In Every Mirror She's Black

by Lolá Ákínmádé Åkerström

  Louise held Muna’s gaze before proceeding to remind Jonny that he was indeed Solsidan’s benefactor.

  * * *

  Muna finally understood what Khadiija meant about the community center boys beginning to talk. Weeks after their conversation, Muna heard them loud and clear when she got off at Tensta station and breached its surface that evening after work.

  She arrived to find her neighborhood up in flames.

  Sirens blazed all over Tensta. Different pitches and tones differentiating police from ambulances from fire trucks. People pooled in groups outside various apartment blocks, trying to decipher what was going on. There were cars aflame and a few explosions as fire reached their fuel tanks.

  And the screaming. It was the wailing more than anything else that stamped impressions on Muna. Many of these people had fled explosions in their home countries, and now they were reliving that trauma. Their terror was real. Women wearing billowing jilbabs ran amok, carrying small children who seemed shell-­shocked. Teenagers, wearing scarves that covered half of their faces, were throwing Molotov cocktails indiscriminately in every direction.

  Petrified, Muna started running toward her apartment, away from the commotion, trying to get herself to safety. Some of the youth ran toward her, and she recognized a handful of them. They were Khadiija’s friends, including Ibraahin.

  Then she spotted a vividly colored assailant wearing a pink hijab over a floral garb of fuchsia, lime green, and butter yellow, and her heart sank. Khadiija’s favorite dress. The group ran past Muna, elbowing her out of the way. Muna stared after them. She spun around but was pushed aside by four police officers carrying shields and batons in hot pursuit. Khadiija never came home that night.

  A few days later, Gunhild came to their apartment with a female police officer in tow. The officer searched Khadiija’s room, and once she was done, Gunhild packed up all her belongings as Muna looked on.

  “Where’s Khadiija?” Muna managed to ask after a long moment of silence. The officer didn’t respond, and Gunhild regarded Muna with heavy eyes.

  “Is Khadiija dead?” Muna was desperate, wanting to know what had happened to her remaining sister. Yasmiin was already gone anyway. Gunhild shook her head. No, Khadiija wasn’t

  dead.

  “Khadiija will have to go to trial for violence toward the state and criminal activity for participating in the riots,” Gunhild explained. “She is currently being held by them.”

  Muna narrowed her eyes in confusion. This couldn’t be happening.

  “Why, Gunhild?” Muna started to cry. “Why?”

  Gunhild pulled her into a hug and held the younger woman as Muna shuddered in her embrace.

  The riots had begun when a security guard had dragged a preteen Somali boy on the ground like a goat protesting its slaughter over a chocolate bar he had stolen from a kiosk. The aftermath of Tensta’s riots had lured in a swarm of international media, quick to lap up a story spotlighting trouble in paradise.

  Swedish media had used dramatic two-­word headlines: FÖRORTEN BRINNER. The suburbs are burning.

  For days after the riots, as she roamed around downtown Stockholm, strange eyes lingered on her for an extra second or two, washing over her hijab with suspicion.

  Once the female officer had taken her leave, Gunhild walked into their kitchen to make coffee, while Muna took a seat on the sofa, trying to process what was going on. Khadiija. Arrested. Those words made no sense. But after witnessing Khadiija violently flare up at Yasmiin over the Naked Yagiz incident and seeing her participate in the riots, Muna wasn’t so sure about her sister anymore.

  “I am not supposed to tell you this. I can get in big trouble because I am bound by confidentiality, but Khadiija was married,” Gunhild finally shared once she’d set down two mugs—­tea for Muna, instant coffee for herself—­on the table. “She still is.” Muna studied the older woman’s face. “Her husband has many wives, and she is the youngest.” Gunhild lifted the hot coffee to her thin lips and set it back down.

  “But she can’t go home,” Muna pleaded. “She ran away from that man. I think he did unspeakable things to her.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Gunhild said, eyebrows crumpling with pity. “I don’t know any more than you know right now, but try not to worry. It’s very unlikely the authorities will send someone who has been granted asylum back to their country.”

