I went straight from my uncle’s house to Salim’s house in Retreat, which was not far from the mosque. My new home was very small, but there was a big yard where I could park my Isuzu bakkie. Salim helped me to move in. He had been so kind as to give me some lounge furniture, his old kitchen fittings, and also a sturdy bedroom cupboard.

“Abdul, you must be excited about meeting your new wife?” he said.

I thought I detected a hint of sarcasm in his voice. Perhaps he had noticed my reluctance to be in an arranged marriage.

“I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but it’s difficult to get excited about it, Salim. It’s not like I had a choice,” I replied.

“Don’t worry, Abdul, you will get used to being a married man. And she is beautiful. That should make things easier for you,” he said as he carried my bag into the house.

If he was trying to reassure me, it didn’t work. His jovial approach to this disastrous situation only made me feel worse.

The welcoming feast had been planned for Friday evening, two days after Zainab’s arrival. I was dreading it. Half the community had been invited and there would be speeches and other formalities. After the party she would go home with me – and then there would be no turning back.

Friday evening came all too soon. I took out a new pair of trousers, a smart jacket and a crisp white shirt. Despite my reservations, I thought I had better make an effort to look good, if only to please my uncle and aunt. I brushed and gelled my hair and used my new, spicy aftershave. It wouldn’t do any harm to prove to this stranger that I was good-looking, even if I was not husband material.

When I arrived at Uncle’s house I tried to slip into the crowd unnoticed. There was no sign of Zainab. I was about to get myself a drink when I caught sight of Uncle Hassan and Aunt Mana. They called me over and asked me to stand in front of the crowd. Then my aunt went to fetch Zainab. As Uncle brought her to my side and introduced us, everyone clapped and cheered. As much as I didn’t want to marry this girl, I had to admit she looked beautiful in her guntiino (traditional dress which showed off her slender waist. She looked even more beautiful up close than she did the day I had seen her standing at the door. We stood side by side in front of the guests as my uncle announced our marriage. The guests clapped again.

I was surprised by the way Zainab made me feel when her hand brushed mine. Could I be as deeply attracted to her as I was to Natasha? I quickly banished the comparison from my mind.

“You look lovely,” I said to her. She looked at me shyly and smiled, her eyes lowered. She reminded me of my mother when my father used to say something complimentary and she would smile and hide her face in her clothes. I wondered what Zainab was thinking. Her smile was not quite as beautiful as my mother’s, but it still made me tingle inside. I wondered whether it was like this for my mother and father when they were married. My uncle had told me that their marriage was also arranged, but that they were much younger than Zainab and me.

*****

We did not speak much during our short drive to Retreat after the ceremony. Zainab did not know much English, so we mostly spoke Somali. I hoped she would not be disappointed by our small house. Uncle had told me that her father was a wealthy businessman in Somalia.

“Where do I sleep?” she said to me very politely as I opened the front door.

I realised then that this was as strange for her as it was for me, and it reminded me of when I first came to South Africa and knew no one. I felt a sudden tenderness for her. I showed her to the small bedroom, then took some blankets and went to sleep on the small couch in the front room.

The following day Zainab woke early and made breakfast for us both. I was impressed by her cooking skills. The canjeero was delicious. We talked rather awkwardly as we ate.

“Please make yourself at home, Zainab,” I said. “I’m sorry the house is still in such a mess. I moved in only a few days ago.”

“I am happy to be here,” she replied.

*****

For the next few days Zainab spent most of her time at my aunt and uncle’s house, while Aunt Mana helped her to make up curtains and cushions for our new home. She would return in the late afternoon to prepare our evening meal. I, in the meantime, distracted myself by spending long hours at the back of my shop, sorting and tidying. I even attended one or two classes, but I avoided Natasha.

The following Friday afternoon I locked my shop and drove to Mosque – I assumed that Zainab, like a traditional Somali wife, would prefer to pray at home. As I walked from the car park towards the mosque I heard someone calling my name.

“Abdul!”

I looked around, but saw no one. So I took a few more steps and then suddenly there she was, right in front of me.

“Hey, Abdul, where have you been? I haven’t seen you all week!”

Natasha! And, oh, she was looking as beautiful as ever. My heart leapt, and then sank at the same moment. How was I going to explain my absence from ARESTA?

“Hello, Natasha,” I said awkwardly. “I’ve been really busy at the shop – it’s hard to keep up with all the classes,” I lied.

“Don’t miss too many,” she said. “It’s not so easy to catch up.”

I felt as if she was reprimanding me and I was wondering what to say next, when I looked up and saw … Oh no, it couldn’t possibly be! Not now! Aunt Mana and Zainab! What was I going to say?

“Hello, Abdul,” said Aunt Mana, looking disapproving.

Zainab said nothing. With a puzzled expression she looked at me, then at Natasha, then back at me.

“Oh … er … yes, I must introduce you,” I said, my voice faltering. “Zainab, Aunt Mana, this is my friend Natasha from ARESTA.”

Natasha greeted them both warmly.

“This is Abdul’s wife, Zainab, from Somalia,” said Aunt Mana, looking down her nose at Natasha, then reproachfully at me.

At that moment I wanted Allah to strike me down.

“Oh, I didn’t know you were married, Abdul! You should have told me – congratulations!” Natasha said.

“Our marriage is very recent and, uhm … I was waiting for the right moment,” I replied.

I expected Natasha to be upset, but instead she turned, smiling, to Zainab. “It’s lovely to meet you, Zainab. Why don’t you come to ARESTA with Abdul one day? We can have lunch together and Abdul and I can show you around.”

Was Natasha trying to disguise her jealousy, or was she genuinely pleased for me? Perhaps I had misread Natasha all this time. Perhaps she regarded me as no more than a friend.

“Thank you,” said Zainab. “I have always wanted to study. Now that I am in South Africa there are so many exciting possibilities.”

I was taken aback. I had not thought of Zainab as a woman with her own dreams and ambitions. I had thought that she wished for no more than a traditional marriage. Things are never as simple as they seem …

But now the muezzin was calling us in to prayer. It was time to search my heart.

Allahu Akbar

Ash-hadu An La Ilaha Illallah

Ash-hadu an na Muhammadar rasul-ul-lah

Hayya ’Alas-Salah

Haiyya ’Alal-Falah

Allahu Akbar

***

What do you think: will Abdul be happy in the future? Why/why not?