Part One |
I loved my husband. He was all I have ever known to love. Cliché as it sounds; he was my Prince charming. He was the most beautiful man I have ever laid my eyes on. He was tall, dark and was filled with kindness and love.
We were married for fifteen years with three beautiful children; Ahmed, Anwar and Awo. He was a role model to our children. Our nights were filled with laughter and talks as we held onto memories of our old days. We had so much love to give, so we never slept without fulfilling each others desires.
Our children were a reflection of our love.
Our home was blessed.
It was spring of 2013, when my childhood friend and cousin, Shamso called me one morning. She wanted to lead a new life in a new place, so she asked to stay with us temporarily until she found a home of her own.
I was excited. All of my relatives were hundreds of miles away, it felt good to have a close female family member nearby. She was a divorcee who didn’t bear any children in her last marriage – “I am a free woman!” she often would cheer jokingly but I knew deep down she was a concerned thirty-two-year-old-woman.
On her arrival, I asked two of my boys to share a room, as I prepared her a room.
Awo, my thirteen-year-old daughter, wasn’t fond of her auntie but the two boys were careless of her presence. Shamso didn’t understand the psychological behavior of teens, and would question my ways of fostering my children. She’d point out that I spoil Awo, and that I submit to her needs more than I should.
Nevertheless, I’d listen to her advice, and befriended her words because she is family.
When we were younger, my mother used to say that family is everything in this world. So I would drive her around to look for subsidized housing and even helped her cope financially.
It was that same year, my husband lost his job. He was an engineer for a top technology firm for three years. He got into an altercation with one of his managers, which resulted in him being fired.
I remember that day, the disappointment in his tone.
“Love, I was fired today,” he voiced angry as he sat down on the bottom stair to take off his shoes.
I asked him what happened.
“My manager said something racist, and I totally lost it.”
It was hard to imagine my husband this way –angry and frustrated. He never spoke ill or cause any harm to another human. He was religious, and believed his actions would carry consequences in the hereafter.
“That is unlike me. I don’t know what took over me,” he continued to express. It seemed he was more disappointed in his actions, then the racist remark his manager spat at him.
“It’s okay, you will get what God has written for you. This was just not for you.” I calmly whispered into his ear as I embraced his cold body.
Things took a strange turn that year. I had two miscarriages, and my daughter Awo was getting bad grades in all of her classes.
My family was falling apart, and I didn’t know how to fix it. My husband became angrier. He was raised to have Imaan and to put his trust in God, but it seemed no matter what he did, the world has become his new enemy, including me. Most nights, he’d fall asleep in the living-room, on the couch whilst watching television. He lost the urge to love me, and the determination he had for his family. It made me sad to see my husband fall into a dark pit –battling to find the light while I was struggling to find him.
One evening, he came home enraged as I was in the kitchen cooking dinner for the family. I was chopping onions on top of the granite countertop, and he walked over to me and said “we have to move out, and find something affordable.” I knew those words were coming, but I was afraid to hear them.
“We will be fine,” I replied back calmly.
“You don’t understand, Khadija! He shouted as he knocked a cup off the kitchen counter, breaking the glass into pieces. It startled me.
It’s clear that he has formed an impulsive behavior -an angry one, and it scared me a lot. For fifteen years, he never showed this type of manners. “I know you’re distraught but your behavior does not help the situation get any better. Calm down Abdi! Please.” I found myself begging him.
My family was in distress.
Shamso left a week before we moved into a smaller apartment. My children hated the new apartment. They complained about the neighborhood, and the lack of attention they were getting from their new teachers.
My husband barely came home. He’d spent hours with other Somali men, something he’d always frowned upon – “A husband belongs home with his wife and children,” he used to declare.
I started to resent him for not being stronger, for not having enough imaan. I felt as if he gave up on us, and I hated him for it.
I befriended a neighbor, Muna. While the kids were at school, we’d share stories and she would be an ear to my misery. She was kind and filled with patience.
One day, on my way to the grocery store to pick up some eggs to make pancakes, I saw my husbands’ car stopped at a stoplight ahead of me. I could tell it was him, because I recognized the license plate. I trusted my husband, but something inside me was curious to know where he was heading. When he left home this morning, he said we was going to the masjid but ironically the masjid was on the other side of the city.