  Muna cried over her own mug, settling into the realization that “very unlikely” meant there was a sliver of a chance Khadiija may be sent back to the dangerous man she’d run away from. A sentence much worse than death.

  What if Khadiija had been her? Muna pondered. What if she was sent back? There was no one to claim her back in Mogadishu. Her mother and brother were in the sea, her father crushed beneath slabs of concrete. What was there to go back to?

  This place was her only hope.

  KẸMI

  For their second date, Kemi dragged Tobias to one of Malcolm’s gigs at Stampen in Gamla stan, after talking Malcolm up as the best jazz musician in town. The walls of the historic basement pub were plastered with aging posters of various soul, funk, and blues acts that had blown through its doors over the decades. From its roof hung an eclectic decor of old instruments: bass guitars, clarinets, saxophones.

  “I had forgotten how cool this place is,” Tobias said, lifting a glass of draft beer to his lips.

  “You know this place?” Kemi asked. He cut her a questioning look, softening it with a smile.

  “I grew up in this city.”

  They had come about thirty minutes before Malcolm was going to hop on stage. Kemi couldn’t wait to show Tobias off. But Malcolm had already zeroed in on the handsome brother, his own boyfriend, José, hot on his heels.

  “Okay…” Malcolm started once he reached the couple. “I don’t want to be presumptuous, but can you please marry Kemi already?” He stretched out a hand and gave a laughing Tobias a firm handshake.

  “I’ve heard only great things about you, Malcolm. I’m Tobias.”

  “José!” José introduced himself, reaching around Malcolm to shake Tobias’s hand. “Välkomna!” Welcome!

  “Tack så mycket!” Thanks so much! Tobias turned to smile at Kemi, whose cheeks were heating up with pride.

  “Join us for dinner after the show,” Malcolm said as he swung his sax over his shoulder. “We usually grab greasy kebab pizza afterward. It’s our thing with Kemi.” Beside him, José beamed, taking a sip of his scarlet-­colored cocktail.

  “I would love to,” Tobias said. “Any chance to learn more about Kemi from her friends.”

  Malcolm and his band hopped on stage at eight p.m. Soon, the stuffy basement was rocking sounds of old-­school funk and rhythms that even got the bartender gyrating and sidestepping as he poured drinks for the patrons. Kemi was swept up in the harmonies and beats, her hips swaying with each pounding drumbeat. She danced, throwing her hands up, clapping, and simply letting the music course through her.

  Amid the overpowering boom of percussions and strumming of guitars, she caught Tobias watching her dance close to him.

  “Are you enjoying the show?” she yelled over the music.

  Tobias pulled her closer, his hand hooking her waist. His kiss was slow and gentle. Ample lips on ample lips. She reveled in his tenderness. This felt different. It felt right. Tobias’s kiss was a warm, comforting blanket around her shoulders that winter day. He slowly deepened the kiss, and Kemi enjoyed this much-­needed chicken soup.

  It had been a long time since a man had taken his time kissing her.

  * * *

  Around eleven p.m., the foursome walked over to Södermalm to the hole-­in-­the-­wall pizza joint to tuck into delicious kebab pizzas.

  “This always hits the spot,” Tobias said before taking a large bite. Malcolm bobbed his head in agreement as he chewed while regarding his fellow Af
ro-­Swede.

  “So, bro…what’s your story?” Malcolm asked.

  Tobias laughed before responding, “You’re definitely more American than Swedish.”

  Malcolm seemed puzzled. “Okayyy?”

  “A true Swede would have asked what part of town I live in first,” Tobias explained. José chuckled before nodding. “So, if you ask me where I live, you can quickly file me into a neat little box.”

  “It’s true,” José chimed in. “For example, if I told you I lived in Djursholm or on Lidingö, most people would assume I was filthy rich.”

  “Interesting.” Malcolm lifted a can of Coca-­Cola to his mouth. He took a contemplative swig then turned back to Tobias.

