Hafiz.
When I entered the house, I ignored Father, who was lounging in the living room and leisurely sipping a cup of whatever hot beverage he whipped up for himself.
Good to see at least one of us was fucking carefree and comfortable.
I stalked up the stairs and to the room designated for me. It was the room I lived in as a child. I refused to attach any form of possessive pronoun to it.
Throwing myself on the bed, I folded my hands beneath my head and stared at the ceiling.
The days of starving and the flight here gave me sufficient time to think and calm down. My earlier interaction with Aliya, that gold digger, was purely out of a twisted sense of wanting to destroy her peaceful-looking silhouette.
On what basis should I be disgruntled while she remained serene? If she could give up her morals just to live a luxurious life and get out of being a slave, then she could give up her dignity and temper as well.
"Looks sure are fucking deceiving."
Her pure eyes were wasted on her.
Ignoring the nagging feeling in my chest that was telling me I was getting everything wrong, that there was more to her expression back then, I closed my eyes and gave in to my fatigue.
I was woken up by the constant pinging of my phone. Stretching my hand out, I pulled it out from under my pillow and stared at the bright screen, bleary-eyed.
There were two missed calls from Grandma, three from Mom, and five messages and a missed call from Bailey.
The one sending a vibration through my phone was an incoming call from my grandfather. Sliding to answer, I brought it up to my ear and choked out a hoarse greeting.
"Grandpa?" I sat up groggily when I heard no reply. "Are you there?" I drew the phone back to check if I was still connected to the house's wifi.
"Don't call me grandpa, I don't have a grandson like you!" He snapped before ending the call.
"???"
Stupefied, I stared at the phone. So did he just ring me up to say that and hang up? Lips curving in amusement, I dialled him back.
"Salam alaikum," he said.
"Grandpa."
"Who's this please?"
"Grandad," I said, laughing a little.
"Why are you calling me grandad? I only have three grandchildren, and this isn't their voice or number."
"I'm the second grandchild, Hafiz."
"No, you're not. My family's Hafiz is a sweetheart who cares about his old grandfather," he replied huffily.
"Yes yes. So let's just say I'm a stranger then. How are you doing?"
"Why will I tell a stranger that? To get kidnapped? I'm hanging up."
"Okay okay. Um, I'm sorry. I'm an ass and I'm sorry," I laughed.
"You are indeed a backside. And a black wrinkled one at that."
Scrunching my nose at the image that popped into my head, I coaxed, "Yes yes. Whatever you say goes. So, can I have the honour of knowing why I'm an ass?"
"Ehem!" He coughed.
"Can I have the honour of knowing why I'm a backside?"
"A backside?"
"Yes, a black wrinkled one at that."
Snickering, he said, sounding satisfied. "Why didn't you tell me you were getting married?"
The smile slipped off my face. "Where did you hear that? Does grandma know?"
"You know I don't talk to that old swamp, how will I know whether she knows?" He sneered. "Your father told me. You never mentioned you were in love."
"I'm in love?" I asked, incredulous.
"Otherwise why will you be so eager to get married? Your dad told me she's your childhood friend. I almost got a heart attack when he said that, I thought you were marrying that khafira that sleeps around.
"I was so scared you would make the same mistake I did, I lost a pound. Anyway, I'm happy she's not the one. I heard the lady you want to marry is a hafiza. A hafiza for my Hafiz, doesn't that have a nice ring to it? The key to a stable and healthy marriage is a knowledgeable, compassionate and understanding partner. I'll have you know..."
His words started getting blurry at that point. I didn't even know what to address first; his calling his marriage with grandma a mistake, or him thinking I was rushing to get married because I was whipped.
Refusing to think about how low Father was to lie to Grandpa like that, I coughed to get him to stop talking.
"What? Are you shy? You need to know how to do these things," he sounded teasingly.
"How to do what?" I asked, confused.
"Procreate of course."
"!!!" I almost choked to death on my spit from shock. Coughing violently, I sat up from my half-lounging position on the bed. "Grandfather."
"What? No need to be shy. You can't be shy about these kinds of things. A satisfied partner equates to a happy relationship. Don't underestimate sexual frustration," he answered dismissively.
My lips twitched dryly. "I'm not shy."
I was pretty sure if a woman got pregnant with my child every time I had sex with her, I would have sired a hundred-plus children by now.
"Really?"
"Yes, you have no idea," how knowledgeable I am about this.
