In Every Mirror She's Black

by Lolá Ákínmádé Åkerström

  “Be careful, Muna,” Yagiz warned her. “A virgin is a rare specimen in this country. Do not play with things you don’t understand, little girl. You might offend the wrong man.”

  He got to his feet, adjusted his pants, and straightened his shirt. He ran his fingers through his black, rooster hair before turning to peer down at Yasmiin, who was still standing behind his chair. He slid his palm over her butt and gave one cheek an ample squeeze before making his exit.

  Once the door slammed behind him, Khadiija, who had been quietly studying her fingers, sprang onto her feet and launched into a tirade in Somali, prefacing it by calling Yasmiin a whore.

  “Why have you exposed us to this dangerous man?” Khadiija screamed. “Why are you doing this reckless thing with him?” Yasmiin’s shoulders started shaking as she burst into tears.

  “You selfish whore,” Khadiija continued. “You have brought unnecessary evil into our home. Our home!”

  “Khadiija!” Muna tried to pull her back to no avail. Khadiija tore into Yasmiin, dredging up all the unspeakable things she told them she’d done with strange men. Yasmiin crumbled to her knees while Khadiija hovered over her in a fit of rage. She asked her where she had truly met Yagiz. What hole she’d dragged him out of. When she had started selling khat on his behalf. What Yagiz had been doing to her when they burst in to save her.

  Khadiija didn’t wait for answers. She continued railing. Muna sprang up to grab Khadiija, but she screamed, “No!” and pushed the younger girl off her back.

  Yasmiin’s tears came heavily, and Muna sensed they weren’t from Khadiija’s tirade. What Yasmiin had told them in confidence, Khadiija had literally thrown back in her face less than an hour later. That was why they each kept their doors tightly shut. Letting people in came with unbearable judgment, Muna decided.

  Above all, Khadiija kept stressing their exposure to the danger that was Yagiz until Khadiija finally broke.

  “I ran away from a dangerous man!” Khadiija was letting them in now, her eggshell springing its first public crack. “I ran away…” She fell to her knees, her body rumbling with emotion. “I had to run away.”

  Khadiija’s confession hung in the air. They couldn’t ignore its presence, yet no one wanted to talk about it. While many men had forced Yasmiin to flee, a single man was responsible for Khadiija’s run for her life. Muna wanted to know more, but right now, Khadiija imploded into herself, sobbing uncontrollably.

  Muna recognized those cries of despair, when memories she’d tried to scrub from her mind slowly materialized like strokes of an invisible marker on special paper, clouding her mind with unexpected color. Khadiija must be experiencing her own Technicolor rush from the past.

  Muna observed the others crying in separate heaps on the floor, away from each other. Who could she comfort first without the risk of offending the other? Muna was still reeling from everything that had been disclosed over the past few minutes. She was paralyzed.

  Her mind cut to that statuesque couple she had seen outside work. How that white man who worked at von Lundin Marketing had grabbed that Black woman and kissed her, pinning her to that fancy car while people walking by kept turning around to look at them. Her mind raced back to Solsidan. How Ahmed had cradled her as he’d kissed her. How she’d run her fingers through his silken hair.

  She had hope because that tall Swedish man and her Ahmed had shown her glimpses of true love. Yasmiin and Khadiija needed more hope too.

  Muna stood rooted as she watched her greatest fear materialize—­their already fragile sisterhood beginning to fracture.

  KẸMI

  Kemi tried to work, fingers typing furiously on her keyboard as she responded to an email, but her mind was elsewhere, replaying her morning encounter with Tobias instead.

  Why hadn’t she noticed him before? She had been going there for coffee every morning for several weeks now. He had to have been the world’s greatest chameleon blending into his environment, because she hadn’t spotted his fine self.

