Even If It’s Between Two Mountains – Suad Kamardeen

The first thing Seynabou does after ordering a masala chai and a tuna melt without cheese is pull out the seat farthest from the door, the one with the best view of everyone walking in. She places her backpack on the floor, folds her beige ankle-length trench raincoat into a nice square and arranges it on the chair as a backrest. She leaves the other chair empty, so she won’t have to waste time moving her stuff around when he arrives. 

As she waits for her laptop to load, Seynabou flicks through her diary, and it’s only now that she notices the date – 23rd September. Of course, Tristan would ask to meet on this day. Today makes it 14 years since they first met, and he’s always known she takes such signs seriously. Today also marks 14 years and two months since Baba passed away, and who better to commemorate the moment with than Tristan? When he left all those missed calls on Discord and finally asked to meet “tomorrow,” Seynabou didn’t clock on. It makes sense now. 

The door creaks and her head flies up, but it’s only a mother and daughter in matching white t-shirts under brown corduroy pinafores. Seynabou catches herself kissing her teeth and quickly flashes the little girl a smile. It’s not their fault she decided to arrive early, knowing Tristan wouldn’t show up until later in the evening since he was at work. The barista places her drink on the table, alongside the usual side of biscuit. “Enjoy.”

“Thank you!” Seyna sips her drink, then returns to the first item on her to-do list: Message Sulaiman. She toys with the idea of ghosting him, but thinks, Seynabou, come on, you’re a big girl. Speak your mind with your chest. She has a template message for situations like this; it’s simply a matter of personalising it. If Maria asks her how it went, she wants to be able to say she was mature enough to send a cordial message, perhaps this will finally put Maria off introducing Seynabou to potential spouses. 

Salam alaikum Sulaiman,

I hope you’re having a great day so far. May Allah accept your acts of Ibadah and grant you the best in this life and the hereafter. I’ve spent time thinking and praying about the possibility of us working out, and with this, I believe it’s best to end things here. It’s important for me to be with someone who shares similar values, and it would be unfair to continue speaking to you knowing we aren’t compatible. This doesn’t take away from who you are as a person. I have appreciated how direct and open you’ve been throughout the process. May Allah bless you with much better. Ameen. 

Seynabou rereads the message and fights the urge to add specific complaints. Like how he picked his nose on their first date and refused her offer of hand sanitiser, how he asked to meet at the last minute on a weekday, then went on to mock her job as a writer – “You can’t really call this a job, if you can drop everything to meet me,” – and still made her pay for her coffee. The one time she was honest with another man about why they weren’t going to work out, it didn’t end well, even though Seynabou made it clear that her intention was for him to learn from the experience. “U think ur better than me cus u went to a Russell Group uni or wot?? Fyi, I studied Biomed & that’s more complex than English Lit if u ask me,” he responded. 

She hits the send button before her fingers type words she’ll come to regret. Once the message indicates it’s been delivered, Seynabou blocks Sulaiman’s number, then ticks the task off her to-do list. She looks forward to the day when she’ll tell Tristan about these men, and they’ll both laugh about how God was preparing her to appreciate him even more. 

Her tuna melt arrives just in time, and Seynabou devours one-half of the sandwich before hurrying towards the bookshelves. There are several reasons why root/25 is Seynabou’s favourite cafe to work from, and the mix of new and secondhand books on sale is only one of them. There’s never a time when she doesn’t find what she’s looking for, or her next best read, and at a bargain price too. She begins as usual, skimming through the book spines from the top row of the first shelf, and works her way to the last shelf. But there it is, centre row, middle shelf with an entire row to itself, cover facing forward: Zora Neale Hurston’s Their Eyes Were Watching God. And it isn’t even Black History Month. Seynabou gasps, then takes a step back, her heartbeat speeding up. She thinks, is this Fate? 

Growing up, when Seynabou read all those romance novels filled with stories of people who found love in the most random ways, hidden between the pages of her maths and physics textbooks, she never imagined that this could be her story. But her life these past few days, or weeks even, has been proving her wrong. 

