I could still remember the cold winter December night when I first cut myself like it was yesterday. It was Eid ul fitr (Islamic festival after fasting). I wore my gold sequenced red dress, with red matching ribbons in my hair and shiny black shoes. I was 12 and brimming with happiness that day I would go to London with my dad to see my uncle and sit on the big wheel. I didn't know it was called London eye. For the past 4 weeks-during Ramadan-I told all my friends I would go to London and bring them back a gift.
"When I am up in the big wheel you better give me a wave." I buzzed with excitement.
I was fervent, so much so, I made myself ill with excitement, puking all night according to my mum. But on Eid when dad returned from mosque, the day changed into the colour of his salwar kameez; dead black.
"She will vomit in my car. Leave her with Sakinah" Dad told mum referring to me as the third person who was standing in the living room.
"But dad! I'm better now." I cried out. "I want to go!" I looked up tugging his black kurtha
"I can't have her throwing up in the car every few minutes. Sort her out." Dad decided and that was that.
Through tears and tantrums, I watched Dad take Zeenat and mum to London leaving me in tears at auntie Sakinah's house. Looking through the window Zeenat pulled silly faces as the car drove away. I hated dad. I hated mum. I especially hated Zeenat.
"Beti, come on eat." Auntie Sakinah eased me out from under the table.
"No!" I yelled.
"You will spoil your clothes."
I wanted to rip my special clothes. My cousins came hounding me taking pleasure in my despair.
"Piss off go away." I spat at them.
"I'm telling mum." 15 year old Majid whined standing at the door.
"Serves your right, Moti Kaali Dhaal (fat, black lentils)."
10 year old Haroon teased.
"Your dad didn't take you to London because you're too ugly! They call you moti kaali dhaal. Zeenat is prettier and everyone likes her." They were brutally honest.
"They want to see her, not you. You're ugly!"
Like a lioness I pounced on him and pulled a chunk of his hair. I scratched his face with his brown skin was under my nails. I was livid. I ran upstairs knowing I was in serious trouble and locked myself in the bathroom bawling my eyes out.
Was it true? Is that why dad didn't want to take me? I embarrassed him? I searched through the cupboards for something, anything to hurt myself and get back at my parents. I wanted to cut my special dress. To stab my shoes. Such was the power of the rage trapped in me. I wanted to kill myself and make them suffer. I wanted them to return and see my dead body and then I would be the one laughing, so I thought.
In the cupboards I found uncle's scissors. I took it out and melted into a corner. The door pounded with knocks. My head throbbed but all I saw was this beautiful sharp shiny scissors that I opened and I pressed against my wrist. The danger that lurked was enticing. Under the glimmering light, the sharp shiny blade, deliciously flirted on my wrist. A voice, loud and mechanical, laughing at me to do it.
'Cut your flesh and make your mother bleed!'
The shouts of auntie Sakinah drowned out. I closed my eyes and held my breath pressing the razor-sharp knife against my skin. The rush of danger gushed through my veins. The first cut was painfully sharp, but I grit my teeth and pushed on with the image of Haroon laughing at me calling me names. I hated my body. I hated everything about me. As my skin cut like a hot knife slicing through butter. The pressure in my head eased taking away the emotional pain. At that moment the psychedelic high was phenomenal. I felt a release from the pressure cooker steaming in my mind hooting away like a steam engine. It silenced the chaos in my head, briefly freezing the repetitive flashbacks. Tears of pain streamed down my cheeks but I laughed menacingly at the sight of my crying wrists. For the first time I felt in control. I felt relieved that I yielded the power to hurt myself and make me feel something spectacular.
That dreaded night I opened Pandora's box to something dark, bleak and exciting. It was my secret that I carried out in the darkness of my bedroom. So, I continued to self-harm for the next 7 years until I was 19. Some days were bad, the scars wouldn't heal and they became infected. I was creative with the truth and lied about the plasters on my wrists. Long sleeved jumpers were my best friend.
All through my teenage years I carried this secret and continued to induce myself to self-inflicted pain to cope with the content stream of negativity shooting towards me. Cutting myself was my coping mechanism. But the more I carried it out, the deeper my emotional pain.
