Kemi listened to his rant as several thoughts raced through her mind. In less than a year, he’d developed this carriage. She wasn’t sure if he’d been building his armor of activism the day his mom left him at ten years old or if he had to expedite its construction because Sweden hated sharp edges that stuck out.
Malcolm continued until she inadvertently broke his monologue by scratching underneath her hair. He gave her a once-over, taking in her long-overdue braids she had attempted herself unsuccessfully.
“I see someone’s past their due date,” Malcolm chuckled.
Normally, Kemi would have rebuked a stranger for showing such audacity. Somehow with Malcolm, it was in line with his boorishness, which regularly surfaced in their Swedish class. She knew it didn’t come from malice. Malcolm was reminding her she better not become blunt here.
She finally broke. “Bro, I need to get my hair done like yesterday. Any suggestions?”
“Girl, I got you.” He laughed, reaching for his phone, eyes twinkling mischievously at her. She’d made her first friend in Sweden.
After that impromptu dinner with Malcolm, she felt less alone. She’d connected with someone who could, on some level, empathize with her, and she promised to come to his gig and watch him play. If he was as passionate a saxophonist as he was a debater in class, then she knew she was in for a good time.
The next morning, Kemi pushed open the door to Espresso House for her daily latte. Once at the counter, she started reaching into her purse, ready to order and pay, when someone slid a tall cup toward her.
“Your latte, Kemi. On me,” the voice said in Swedish. She looked up to fully take in the barista who had spoken. She didn’t recognize him. Or, maybe she did, but he wasn’t the one who often served her coffee. He had mocha-colored skin with short, kinky, reddish-brown hair, a few brown freckles dusting his face, thick lips, and maple-brown eyes. She glanced at the name tag pinned atop a navy-blue apron resting over a broad swimmer’s chest.
Tobias.
“Tobias…” she said, loving the way his name felt on her lips. “Tack så mycket, Tobias.” He smiled at her, revealing a slight gap between his top front teeth.
“Have we met?” She switched to American English. She was still struggling with her tenses in Swedish.
“I make your latte every morning. Someone else just hands it to you,” he said, switching to British English. Her eyes held his. Then she bit her lower lip and lowered her gaze shyly.
Tobias.
Eleven
BRITTANY-RAE
Brittany saw Jonny’s sisters exchange a quick word between themselves as she arrived with Jonny. The rest of the guests at Antonia’s crayfish party went down to zero decibels as they watched Jonny lead her by the hand into the yard of the hilltop villa.
Antonia—Jonny whispered into Brittany’s ear—was the first to walk up to the couple. She shared the same tightly cropped hair as their mother, though she wore hers a little longer. She was wearing a loose-fitting, white dashiki over wide-legged, white linen pants. There wasn’t a lick of makeup on her face, which bore the same features as Jonny, down to the way they smiled and their small teeth.
“It’s so great to finally meet the woman my brother is so crazy about.” Antonia launched herself into Brittany’s unprepared arms. Brittany caught her and reciprocated the hug.
“You must be Antonia. Nice to meet you!”
Antonia finished off her greeting with kisses on both cheeks. She ignored Jonny and linked her arm with Brittany’s, leading her toward the small group of friends and family that had gathered.
“Welcome to our crayfish party!” she beamed, sweeping her left hand, which was holding a glass of wine, over the spread. As they moved closer, Brittany felt her stomach start to churn. The air was filled with a distinct salty, fishy smell. It had to be coming from the light peach-colored langoustines and deep-orange-red crayfish piled high in large, crystal glass bowls sitting on several white-linen-draped tables. She couldn’t throw up right now. Not in front of his closest clique.
Antonia pointed out two tall teenage boys as hers, a sturdy-looking husband who raised his glass in a toast as they passed, and a few more friends decked out in varying expensive but casually put-together looks.
Svea came up to meet them and introduced herself. Though she shared the same hair and eye coloring as her siblings, to Brittany, Svea looked different from the others. Her lips were plumped up. Her cheekbones were more defined. Natural wrinkles for her age had been smoothed out. Her blond tresses had been straightened and she was wearing unusually high heels for a backyard party on grass. While caked on as elegantly as possible, her makeup was still several layers deep.