I could doubt everything in my life but not this.
This, I was good at.
"And isn't that not allowed?" I asked, just to get him to stop talking about this half-dangerous half uncomfortable topic.
"What are you...? Hafiz, what do you mean?" He asked, sounding dumbfounded.
Feeling like I made a big blunder, I rushed to salvage the situation. "I was just pulling your legs. Of course, I know it's allowed," I clumsily said, awkwardly lying.
"Oh. Between you and your spouse, little is not allowed," he awkwardly said. "Anyway, I'm sure you know how it goes so let's drop this ridiculous topic."
Thank fuck.
"Hafiz."
"Yes?"
"Are you happy?"
Confused about where the question came from all of a sudden, I asked. "What?"
"Don't mind what I said earlier, I don't care if you met the girl yesterday and decided to marry her today. All I care about is your happiness. Mubarak told me she's your childhood playmate, you don't know how relieved I am that you're marrying someone from Nigeria."
I frowned, a bit disgruntled.
"I know our international image isn't the best and we're underdeveloped, with both corruption and insecurity marring everything, and so many things I can't even begin to list."
"En," I rolled my eyes. I didn't even want to know what 'so many things' meant.
"But you know Hafiz, it's home. Just like you find comfort here in the States, there are a lot of people in Nigeria who find comfort in being there. They live, smile, cry and hate; but they can never truly disdain it. I know it won't be easy for you or her, but I want you to know you're making the right choice, inshaAllah, and I'm so very proud of you."
My furrowed brows soothed, a complicated feeling arising from deep in my chest. I could tell he was really glad. Deep down, he was probably worried I felt outcasted and lonely.
Since he knew everything.
They had always been like this, Unais and him; always worried and cautious with me. It made me both touched and sad.
"Thank you..."
"What are you saying, silly boy," he chuckled. "I won't be able to make it to the wedding, I'm sorry."
"I wouldn't want you here, I prefer you take care of your health," I soothed, more than fucking glad he wasn't going to witness this shit-show of a wedding in this even more shit—in this damn country.
"I'll give you a present when you get back."
I smiled. "I'll look forward to it then, thank you, Grandpa."
"You're most welcome," he grinned, ending the call.
Flopping back down on my bed, I sighed.
What the hell was even going on?
My mind wandered, I thought about Grandpa's words, Father's obstinance, how Grandma would react to this and how much of a laughing stock I was sure to become. The more I pondered on it, the more I felt like committing fucking murder.
"Fuck!" I sprang up to my feet on the bed. "Damn you, Mubarak Hakimi!" I kicked my leg out, hoping the itchiness in my heart flowed out with the action. "Fuck you, stupid woman! To hell with you, your religion and everyone you care about!"
After jumping around on the bed for a while, I sat back down and sighed.
This was a fucking waste of time, should I just scram? I mean, there can't possibly be a wedding without a groom, right?
But then that would mean I was scared into submission. Like hell, I would give my damn father the satisfaction of knowing he got to me!
Amid my frustration, a palm-sized face with pouted lips flashed through my mind. Like one of those fucking 'eureka' moments or whatever, I was struck with inspiration.
"Of course, the solution is so easy," I laughed out loud.
What did I even come to this stinky place to do in the first? It was to make that damn woman regret making me come here, and additionally, make my idiot father pay as well.
Looking for a common link between these two, there only existed one thing; one person.
Aliya.
Since the crazy woman raised her herself, she probably loved her right? She probably saw her as a daughter right? She would probably be hurt when she hurts right? And when she hurts, father would too right? Since he 'loved' her and all (honestly, I believe he was just insane but what do I know).
Hurting Aliya equals hurting that disgusting scum which equals hurting farther and that equates to getting my fucking revenge and soothing my irritation. How can there be such a perfect connection? I can just burst into song from how fucking good I was feeling right now.
I will marry her.
A maniacal grin slipped onto my lips. I'll be with her, as for whatever happened to her after I was done with my payback, who cares? She could fucking drop dead and I wouldn't bat an eye.
I will marry her
I would torture her, not physically of course, except if she deserved it, it was not below me to strike her. Made her emotions go haywire, pushing her back, one step at a time until she fell and broke to pieces, until she became a lifeless shell, so that every time that woman saw her, she would hurt and agonise. Aliya's hurt would hurt them. Yes, that was what I should do.
I will marry her.
And then I would break her.