By the time I was 17 in college, my arms had no space for fresh cuts and I continued cutting on my inner thighs. No one would look there. But then, Mrs Annebury noticed my scarred wrists and took me aside. She gave the cutting a name; self harm. Through the college's pastoral care system, I received Cognitive Behavioural Therapy talking about the deep-rooted issues that caused me to inflict cruelty upon myself.
"You're beautiful Zohra. You must believe that." They told me but I didn't believe it.
Thankfully, at 19 years old I stopped harming myself and allowed my frail body to heal. I began to write a journal, sketching comic female superheroes to escape reality. I invested time organising a study group and spent time with friends rather than sitting alone in the solitude of my bedroom with the sharp edge of a CD for comfort. Soon, I married to Amjad and somehow life was looking good. Everything seemed great, that was until I found out his secret life.
After climbing up the pit of despair and reaching the light, at the top, Amjad stood and kicked me on the face and I tumbled back to the bottom. I was down back at the junction where my demons with leathery faces, metallic red fiery eyes looking down at me and terrorising me with their crab-like hands reaching for my wrist preparing it. So, I did. I was back there, self-loathing and hating myself.
However, it was a blessing in disguise when mum suffered a heart attack from the trauma of my divorce. I devoted my days and nights to her recovery, taking her out on walks, administering her medicine and accompanying her on hospital appointments. I had to drop out of University to look after her. Thankfully, I didn't have time to sit with my demons that waited in my bedroom.
For 20 months I was clean. Now sitting, in the bathroom with a pair of solid scissors I was proud of my recovery. I made it through the most difficult years of my life. This tiny scar held a world of secrets behind it.
Today, it is devastating to think of me as that little 12-year-old girl hiding under the table being told she was too ugly for her father to take her to London to show their family that I resorted to cutting myself. I vowed that I would never harm myself anymore and hoped life wouldn't throw me into the pit of despair that would cause me to do that again. It was a horrible place to be.
****
Siting with Salma in the lounge, I realised that I hadn't told her. No one knew my darkest secret and I had no intention of sharing it with anyone. It was in my past. Best forgotten. I'd moved on. Stronger than ever.
My mobile pinged drawing my attention to the message.
'Hey, everything okay? You rang?'
It was Sadaqat. He must be at the office. I had to meet him before he went home.
"You going?" Salma stopped me, enticing me with a box set of '13 Reasons Why.'
"I've been meaning to catch up on it. Wanna binge?"
I couldn't concentrate on anything.
"I'm popping to the office, I'll be back later."
It was Thursday and so I knew dad was at the auction. I had to confront Sadaqat about his wife; the leak!
****
The front bell tinkled as I walked into the office Sally welcomed me with open arms.
"How are you?!"
In Sally's warm embrace my eyes were firmly on Sadaqat who sat at the far end of the office. He rolled up some plans and pushed it to the side of his desk.
"Why don't you come back to work? Maybe part time?"
Sally sucked the strawberry icing off her fingers after eating a doughnut.
"I wish I could." I humoured her. "I've been so busy. Sadaqat can I speak to you?"
"I didn't know you were coming to the office." Sadaqat quickly rolled up plans like he wanted to hide them from me.
"You okay?" He looked distracted. Something was going on.
"What's what?" I pointed to the scroll. The scroll was important, it meant a new plan, a design. I had to see it. Snatching the scroll, I opened it to reveal dad's new project. Dad was developing a huge plot of land into 35 student accommodation flats near Birmingham City University. To my surprise the plans had been approved by the council and work already started. I was in awe how dad secured credit for such a large project.
"Is dad going it alone with this ambitious project?" I held up the scroll of paper against the wall trying to understand the magnitude of the plans.
Sadaqat was tight lipped; he chewed a doughnut shoving it into his mouth so he couldn't answer my probing questions.
"Oi!" I turned to him. "Tell me."
News of the plans made me forget about Aafia. I was hungry to learn more about the plans.
"Let's get out of here." He quickly directed me to the front door like he was in a hurry to get me out.