Hurston’s book was the first of many she recommended to Tristan when he grew hungry for grounding and connection. His parents moved to England from the US when he was two, so he never had much of a relationship with the Black side of his family. Seynabou grabs the book off the shelf and returns to her seat. She smiles as she flips through the pages, unable to believe her luck. 

Just then, her phone pings, and she sets the book aside. A message from Maria pops up on screen, “Salams, don’t forget our meeting tomorrow. 11, Palmers Green station.”

A surge of irritation floods through Seynabou, but she reminds herself why she’s helping Maria in the first place, even though this is the fourth time in three days Maria has reminded her about this meeting. If she didn’t trust her to show up, why not ask any one of their other friends? But Seynabou texts back, “Are you sure about this?”

“Of course.”

“Okay, I’ll be there.”

“Thank you again, Sey.”

“Anytime.”

An unsettling feeling lodges itself in Seynabou’s chest. She still hasn’t gotten used to Maria calling her “Sey.” The first time was three days ago when they spoke on the phone, and Maria begged Seynabou to accompany her to the imam to request a khula. Rather than the feeling of endearment which came with hearing that version of her name, Seynabou felt something like trepidation. But she shoved the feeling aside and tried to be present for her friend. “Why would you want to annul your marriage?”

“I’m tired, Sey,” Maria said. 

Restraining all other emotions rising to the surface, including the anger that Maria didn’t realise what she had, and was about to lose it, Seynabou said, “Perhaps it’s worth speaking to him one last time?”

“And what use is that? I’m tired of carrying the weight for two alone. At least if I’m single, I’ll know it’s my sole responsibility.” She sniffed. “You can’t change my mind, Sey, don’t bother trying.”

Seynabou didn’t, even though it was all she’d done since the first time Maria had called her to complain about her marriage with Tristan a few months ago, partly because she cared, but mostly to assuage the guilt of the first thought that crossed her mind: the possibility of Tristan being hers. She immediately sought Allah’s forgiveness and decided to dedicate time to helping them resolve their marital issue. If the marriage ended up dissolving, it could be said that Seynabou tried her best. Not only that, but she could also enjoy her eventual marriage with Tristan, guilt-free. 

This is why, for the past three months, Seynabou didn’t mind that Maria became a solid part of her weekday routine. First Maria dropped her sons off at school or with their grandparents, her daughter at the private nursery she started in May where she had a support worker for her disabilities, and then she called Seynabou, starting the conversation with updates about the kids, and ending with a rant about another thing Tristan had done. Though it was the latter that most interested Seynabou, she filed away details of the former, for when they’d come in handy – she always struggled to write characters with children in her stories, but Maria’s calls had proven helpful. 

The list of things Tristan did or didn’t do was endless, but revolved around the same things – prioritising work over family, not participating in childcare, being absent on weekends. At first, Seynabou tried making excuses for him – the Tristan she knew would never do these things – but Maria had a retort for every comment. Then, Seynabou sought her permission to speak to him about the matter, but Maria shouted a “no” so violently, Seynabou’s mouth fell open at the other end of the line. After that, she simply became a silent listener. 

The mother and little girl in matching pinafores move to the table next to Seynabou. The cinnamon wafting from their drinks makes Seynabou crave a cinnamon bun, but she’s on a minimal sugar diet to manage the weird spikes in her energy levels. The woman snaps a peanut butter cookie in two and hands one half to her daughter. Then, she pulls out a tablet from her tote bag and puts on a children’s rhyme for the girl while she uses the phone hanging from the lanyard around her neck. But the daughter is more interested in her mother’s actions than the rhymes. The way her gaze follows her mother’s every movement reminds Seynabou of how Sabrina, Tristan’s youngest, watches Maria, like her mother would disappear if she dared to look away. 