I followed him.
We drove for thirty minutes on familiar streets. My curiosity grew as we made the same exact turns as if we were heading to our old home. I stopped and watched him signal right into the street we used to live in.
I was confused. Why would he drive all the way to our old house, I pondered?
My thoughts froze. I couldn’t believe my eyes
Part Two |
As he pulled up to the curb of our old home, there she was cat-walking down the stairs to approach his car. Mona, my neighbor –my friend who I confided in, dressed in pearl white abaya with a grin that hails seduction.
My heart raced a million miles to the second. Blood rushed to my head, as questions invaded my every thought. What is she doing here in my old home? Why is my husband here with her?
My heart shattered on the floor as I watched my husband kiss her on the lips. Those same lips have kissed me, they have professed love and have promised to protect me. But it was clear to me, that those lips carried heavy lies. Who was I married to? I didn’t know this man.
My vision was blurred, my thoughts disarrayed, my heart felt defeated as I sat there still with tears to accompany my aching body. I watched them drive off together.
Where are they heading, I silently voiced shakingly to myself. I followed them for twenty minutes, as they drove around the city. My mind replayed every word I spat to that evil bitch. I shared frustration with her that entailed my husband. There she was meeting my vulnerable husband on the side, as I presented her the tools she needed to entice him.
I was enraged with anger.
He pulled into our local masjid. He got out, and walked to the passenger door to assist her out of the car like a gentleman, but as God is my witness, he is a pig in a suit.
All this time, he had a plan, and I was never part of his plan.
It was that same day, he married Muna. Their love was legally chained by the local Sheikh, who spat blessings onto their new beginning while ours ended.
I always felt that people exaggerated their feelings when they spat ‘my heart is broken’ but it was in that parking lot, I have felt the truth in those words.
I asked for a divorce, and told him that I saw him with Muna that same day. He didn’t feel any remorse, instead he spat simple words while my heart weighs heavy in betrayal. This was not the man I knew –definitely not the man I married.
I wanted a divorce, but it was clear to me that he wasn’t going to lodge a protest. I felt angry, and wanted to stab him in his chest for betraying me. “I fucking hate you,” I whispered, not wanting to alert the kids who were in the next room. I told him to leave and never to return.
A week went by and his scent still lingers in the air. When I felt the loneliest, voices in my head kept me company. I started to reply back to the voices, as they made sense to me. I have lost weight, and mostly sleep.
I have forgotten to care for my children. I barely cook, and cleaning the house became a burden. Most days, I felt like a zombie -hauling an empty body around the house. Due to lack of sleep,I began to hallucinate.
My daughter became worried and decided to call her father to check up on me but instead of offering to help me, he came to the house and took the kids with him and left me behind.
I was scared.
There was a particular voice amongst the voices in my head, that started to convey more authority. He called himself Al-Waswaas, and when he spoke, all of the other voices remained silent.
“I was born when you were born,” he spoke in a husky voice. “I circulate inside you, just as blood circulates inside you. I am in your thoughts, and in your heart. I am the son of Satan, the night owl who lives in the darkest parts of your soul. I am the strongest when you’re weak,” he spat confidently.
I was confused and frightened. I wanted to pray, but I was too weak to get out of bed. My lips sealed together, my tongue tight to the roof of my mouth. I was motionless in my own body. A breath of cold air struck my face, as if someone was hovering above my bed. Whatever the voice was, I felt his presence in the room –he was here and close.
“STAND UP! Child of Adam,” it shouted in a deafening tone. My body levitated in the air. I must be dreaming, I whispered to myself. “Please stop, I beg you,” I plead in tears as I floated in the air, trying to gain control over my body.
“You were always too weak to fight your battles,” he spat disappointed. “I have watched you closely, as people have misled you with love, and kindness. But, they only fed you lies. So now, it’s my turn to take this course in a different direction. I will steer you to victory, Child of Adam.”
As the voice faded, a black fog loomed in the air. It slowly made its way circling my body as I levitate above my bed. It felt warm, like a warm breeze on a hot summer day. I felt its embrace, snuggled on my skin like a leathercloth.
Next morning, I woke up drenched in blood.