  Tobias shared a similar coloring with Malcolm. A café au lait shade of brown. A fellow Afro-­Swede like Malcolm often called himself, because he’d told her using “Afro-­Viking” unwittingly tied him to a history of pillaging and raping he decided wasn’t his to wear. “No, thank you!” was Malcolm’s epilogue to that particular rant.

  She wanted to see Tobias again. She made plans to go back to Espresso House for lunch. As she readied herself, packing up her bag, Jonny’s unexpected voice cut through.

  “Kemi.”

  He strolled into her small space, hands in his pockets.

  “Jonny. What a surprise.” Kemi turned to look at her boss. A man who became more of a phantom with each passing week. She often pondered what his actual work entailed.

  “We’ve got an important potential client called Bachmann,” he said, getting right down to business. “It’s the largest German luxury shoe brand.”

  “Go on…”

  “I want us to get this one right. They’re launching a new range of luxury high-­top sneakers, and I want us to show diversity. You know, people who are rich but like these types of shoes. Like rappers.”

  “Rappers?” Kemi let his words sink in.

  “Yes. Rappers.”

  “Why rappers?” she asked.

  “Because the shoes are expensive but also cool, urban, and funky. Plus this new line—­B:GEM—­has a lot of gemstones too. Bachmann is trying to tap into that market.” Memories of conversations with Connor and his faux urban speak flooded her brain, and she shook them off with a shudder.

  “So only rich rappers wear expensive high-­top shoes?” Kemi questioned. Jonny’s eyebrows arched awkwardly.

  “Who else wears them?” he asked.

  Kemi laughed, not sure of how to process his remarks. She knew Jonny spewed words from a deep well of ignorance. She had a difficult time reconciling his statements with the fact he carried on with Black and brown women. He should know better. There had been whispers around the office, mostly through his assistant Louise, that he was currently dating a Black sister and was now treading into serious territory. All Louise told her about the former model and flight attendant was, “She is stunning!” Kemi had craved more information, but Louise had been flighty with details. Around these parts, it seemed to Kemi that work and play were more like extended cousins than siblings.

  “Do you see yourself wearing bedazzled high-­top sneakers?” Kemi asked.

  “No,” he said, firmly.

  She quickly scanned what he was wearing: a navy-­blue dress shirt tucked into khaki trousers and tan Oxford shoes. His sleeves were slightly rolled at the wrists, revealing his watch and arms lightly brushed with golden hair.

  “Then why do you want to represent them? A brand you don’t see yourself ever wearing?”

  He paused to think. She could see his mind furiously working behind those eyes, trying to digest her stance.

  “If I liked every client we chased, then we would never have enough work,” he answered.

  “Maybe you should start thinking more like that,” Kemi said. “You know…actually liking the people you chase.” He pressed his lips tightly at her remark.

  “How much do you want Bachmann?” Kemi quizzed, her tone getting serious.

  “They are popular right now, especially in Asia. If we land them, they would be one of our biggest clients,” Jonny explained. “I want them.”

  “Then let’s take this to a new level, Jonny,” Kemi said, getting excited.

  “What are you thinking?”

  “I’m going to help you hit this one out of the park. But you will have to trust me completely. Can you do that, Jonny?”

  Jonny stared at her, dissecting her words.

  “This means having my back in the pitch meeting when I present this idea to the team.”

  He was getting nervous, an
d his hands retreated into fists.

  “Jonny…I want you to be the face of Bachmann’s new collection.”

  * * *

  Jonny invited her to lunch to discuss her reasoning around her idea. This meant trying to catch a glimpse of Tobias at Espresso House was out. She would have to try again another day.

  “Think about it,” Kemi said, propping some salmon on her chopsticks midsentence. “Everyone is expecting the cliché of some famous rapper in blinged-­out shoes. No one would expect Jonny von Lundin in them. Especially not Bachmann.” She popped the bite into her mouth. Her plan was to put him in the center of the campaign alongside a mix of races, religions, and sexual orientations all wearing Bachmanns.