“You’re so beautiful, Brittany” were the next words out of Svea’s mouth. Since she’d been swept up into Jonny’s frenzied world, Brittany felt like a fragile doll behind a glass display. The way his assistants buzzed around her like bees. The way his sisters were treating her. This was not who she was. She didn’t sign up to be pampered and preened without her input. She felt like the sole concubine in Jonny’s harem, pulled out for entertainment and something to be gawked at. She was getting more tired of it with each passing day. Right now, though, her singular priority was keeping lunch in her stomach as the group inched closer to the seafood-laden tables.
As they strolled hand in hand, Antonia turned to peer at Jonny, who had been trailing them.
“Gud, vad lik henne hon är!” Antonia said. “Vad håller du på med, Jonny?”
They stopped walking when Jonny suddenly rounded on them and stood inches from Antonia’s face. Brittany felt excluded from their tense standoff.
“Vad menar du?” he asked sternly.
Brittany swallowed uncomfortably. While she didn’t have any of her own, she knew sibling fights weren’t pretty.
“Du, var försiktig,” Antonia smirked.
Jonny didn’t answer, but he glared down at his sister angrily. What had Antonia said? They continued their standoff until Antonia broke it by eyeing him up and down.
“Vad händer?” Svea asked, walking back up to them, taking in the situation.
“Ingenting,” Antonia answered.
Brittany nervously stroked her hair. She needed to learn Swedish fast. Antonia unhooked her arm from Brittany’s, gave her a weak smile, and took her leave, just as a large guy holding a stem of white Chardonnay strolled unhurriedly up to them. Jonny turned to the man, his face softening. He rushed over to Brittany, who took a step back when Jonny now planted himself in front of her. Then he pointed to the man who was standing a polite distance from them.
“Meet Ragnar. My best friend.”
Brittany assessed his stoic friend. He and Jonny were about the same height, but this guy was broader, more muscular. While Jonny ran, this guy looked like he played a sport that required force. Hockey, maybe? He had deep dark-brown hair and regarded her with skeptical dark ocean blues she couldn’t quite read.
“Welcome,” Ragnar said.
“We’ve known each other since nursery school,” Jonny said, smiling, looking at Ragnar, who nodded in acknowledgment as he wordlessly interrogated Brittany. She immediately recognized that if she was going to fully commit to growing her relationship with Jonny, this was one of the gatekeepers she had to go through. Right now, his face read “gate closed.”
Ragnar had probably witnessed all the women who had barreled through his friend’s life over the years. Brittany sensed his mistrust was tied to something deeper. As a Black woman, her radar never took a break. Because, besides uttering the word “Welcome,” Ragnar avoided her for the rest of the evening and parked himself close to his petite wife, Pia, who looked like a gym bunny.
“How are you feeling?” Jonny inquired once they stole a moment alone, his palm instinctively moving over her stomach. She felt food at the back of her throat. Nause
a. That seafood smell was all-consuming.
“Stop doing that!” she scolded between clenched teeth. His sisters had been observing her all night. That look of surprise was back on their faces. She had run to the bathroom twice that evening to puke. She’d already popped a couple of morning sickness pills as well. Whenever thoughts of an abortion surfaced, Jonny’s elation dampened it. He couldn’t wait to hold his child.
“I can’t wait till they all find out,” he whispered into her ear before giving it a little nip. She giggled. Her laughter quickly died when she caught Ragnar assessing them frigidly from a distance. She leaned into Jonny, needing to know more about his friend.
“Your friend Ragnar,” she started while Jonny nibbled on her ear. “What’s his story?”
“His story?”
“Yeah, I mean besides you going to the same kindergarten.”
“Well,” Jonny said, distracted by his current task, “we grew up together. Went to the same boarding schools. Even lived together in London for a bit.” He grazed the ridge of her ear with his teeth. She didn’t know how to bob and weave around what she wanted to say, so she was direct. Jonny only understood direct anyway.
