplexed, her laugh dying down.
“Why did you kiss a man you don’t know like that?”
Silence filled the room. Muna watched Yasmiin’s easy smile slide off her face. She gave Muna a smirk before turning to go. The slamming of Yasmiin’s door completed the proverb about curiosity and the goat.
Yagiz was off-limits, and Muna wanted to know why.
KẸMI
“Shermmy? Shermmy?” the bespectacled teacher called out over a semicircle of students. It was Kemi’s first day of Swedish class at Folkuniversitetet, an adult vocational school located a couple blocks from her office. As usual, Kemi felt overdressed. Excitement and nervousness tangoed within her. This was it. She was officially learning Swedish and making a commitment to her new home.
She looked around the group of fourteen, all sitting behind tables forming a half-moon around the teacher, a well-groomed guy in his mid- to late forties with dark hair and perfectly trimmed eyebrows.
“Shermmy’s not here?” he called out again. The group flashed quick glances at one another. Everyone else had checked in, except Kemi.
“Okay then.” He closed his book and was turning to walk to his desk when Kemi called out to him.
“You didn’t call my name…Kemi.” The man regarded her over glasses with thin frames then reopened his book.
In Every Mirror She's Black Page 13