  As Jonny listened to her, Kemi noticed he occasionally seemed distracted by her chewing motion but then pulled himself back out in time to understand what she was saying and hang with their conversation. She was still getting used to his quirks and the characteristics that came with them. This one was new, and it disturbed her.

  “Your idea is crazy,” he began. “Me as a model for Bachmann shoes? I would never wear those shoes.”

  “But you want them badly, don’t you?” She smiled mischievously. “Haven’t you done anything crazy for something or someone you wanted so badly?”

  Kemi watched a grin creep onto his lips and feared what he was thinking. Lord knows what crazy things he had done. She only had to remember her Google search on him to dig up images in her mind. But this childish grin spreading across his face right now? Kemi suspected it had to do with that sister whose name was being whispered among his staff.

  “Maybe,” he answered before biting his lower lip.

  “Bachmann is no different. And I guarantee you: if you go back to them with this proposal, you will get a lot more money out of them. They will beg you to represent them.”

  Kemi pointed out that he had already stereotyped Black rappers as wearing bedazzled high-­tops. By putting Jonny himself into those sneakers, she was branching out and broadening the appeal of those shoes to reach a larger audience.

  “Diversity and inclusion are also about breaking stereotypes,” she said. “Not only showing Black and brown faces in ads. Trust me.”

  Jonny still wasn’t convinced. “This sets a dangerous precedent. If I model for Bachmann, then all our clients would want me to start representing them visually like a cheap salesman. I’m a very private man. I don’t like gimmicks. That’s too American.”

  “Jonny, this isn’t a gimmick. This is von Lundin Marketing’s chance at redemption,” Kemi preached. “Picture yourself dressed as you normally would, doing things you’d normally be doing, like, I don’t know, sailing or something. But then you’ve got the Bachmann shoes on. Everything else stays the same.” She became more animated, turned on by all this creative babble. She loved this. She was finally in her element.

  “And the slogan would be, ‘Dare to be different’… Jonny, it’s perfect!”

  This was what von Lundin Marketing needed to shake themselves free from the IKON fiasco. Kemi observed him considering her energetic words. Something she said must have stirred something deep within him, because his gaze softened as he regarded her.

  “I like it,” he said. “Very much. I really do.”

  “Good!” She popped more raw fish into her mouth. He stared at her mouth, and she noticed him again mesmerized by the motion. It had drawn him like a sensor.

  “Now, this could go both ways,” Kemi said. “If critics attack us and say we’re trying to appropriate a cultural icon, then our rebuttal is easy. We force them to reexamine their own prejudices and why they think only Black people would like bedazzled high-­top sneakers.”

  Kemi continued talking as she ate, breaking down her idea, considering all the different angles of attack it could draw and how they would prepare themselves. But above all, Kemi was professionally betting on the idea.

  High on Kemi’s vision, Jonny called an impromptu meeting back at the office. Ingrid, Greta, Espen, and a few more directors gathered into one of the conference rooms. Jonny was uncharacteristically excited. He launched into the Bachmann proposal, speaking in English for Kemi’s benefit, explaining that they had a shot at landing the international account.

  Then he handed the floor to Kemi to present her idea. The Swedes listened intently, unwaveringly focused on Kemi as she explained why she wanted to don their illustrious leader in bling for an advertising campaign.

  When Kemi finished, it was dead silent. A stillness too uncomfortable even for the Swedes themselves. Greta seemed visibly agitated. She turned to Jonny and said something in Swedish.

  “English, please,” Kemi jumped into their argument, and Greta cut her a glare that burned tracks down her skin.

  “You know we can’t speak English forever, Kemi,” she spat. “How is your Swedish coming?” Silence gripped the room once more, letting Greta’s condescension settle like sediment.

  Kemi didn’t reply.

  “You are trying to make Jonny a laughingstock,” Greta continued. “Do you even understand his position within this firm? Within our society?”

  “I think Kemi’s idea is excellent, and I am on board with it,” Jonny said in English.