“I don’t think he likes me.” She waited for Jonny’s explanation, hoping it was all in her mind. He confirmed it.
“Ragnar never likes any of my girlfriends.” He continued working on her ear. “He doesn’t understand why I just won’t be with a white girl.” Brittany tensed beneath his caress and he stopped, concerned that he’d offended her. She turned to look at him.
“He’s your best friend, you say?” She needed to be sure. If this man was going to hold a prominent role in their lives, she needed to be sure he wasn’t a racist.
She had already gone through an ordeal with his parents that Jonny still hadn’t fully explained. All she knew was that Astrid von Lundin had upset her son to the point of a public breakdown. Something she was rapidly learning was rather rare among this relatively reserved bunch.
“Yes, he’s the one I trust most in this world. Besides you, of course.”
Brittany took a deep breath. While she appreciated his frankness, this time, she would have liked it delivered less matter-of-factly. “So, he wants you to be with a Swede?” she confirmed. Jonny nodded.
“He thinks I have a fetish.” He became serious.
She peered at him, and for the first time in a long time, she was transported right back to the clinic parking lot in Alexandria, Virginia, when he’d received stitches. When she’d looked in his eyes and was unsure of what to think. The cut had healed well, but a scar remained above his eyebrow as a whispered reminder. A few seconds of reticence passed between them.
“Do you?” she asked.
“Do I what?”
“I mean, is Ragnar right?”
When her words sunk in, wrinkles appeared on his forehead as he peered at her.
“I don’t have a fetish,” he said sternly. His fingers balled into fists at his sides. He didn’t say anything, but Brittany felt him submerging into that space of anxiety.
“I was just…”
“I’m not crazy,” he stated firmly.
“I’m sorry, Jonny. I didn’t mean it that way,” she said, but his eyes told her all she needed to know.
She needed to shut up.
* * *
That night, Brittany lay quietly on her side, deep in thought as Jonny moved against her. She occasionally took a deep breath, gasping softly before returning to her wandering thoughts. The sound of Jonny’s low moans was the only indication they were making love. He was lying on his side behind her, his left arm wrapped around her chest, crushing her back tightly into his own wildly heaving chest.
Something was bothering her. She wanted to know why his sisters had initially regarded her so suspiciously. And his friend Ragnar whose icy dark blues were filled with something like contempt. Clearly he was prejudiced. Jonny had openly admitted this. Her presence was provoking to the person he trusted most besides her.
If Jonny knew Ragnar held such contempt, then why were they still close friends? How could she trust that Ragnar truly had his best interest at heart if he couldn’t even accept who his friend fell in love with? Maybe Jonny also held deep-seated prejudices?
Or was Ragnar trying to protect his friend after witnessing a string of short-lived flings?
All these thoughts were swimming in her head as Jonny worked hard for her pleasure. She felt him moving against her softly. She closed her eyes, willing those wandering thoughts away so she could enjoy his love, but they latched on stubbornly, pulling her away from him.
His grip around her tightened as his heaves against her back became more hurried. He was struggling hard to be as hushed as humanly possible because Brittany was barely making any noise beyond tiny sighs. When he came, he muffled his cries into her shoulder, his grip squeezing the breath out of her.
The room became a noiseless cove once again as he shuddered behind her, trying to calm his racing heart. He pressed his lips to her shoulder while his left hand traveled the length of her side, dipping at her waist, scaling her hip, exploring.
She listened to his labored breathing begin to slow down. He let out the last traces of release as a loud gasp before his words made their way out in a low pitch.
“Marry me,” he said breathlessly.
Brittany’s body tensed up beneath his caress. He kissed her shoulder before panting out those words again.
“Marry me.”
MUNA
“Why shouldn’t I fire you?” Yagiz was furious. “Uhnn, Muna?”
