Who is Anisa Haque?

Chapter 8

Taju had left. So I locked the front door. First with the rickety burglar prof and padlock, then with a jam lock.

Mum and dad didn't notice when I walked in because mum was crouched by the window and peeping from the corner of the drapes, just like I do when I want to spy on guests and dad was sitting on his designated chair (his "throne" we all call it because no one else is allowed to sit on it).

His face was fixated on the TV as the 9 o clock news caster rambled on monotonously but he didn't fool me.

I knew just seconds ago, his ear  was glued to the foyer door, eavesdropping on my conversation with Taju.

'Come and have some cashew nuts,' dad said.

This was suspicious, he never shares his food.

'Sure,' I grabbed a handful and sank into a bean bag, leaning my back against the couch where mum was. I knew something was coming.

'When is Ibrahim coming back?' Mum shocked me. I looked at her, trying to shoot her my best what-the-hell face but she was serious.

I turned to dad confidently, hoping I could signal him to make her back off but he had turned off the TV and leaned in, waiting for me to answer.

'Mum,' I tried to sound as docile as my anger will permit. 'Ibrahim is *never* coming back.'

'What?!' Mum clutched her chest with both hands and Dad bulged his eyes out. 'Never?'

'This can't be news to you,' I said, vividly remembering having the exact same conversation 6 months ago. 'I've told you this before.'

'Yes,' Mum said. 'But we thought you just said that because you were angry.'

'Yeah, and I'm still angry.' I said bitterly. 'In fact, when it comes to Ibrahim I'm going to be angry for a very, very, long time. Always. Forever.'

'Now listen to me young lady,' dad sat up and wagged his finger in my direction. 'You can't go about life angry at someone forever for flimsy reasons.'

'Flimsy?' I asked, surprised. 'You think we broke up for a *flimsy* reason?'

'Well if you tell us the real reason, then we'll decide whether it is flimsy or not.'

'But I already told you!' I said, exasperated but softening my tone mid sentence so I don't come across as rude.

'Not the full story!'

'He broke my heart, Why would you want me to get back with someone who broke my heart in the most horrible way possible?'

'Because we liked Ibrahim. And we haven't heard his side of the story. It's hard to believe that such a fine gentleman will intentionally hurt the girl he loves.'

'Maybe he wasn't in his right mind,' Mum added. 'People were jealous of your relationship. It could have been *juju, Mahassada*  are everywhere.'

'What we are saying is,' Dad brushed past Mum's juju comment. 'You broke up with him and cut him off instantly. You didn't give him a chance to apologize. And I have it on good authority that he tried to reach out to you but couldn't get to you.'

'He didn't try hard enough,' I said, close to tears.

'Okay. *Hajiya Ta*,' Dad softened. 'We understand that you're still angry at Ibrahim. What can he do fix things?'

'Nothing.'

'Nothing?' mum asked.

I nodded.

'Is there someone else you have in mind?' Dad was hopeful. In his head, for me to refuse a "fine gentleman" like Ibrahim, it had to be because of another fine gentleman.

'Nope!'

'No one comes to see you?' Mum chimed in. 'Who was that guy that just left?'

'My colleague.'

'How old are you?'

'28 in July.'

'You are 28 in July and you don't have a boyfriend?'

She rambled on about the importance of marriage at my age while I kept quiet hoping this would end already.

I knew the drill. Every few months or whenever someone around you age was getting married, my parents would stage what I call a "husband interrogation" session. It was their not so gentle reminder that my clock was ticking.

From experience I've learnt that when it comes to my parents, responding with witty comebacks only prolonged their husband interrogations and often sent it to "am I your mate?" Territory.  I knew if I wanted this to end, there was one thing I had to do.

'When do you intend on getting married?' She continued.

I remained silent, my head bowed down respectfully, my fingers fiddling with a loose diamanté hanging off the hem of my scarf.

'Won't you answer me?' Mum raised her voice. That was my cue.

I sniffed, loud enough to catch dad's attention. Then I cupped my face with my hands and continued sniffing. A tear from my left eye had rolled down my face and dropped on my scarf. I couldn't see him but I knew dad was getting uncomfortable, so I went for the kill and started sobbing like I'd just been smacked across the face.

'Anisa? Anisa, sorry! Please, go to your room. Wipe your tears, it's going to be okay.'

I swiftly got up and rushed past them like a bird that's just been set free with Dad still throwing kinds words to soothe me.

I got to my room which was just off the staircase and before I closed the door I got an earful.

'You didn't have to make her cry,' Said dad, his tone accusatory.

'How was I supposed to know that a simple question will make her cry?' Answered mum.

'You were pushing her too hard, you think it's easy when all your friends get married and you don't even have a boyfriend?'

'You were the one that told me to talk to her about marriage and that's what I did.'

'Next time be more soft.

'No,' mum said with finality. 'Next time you do it yourself!'

I gently closed the door.

Okay, I'm not proud of what I did. But if there's one thing I've learnt in the last few years it's that fake tears are the solution to walking out of a husband interrogation with my parents. 

Not only does it get them off my case at the moment, but it also guarantees me their silence.

Trust me, the next husband interrogation won't come for another 2 - 3 months and by then, I'll make sure I summon the courage  to tell them I'm never getting married. Ever.

I felt relieved to be away from the living room and I was sure the slight guilt I felt for making my parents argue  would disappear the moment my eyes shut to sleep.

For now though, there was only one man on my mind.
 
Baba Amana.
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