“I Saw Him Today” by Ola W. Halim

Wallahi. After so many years. 

My boy friend, Kabir. 

First, in my dream. And then—Allah bear me witness—at my suya shed. 

Believe me, dear diary: this isn't me telling stories because I love to tell them. 

It's true. 

It was Kabir. 

He was wearing a jellabiya, milk-coloured as Dangara's toilet seat, and a black skullcap. Still tall and lanky. Shoulders so broad, so perfectly square. He was standing at the edge of this blue cliff. The wind dancing off his body. His jellabiya, bubbling and lifting. The distance ahead soaked in bluish-white fumes. Before I could call his name, ask him to watch his step, my wife, Nana Aisha's voice trickled into my dreams: AbdulRasheed, AbdulRasheed, wake up, I'm going to the market—

You know, after the thing with Kabir happened, I heard his father sent him back to Kano, where they came from, so that they'd teach him with cane and pepper that it's haram to kiss your fellow boy anywhere, let alone at Modrasa. But wallahi, we weren't really kissing. He was just lying on my laps while I read him my stories. They said we'd burn in Jahannam for that. Subhanallah. Jahannam. Two boys who were just ten and thirteen. Burn in Jahannam. Mallama beat Kabir more because he was older, he should have known better, and me, I was made to recite Astagfurullah until my tongue flopped dead. 

     And today, after so many years, Kabir appeared. He came to buy suya. He and his wife and two sons. I knew him from his tall frame, his hanger-shaped shoulders, his toppling gait, like he'd trip and fall anytime soon. Even though there wasn't recognition in his eyes, I know those eyes very well. The way they squinted when he listened to me read. The way he blinked rapidly, too rapidly, when he cried because his father was always throwing things at his mother. 

     The way he sometimes forgot himself and left his mouth ajar, until spittle crawled out and I slapped him conscious. 

     How was I sure it was really him? His wife said, Kabir, I can't find your phone. He'd been sitting on the bamboo bench in the shed, fanning himself, watching me add pepper and salt as the meat grilled. I watched him step into his Lexus. His shoulders brushed with his wife's as they looked for the phone. I felt something pinch the back of my head. 

     Was I jealous? Don't I have a wife too? Did Kabir turn out like me and had to be forced to take a wife, or is he normal?

     I knew I wasn't thinking well. I quickly wrote my number in a corner of the newspaper with which I'd wrap his suya and handed him the package, even though his wife was the one reaching out for it. 

     I asked Kabir if he'd seen the phone and he simply nodded. He didn't recognize me. It took something from me, that blank expression, but what could I do? Wrestle him off his wife? 

     I watched him go. Him, wife, sons, Lexus. 

     Maybe he didn't turn out like me, after all. I'm happy for him, I guess, but maybe he did—and he'd call me. 

     Maybe.