Yagiz was back in their apartment an hour later, sitting in an armchair facing the gray sofa where Muna and Khadiija were parked with their hands on their laps. Khadiija was fiddling with her fingers, while Muna just stared at Yagiz, simmering with quiet anger. Yasmiin stood behind his chair, resting a hand on it, looking down at the floor.
The Turk was livid. He’d woken up with a throbbing head in the hallway when two Somali teenagers had kicked him awake and ran off cackling after pointing at his still-rigid penis. Realizing he was naked and finding his clothes out there with him, he’d quickly dressed himself and pounded his way back into their apartment. While fighting off both Khadiija and Muna, Yasmiin had managed to open the door and let him back in against their will.
Once back inside, he had recanted his embarrassment to them, trying to prod guilt out of the trio. The two seated women regarded him in silence. Then Muna broke it.
“What were you doing to Yasmiin?” she asked him.
“What we do is none of your business.”
“She was screaming,” Muna said, adamant for an answer.
“As women do when they’re enjoying it!” he silenced her. “But you can’t know, can you, right? Yasmiin told me you’re a virgin.” He cocked his head upward to look at Yasmiin, who was standing behind him. “Right, Yaz?” He tried garnering support from her. She glanced away, and he sniggered beneath his breath.
“I’m not stupid,” Muna continued. “You were hurting Yasmiin. She’s not talking because she’s afraid of you.” Yagiz scrutinized her through dark eyes. “I’m not afraid of you,” Muna added. Yagiz laughed. A large smile spread over his handsome face, his handlebar moustache dancing.
“Maybe you should be afraid of me, Muna Saheed.” His laugh died into a frown. “You should be afraid. You work for me.”
Muna fell quiet. She needed this job. She needed to have a record of responsibility so she could become a citizen in a few years. She craved that security. Holding that small book would mean she finally belonged somewhere safe. A place where she could start rebuilding a family. Mr. Björn at Migrationsverket had intimated that it was unlikely she would become fully accepted as a Swede. At the time, she hadn’t been sure if he meant before or after getting her citizenship in five years. After living in Tensta
for a while, she began to realize what Mr. Björn had meant. She remembered him saying her culture was “too strong” for her to fully be accepted.
Dead air hung around the foursome. Yasmiin was shifting her weight nervously from foot to foot, while Khadiija had switched to examining her fingernails, not wanting to meet Yagiz’s rage head on. Khadiija kept toying with her fingers, but Muna noticed her trying to hold back tears. She recognized that expression. Muna herself had worn a similar one for weeks after Ahmed died, shedding it in the safety of her room. The only time she’d cried publicly was on the first day she met these women, whom she now considered her sisters.
Muna turned to Yagiz once more. “Why do you bring it to our community?”
“Bring what?”
“Khat.”
The sack of leaves, a chewable stimulant they’d found in Yasmiin’s room. Many of the Somali communities in the suburbs had been marred by its effects. Even her Tensta wasn’t spared. Whenever she followed Khadiija to the community center to hang with other Somalis, she watched some of the older men drowsily mill around.
Swedish media had focused heavily on the “khat epidemic” within their community because apparently, khat chewed by immigrants was less forgivable than cocaine sniffed by Östermalm’s upper-class whites.
“Why are you selling this here? Why are you destroying my people?”
“It’s always someone else’s fault, isn’t it?” Yagiz cackled. “Ask Yasmiin. She’s my saleswoman.”
Muna cut Yasmiin a look of disappointment. Yasmiin had so much more to explain. After she and Khadiija had dragged Yagiz’s naked body out of their apartment, Yasmiin had broken down to them in her room. She told them she had been a prostitute in Rome since she was fifteen years old after fleeing the civil war. She’d roamed its streets, working for a pimp who financially strangled her and a couple of West African girls.
Her pimp had made it clear that Yasmiin was his biggest moneymaker because she had an arse made for slapping and long “good hair.” This meant she didn’t have to wear a wig, which had the heightened chance of flying off during sessions with particularly aggressive customers. When Yasmiin fled Italy, it was through a customer who had smuggled her out of her pimp’s claws and into a convoy of refugees making their way to Sweden.
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