It’s how Seynabou used to watch her father growing up too. She worshipped the ground he walked on. And now, Seynabou wishes she had a child who would look at her in the same all-consuming manner, who would trust her unfailingly. She grew up an only child and vowed to do better than her mother. She wanted triplets at first, but after her friends complained about the overbearing costs of child rearing, she decided twins would do. Until now, she’d struggled to find a suitable man, and with Tristan being back in the picture, she still wasn’t sure how long it would take after their marriage for them to start trying for children. She plans to do things the halal way, and has no interest in this egg freezing business, but she’s one year away from her mid-thirties. And aren’t your thirties your most fertile years? 

It’s not that Seynabou has her eyes set on her friend’s husband or was waiting for their marriage to fail, but long before Maria came into the picture, Tristan was Seynabou’s big crush and best friend. It was during one of her walks to campus in Freshers’ Week that the duo met and struck up a friendship. Their friendship was a harmless thing at the time because Tristan wasn’t Muslim. All the boundaries Seynabou put up when she interacted with Muslim men were thrown out the window around Tristan, except physical touch. She cackled around him, asked his opinions on her outfit choices, sought his company when she was feeling slightly alone, especially when memories of her father threatened to surface. Seynabou sometimes joked that if Tristan were Muslim, he’d be the perfect man for her, and he always laughed. Sharing a university accommodation made it easier for them to be around each other. 

At least 90 percent of the du’as Seynabou made during Ramadan in her first year of university revolved around Tristan, mostly for Allah to guide him to Islam so they could be together. This was why when Maria entered the picture suddenly in their second year, Seynabou didn’t feel the least bit threatened, not at first. 

After a summer holiday of incessant texting and Snapchat streaks, Seynabou couldn’t wait to see Tristan on their first day back at university. Before bothering to unpack her luggage, she grabbed the two takeaway bowls of jollof rice, plantain, moimoi and roasted turkey she’d packed especially for him and bounced down the hallway to his new room. That year, they had planned to secure the same apartment, it didn’t matter that they’d be sharing with three other strangers as long as they had each other. Seynabou knocked once and then a second time before pushing the door open. 

“T, guess what I have for you?” she began, with a wide grin. But the person who greeted her in his chair was a fellow hijabi who could pass for Tunisian or Egyptian. Seynabou backed away, her smile fading. “Oh, I must have the wrong room.”

“You’re looking for Tristan? He’s in the kitchen, he asked me to watch his stuff.” The woman stood and extended her hand. “Salam alaikum, I’m Maria.”

“Wa alaikum salam. Seynabou.” Seynabou took her hand. 

Maria smiled. “Oh, you’re Seynabou. I’ve heard so much about you. Tristan and I had lots of lectures together last year, and he talked about you all the time.”

Seynabou relaxed, then returned the smile. “Oh, he did?”

Maria nodded. “He told me about this accommodation when I was struggling to find one, that you two found the place, and there was still room.”

“Hmm.” Seynabou said, her stomach growing unsettled, unsure what to make of the fact that Tristan had never mentioned Maria, or that he’d told other people about their apartment. 

But just then, Tristan waltzed in with a huge grin, and all feelings of discomfort were forgotten amid his jokes and their laughter. And in moments when Maria never caught onto a joke, a kind of warmth flowed through Seynabou. It barely bothered her that Tristan and Maria would continue to have lectures together, a few common modules from his Mechanical Engineering and Maria’s Civil Engineering.

It was Maria’s idea to invite Tristan to the Islamic Society’s Charity Week event and other ISoc events in subsequent semesters. Seynabou beat herself up for not thinking about it first. She teased Maria for trying to convert Tristan to Islam so she could marry him, but Maria said, “Of course not. He’s our friend, I care about him.” Things were still on the right track, then, Seynabou thought. What did it matter who brought Tristan to Islam if she would end up with him anyway?

In the two and a half hours since Seynabou sat in this cafe, her eyes fixed on her laptop, she’s only managed to write four hundred words, half of which she’ll probably delete before the end of the day. Her agent’s words remain a nagging voice in her head: “You cannot live by short stories alone.” When her email notification goes off, Seynabou’s chest tightens yet again. She’s well past the agreed deadline, so it won’t be a surprise if it’s another nudging email. She could avoid opening the mail app, but what good would that do if she’ll be unable to focus on work? She glances around the cafe for inspiration, but the unanswered email hammers at her. She takes a deep breath and opens the message, then sighs when it’s only a round-up mail from Discord. 