  “It feels too risky, Jonny,” Ingrid jumped in. “I’m not comfortable with it.”

  “I am comfortable with it,” he said. “I think it is a brilliant idea and will work.”

  “I’m worried about the negative press we will surely get,” Maria from media relations postulated. “Will we be able to survive it? We barely made it out of IKON.”

  “That’s if we get negative press at all.” Jonny was persistent. “The media may love it.”

  “What if they don’t love it?” Ingrid jumped back in. “What if this is the confirmation they need that Jonny von Lundin has indeed lost his mind?”

  “Well, I think it’s a bold idea,” Espen offered. “I think it’s a brave move, and we need to have more courage these days.”

  Ingrid shot Espen a hard look. “Of course, you do,” she muttered to him in Swedish, and Espen matched her glare with an intense one of his own.

  Kemi watched this new dynamic wash over the Swedes in the room, one that suggested she was now overreaching her bounds. That the full creative freedom she had been promised was in fact being checked by these gatekeepers of culture.

  No, they weren’t going to let her willingly make Jonny a joke, and they protectively banded around him. She witnessed that wordless solidarity in action, and it was quite remarkable. This was the superglue that created impenetrable systems for people on the outside like her and protected men like him. But Jonny wanted Bachmann at all costs, and Kemi had convinced him how to get what he wanted.

  “It’s settled,” Jonny said. “I’ve already made the decision. I called this meeting just to inform you.”

  That statement drew audible gasps from around the room. Kemi had lived in Sweden long enough to know what that collective gasp meant. How dare Jonny make a decision without consensus, especially considering how absent he had been? They were now treading in dangerous waters of dictatorship.

  “Are you even allowed to do that?” It was Greta again. That he would make such an important decision without her input after she’d been running the entire company on his behalf was insulting. That much was obvious to Kemi.

  “Björn,” Jonny turned to Björn Fältström, head of business development. He was sitting quietly in a corner with his head resting on his right thumb and index finger, listening intently. “You, Kemi, and I will go to the pitch meeting.”

  With that brief statement, Jonny dismissed the room, leaving Kemi behind. Jonny gazed at her intently with a look that told Kemi he was praying she was right.

  Twelve

  BRITTANY-­RAE

  There was nothing left besides bile. She had puked her stomach clean and was now kneeling
by the toilet bowl, crying. The whole scene smacked of déjà vu—­Brittany throwing up in London—­as Jonny stood by the doorjamb. She’d bolted straight out of bed to vomit after he’d proposed. He probably wasn’t sure if it was morning sickness as usual or the thought of becoming his wife.

  “Are you okay?”

  She kept crying, her body shaking. This was spiraling faster than Brittany could hang on to. They were barely six months in. He’d already impregnated her and was now asking her to be his wife. It was all too much to bear.

  “You don’t have to answer right now.” Jonny was grasping at straws, and she knew anxiety was building up within him. Brittany’s sobs slowed, and she got back on her feet, sniffing and wiping the last few drops of tears away. She walked past him back to the bed, sunk in, and pulled the covers up over her head, wishing they would smother her.

  The next morning, they awoke early to drive to the airport for her flight back to Dulles. Jonny kept furling and unfurling his fingers on the steering wheel, while Brittany stared out the window. Once at Arlanda Airport, he helped her with the small carry-­on she’d brought for the short trip. Before she went through security, he planted himself in his spot right in front of her.

  “I’m going to miss you,” he said before kissing her and placing both palms on her stomach. Brittany avoided his eyes and nodded. Then she bit her lower lip, suppressing tears.

  “Please think about it,” he pleaded, willing her to look at him, but she didn’t want to. She nodded in response. He pressed a quick kiss to her forehead. “I’ll come see you in two weeks. I have an important project I need to see to here.”

  She looked up at him and nodded again, silently.

  * * *

  “My God, Brittany.” Tanesha was at a loss for words. “This is moving way too fast even for me!”