  “So…Tobias, where do you live?”

  “Norsborg.”

  “And what is that supposed to tell me about you?” Malcolm asked.

  “It means my hood is filled with people who look like me. Most of the people there have no Swedish blood.”

  “Okay…so I’m gonna put my American hat back on and ask you what you do.”

  “I’m a security guard,” Tobias replied, before taking another bite of pizza.

  “I knew it had to be something physical…with that body of yours,” José added. Malcolm laughed.

  Kemi had been quietly observing Tobias as her friends chatted with him. The way he responded to their questions with a quiet confidence about him. Tobias probably grew up with no frills and only what his small family needed. He was so comfortable to be around. Effortless, it seemed. Technically, it was their second date, but she felt her body relaxing in a way it hadn’t around potential suitors in a long time.

  “NO WAY!” José’s squeal cut through her thoughts, bringing her back to their pizza. “She’s your sister?”

  “Yup, the one and only Tina Wikström,” Tobias dropped casually as he reached for his last slice.

  “Oh my God!” José picked up a piece of paper and made a grand show of fanning himself.

  “Okay, I clearly missed something,” Kemi jumped in. “What’s with your sister?”

  “The most badass goddess in town,” José said. “Besides you, of course.” She rolled her eyes at him.

  “And what does this badass goddess do?” she asked.

  “She used to be a teen pop star before she quit that life and became an activist instead,” Tobias said, punching his fist into the air in jest before taking the last swig of his soda.

  “Pop star? Just pop star?” José screeched. Then he launched into impromptu karaoke of one of her hit songs while wiggling awkwardly in his seat in an attempt to dance. Kemi and Tobias burst out laughing while Malcolm shook his head.

  By the time they spilled out onto the sidewalk, it was well past midnight, and José looked exhausted.

  “I need to prep my notes for my Swedish classes next week, so I have to get some sleep.”

  Malcolm propped him up with a solid arm around his waist and bid Tobias and Kemi good night.

  Tobias offered to walk Kemi over to Slussen, where she could catch the red line north, while he would catch the same line going south. They stood quietly on Kemi’s side of the platform, Tobias clasping her hand.

  “I like your friends,” he said before turning to look at her.

  “I think they like you too,” she said. “You’re easy to like.” He gave her that gap-­toothed smile before bending low to plant a soft kiss on her mouth.

  “So, what are you doing next weekend?” Tobias asked against her lips.

  BRITTANY-­RAE

  After Antonia’s reception in honor of the newlyweds, Brittany and Tanesha returned to Atlanta, where Brittany wrapped up immigration paperwork she’d begun a few months prior. She had taken a temporary hiatus from her cabin crew job and had vacated her rental town house in Alexandria. A moving company had driven her possessions down to her parents’ home in Atlanta for storage.

  Eva had handled all the logistics, and Brittany began to realize she would never have to reach into her own piggy bank, or quite frankly lift a finger, as long as Jonny was in her life. In preparation, Jonny had already moved out of his bachelor pad and furnished a four-­bedroom waterfront villa not far from Antonia’s home in Elfvik.

  Once her “specially expedited” residency came through, Jonny flew down to Atlanta to bring her home with him in March, at the beginning of her third trimester.

  As Brittany said goodbye to her parents, Beatrice Johnson wouldn’t let go of her daughter, her grip tightening around Brittany as they shared a goodbye hug. It had happened too fast for her, but she had to let Brittany go. She was almost thirty-­nine, after all.

  “Baby, I want to be there when that little angel comes,” Beatrice said. “Promise me you’ll let me come over to Sweden to be with you?”

  “Mom, I’ll let you know as soon as I’m all settled in. Of course I want you there.” Brittany wiped her tears with the back of her hand before blowing her nose into a soggy napkin.

  “Jonny, would you excuse us for a moment?” her father asked. Jonny nodded and glanced quickly at Brittany before leaving the room. Once the door shut behind him, her father turned back to her.