“Alhamdulillah,” she whispers. Since Tristan found her on the social platform, she made a promise to always thank Allah whenever anything Discord-related crosses her path. How could she have underestimated how God works? 

When Tristan first subscribed to her newsletter six months ago, she paid him no mind. She’d worked so hard to get to where she was now, trying to move on from her feelings for him and focus on pleasing Allah. And when in the community channel, he introduced himself and claimed he was here to develop his writing practice because he wanted a hobby not centred around his wife and kids, she didn’t let thoughts of him linger too much in her mind, as much as she could help it. 

Maria began her complaint calls only a few weeks after that, and Seynabou realised this was no ordinary issue. In the 14 years since she’d known Tristan, though he loved reading, he’d never expressed an interest in writing, then all of a sudden he showed up in her writing community, liking all of her posts, commenting on her stories, taking part in workshops, leaving messages like, “Sey, I’m so proud of how far you’ve come with your writing,” while his marriage crumbled. 

Seynabou didn’t respond to his messages, nor his calls, for a long time, even though it was all her heart wanted. Instead, she spent more time on Muslim dating apps, trying to meet other men. But three days ago, Tristan left her seven missed calls, followed by a message, “Sey Sey, we need to talk.” He hadn’t called her “Sey Sey” since university days, so of course she had to respond. Now here she is, waiting for him. She knows what their meeting today will be about. Anyone could have told Tristan and Maria that their marriage wouldn’t last. 

Once, when Tristan and Seynabou were in the library cafe having a heated discussion about some book, the girls at the table next to them interrupted to ask if they were a couple. Seynabou giggled and said, “Why do you think that?”

“Me and my boyfriend fight just like that – him arguing everything I say, me with a sly smile on my face.”

“Oh, we’re not a couple,” Tristan said, in a split second, while Seynabou was still trying to craft a response. When she turned to catch his eyes, his face carried a distant expression, and when she asked if everything was okay, he simply shrugged. Sure, they were not officially a couple, but the tone of his voice and the speed at which he responded left a sour taste in her mouth and an unsettling feeling in her stomach, which took a long time to shake off.

Yet, in all of her time hanging out with Maria and Tristan, no one ever asked them if they were a couple. You couldn’t even picture them together. But the day Tristan accepted Islam in their final year was the same day he asked Maria to go on a halal date with him, with Seynabou as their chaperone since the intended chaperone could no longer make it. 

Seynabou sat two tables from them, watching Maria giggle at everything Tristan said – a sickening sight. The entire time, all she could think was “Why Maria?” so that when Tristan broke the news, a few weeks later, that he’d asked Maria to marry him, Seynabou blurted out, “But why Maria?”

“It was always going to be her, Sey.” He grinned. “She’s so perfect, isn’t she?”

Seynabou considered telling him about Maria’s comment last year, when Seynabou had suggested matching Tristan with Jennifer, their mutual friend who was Christian, and Maria had snorted and said, “She’s too dark for him.”

But she didn’t want to come across as bitter, nor lose access to the only person with whom she could truly be herself. So she bit her tongue. Yet it didn’t stop Maria from excluding her from their wedding, under the guise of it being “a family affair.” Seynabou watched it all through some of the ISoc girls’ Snapchat, and with every new clip, she couldn’t help but wonder, albeit briefly, why Tristan hadn’t taken it upon himself to invite her to the wedding. After all, she was his friend before he became Maria’s. But she eventually brushed it off, telling herself he probably didn’t have a choice with Maria’s intense personality. It was not long after the wedding that Maria sent a message to Seynabou telling her to refrain from referring to her husband as “Tristan or T.” Henceforth, she could only address him by his “Muslim” name, Abdul-Malik. And they could only meet in group settings, mostly in their family home, though whenever Seynabou visited the house, Tristan was never there. 