"Mum would love to see you."
From the far end of the office, the door opened. Standing in the door way dressed in his black suit and grey tie was Amjad.
"Long time no see." He held his hands out.
"What is he doing here?" I looked at Sadaqat for an answer. Sadaqat lifted his hands absolving responsibility and backed away. This was why he was throwing me out of the office.
"This has nothing to do with me." He grabbed a set of keys and informed Sally he was going out and shot through the exit. Then I turned to Sally, she grabbed the receiver like it was her lifeline and pretended to dial just to avoid answering me. Why was everyone avoiding the question?
My heart was racing. Who allowed this weak excuse for a human into the office? He wasn't a visitor or else he would have entered from the front door. In fact, he appeared from the back, the private office; my office.
"Listen Zohra-" He stepped close. "Can we talk?" He gestured to the private office. Was he inviting me into my office? Since when did he have the jurisdiction? What on earth was going on behind my back?
****
I scrolled the plans into a tube and followed him into the office. Inside my office his silver framed picture sat on my desk. With a sunny sky-blue background, Rochelle, his son and Amjad grinned at the camera. This wasn't a one-off visit, Amjad was working here. He pulled out the padded chair for me, but I remained upright on my feet. If I sat, I'd cooled down. I didn't want to cool down, I wanted to remain angry.
"Do you want a drink?" He was offering me a cup of tea in MY office. I wanted to pour the scalding cup over his smug face.
"Does dad know you're here?"
He sat behind the desk lacing his fingers together leaning forward on the desk.
"Your dad and my dad are working together."
I shook my head refusing to believe it. Why would my dad work with the enemy?
"It's true." He extended his hand out opening his palm out for the roll of tube. I gave him the plans and he opened the scroll and revealed the plans for 35 flats.
"40% of the investment is from my dad."
My heart sank. Dad was consorting with the enemy. But things were about to get a lot worse when Amjad delivered another dose of the acidic truth.
"It's a lucrative investment; your dad saw an opportunity and my dad got involved. I'm using the office as a base to plan, order and organise the project. I'm project manager."
This wasn't something new. It took time to purchase a plot, to apply for planning and then move onto development. So, dad had been working with Amjad's family for a while.
"How long have you been working together?" I held my quivering breath together.
"A few months." He mumbled.
"How long?" My tone strained.
"7 months."
Why did dad to this to me? Does he have any sense of loyalty? Amjad's family betrayed us, why did he put money and investment before me? I felt like an outsider. The office. The business. I wasn't part of it anymore. Dad didn't ask my advice like he usually would or consult me in the process. Amjad literally took my space. I put my heart and soul into the business creating a name, a brand, a service and now it was all down to dust with new plans and new partners on board.
"I heard you got married to Zeenat's husband." Amjad shrewdly diverted the conversation. "I met him at the mosque. He was so rude with no respect for his elders. You could have done so much better than him."
"That's none of your business." I folded my arms.
Amjad stood up and walked around the desk standing next to me.
"You did a selfless thing giving up your life for the kids. But Zayn?!" He shrugged like he was talking about steak and beans: a strange combination.
"He's a tool. You're far too sophisticated and mature for the likes of him."
"I did what I had to." I shrugged him off. My head was spinning from the first revelation, why did dad go into business with him?
"I know I was an asshole, but I hope one day you will forgive me like you forgiven my sister. I was stuck between your dad and my dad. I wasn't with Rochelle when I married you. I broke up with her when I married you."
I didn't want to discuss it. Why was he dragging the past?
"You still had a son."
"I wasn't seeing him."
"Why are we talking about this?" I stepped away from him.
"Because you need to know the truth." He approached closer. "Your dad knew about my son and Rochelle."
"I'm sorry?" Did he utter my dad's name and his mistresses's name in the same sentence?
"Your dad knew before we were married." He emphasised.
"No!" I refused to listen to another word from his filthy mouth. How dare he lay the blame on my father?
"Don't you dare utter another word!"
Dad can't have betrayed me? He was my dad! He would protect me. I turned to leave, but Amjad stopped me.
He wasn't finished.
There was more.