  “Brit?” His brows were knitted with worry. “When are we going to meet his parents?”

  “It’s complicated, Dad.”

  “Complicated? Baby, you’re moving to live with people we’ve never met, in a country we know nothing about.” He was shifting on his feet. “This marriage, your baby… Do you know what you’re doing?”

  “He loves me. And he’s going to take care of me and my baby. That’s all that matters.”

  “Really? So screw everyone else?”

  “Tyrone!” her mother reprimanded. Then she turned to Brittany. “Will you two plan a real wedding later on? We wanted to be a part of this. We still want to.”

  “What about his parents?” her father asked. “They haven’t reached out to us yet.”

  “They’re not going to.”

  “What do you mean? Aren’t they behind you guys? The baby?” Her father seemed confused.

  Brittany looked down at the damp napkin and lifted it back up to her nose, trying to push back sobs. Her mother pulled her into another embrace, and she heard her father sigh loudly.

  * * *

  Jonny had parked his car at Stockholm Arlanda Airport. After loading her two suitcases—­Eva was responsible for shipping the rest of Brittany’s belongings to her new life in Sweden—­and his leather carry-­on bag into the car, they were quickly zooming down E4 toward Stockholm.

  When she walked into their new home in Elfvik, it was as though she was walking into a replica of his watchtower in Canary Wharf. A sparsely furnished modern showroom with gray monotones, the same furniture, and a mix of yellow and lilac tulips.

  It startled her.

  “What’s this?” she asked once she’d kicked off her shoes by the door and padded into the space. “Are you serious?”

  “What do you mean?” Jonny seemed confused. “I wanted to make it comfortable for you.”

  “It looks exactly like your apartment in London. Except it’s a house.”

  “I used the same interior designer.”

  She peered at him as he stood nervously with his balled fists by his sides. “Don’t you like it?”

  “I do… I just…whoa, yellow and purple.” She walked up to one of several large vases of tulips dotting the space. “Why yellow and purple? The same colors from London.”

  “They are special.” She saw color rush to his cheeks but dared not ask him why.

  “That dress you wore on our first date…was yellow.” He paused to swallow. She remembered her buttercup-­yellow spring dress. “And purple… Purple is from Alexandria.”

  “From Alexandria?” Brittany couldn’t make the connection right away. She pondered for a second or two until her purple
silk night slip from the first night they were together floated into her mind.

  “I thought you would like it.”

  “Thank you, they’re beautiful. This place is really beautiful,” she said. “But I just want it to be our place. Not just a place Eva, Louise, or your interior designer creates for us.”

  She continued strolling around their house, with its grandiose vaulted ceilings and waterfront views. Trees were slowly springing back to life with green leaves and flower buds. The glass walls were pretty thick and soundproof. She could see waves flowing into one another in the bay through the glass, but all around them was an unnerving stillness.

  Out in this wooded piece of luxury, her first friend in Sweden became silence.

  She looked all around her, moving in a surreal daze that this exquisite piece of property was hers because she was his wife. Jonny’s wife. This strange man she was still getting to know. She turned to look at him as he stood across the room, brows arched.

  The intensity with which Jonny regarded her from that distance began to suck the air out of her lungs, slowly asphyxiating her.

  * * *

  Brittany’s late-­term pregnancy kept her holed up for her first few months in Sweden as spring pushed winter out of the way. She hadn’t been to any public engagements with Jonny. There had been no photo opportunities to stand proudly by his side as his wife in those months.

  While her pregnancy had been relatively smooth, almost unnaturally effortless, she spent most of it in Elfvik, feet raised and mindlessly surfing television channels. Jonny’s Stockholm assistant, Louise, ensured her ultimate comfort by getting her everything her heart desired.

  That was only when Jonny wasn’t available to do it himself.

  He crisscrossed town in search of a particular brand of chocolate truffles she wanted. He made sure chefs customized anything she ordered from menus when they went out to dinner, taking out vomit-­inducing ingredients. He bought what she was craving and made sure the fridge was always filled with carrots.