Today is the first time since he got married that she’s meeting him alone, and how perfect, since she can finally lay claim to what should have been hers all along. 

To reward her progress with her novel, so far, Seynabou opens a private browser window and googles “how soon after a divorce can a man remarry in Islam.” After perusing a few articles, she’s satisfied with what she sees, but it hits her that just because he can marry immediately doesn’t mean it’ll be an easy process. She doesn’t know how long the entire divorce procedure will take, but she can find out when she accompanies Maria to the imam tomorrow. There’s also the question of whether Tristan would want them to get married right away, or if he’d want to figure a few things out, like where they’d live, how parenting would work and so on. Seynabou is more than happy to open her home up to Tristan, and coparenting his children would be no effort at all. She already got on well with the kids, so it’ll be a matter of setting ground rules and boundaries. 

She flips to the back page of her diary, and writes, “Alhamdulillah,” circles it three times and draws a few hearts around it. Imagine if she’d settled for any one of those crusty men her friends tried setting her up with. Thank God she didn’t give in to peer pressure, to their claims that she was being too picky when the men they suggested weren’t even up to par. Seynabou believes wholeheartedly that she serves a God who is capable of all things, a God for whom nothing is impossible, and she’s glad now, more than ever, that she does. She’s glad now that when she put herself out there on all those apps, from Muzz to Pure Matrimony to Salams, and attended online and in-person halal dating events, she never lowered her standards. In fact, she’s thankful to her friends for never failing to share all the fine details of their sweet, barely bumpy relationships, of husbands whose sole purpose is their wives’ joy. 

She thinks now, of all the dates Maria tried to arrange for her, always with Nigerian or Sierra Leonean men, even though Seynabou told her more times than she would like to count that she was open to all races. 

“Doesn’t mean others are, you know,” was Maria’s initial response, and Seynabou thought it a fair point, until a pattern emerged in the men Maria introduced her to. They were always shades darker than her and from the same countries too. Now, Seynabou wouldn’t have minded this, but it bothered her that there was a plethora of men she was missing out on because Maria couldn’t envision anything else for her. Maria was friends with a lot of the mothers whose children attended the same school as hers, and sometimes she’d tell Seynabou of “fineeee single men” who dropped their nieces and nephews off at school. Yet, whenever Seynabou asked if Maria could connect them, if the man didn’t have the same heritage as Seynabou, Maria would go on a long speech about the importance of compatibility in relationships. Sometimes she sent articles to Seynabou to back up her point. 

“You know compatibility isn’t only about ethnicity?” Seynabou challenged her once. 

Maria rolled her eyes. “I know, but it’s a core part of it. It makes things easier.”

“For whom?”

Seynabou wanted to point out that Maria and Tristan weren’t exactly from the same place either, but since Maria was three-quarters Egyptian and one-quarter English, and Tristan was half-English, according to Maria, her argument had no leg to stand on. 

To rule out a lack of effort from the ways she could be blamed for not finding a suitable spouse, Seynabou would go on dates with the men Maria introduced her to. None of them lasted beyond a third date. Usually by the second date, Seynabou could tell no relationship would come of it. Each of the men managed to do something which gave her “the ick,” or made her think “Tristan would never do that.” How could she begin a relationship when her heart belonged to someone else? 

For some time, Seynabou wondered if it was sinful to pine for another woman’s husband, but she concluded that it wasn’t even pining per se. Until two days ago, she didn’t engage with Tristan beyond group settings. In the meantime, all the feelings she harboured for him she released in short stories under the pen name “Alison Ferdinand.” In fact, when Maria began complaining about the problems in her marriage, an idea for a new story sprouted in Seynabou’s mind, and she could have no rest until she saw it through. The words poured out of her fingers whenever she sat in front of her laptop, no creative blockage to endure. The story went on to be shortlisted for a competition, for which the winner would be announced in a month. In the meantime, it was made available to read online alongside the other shortlisted stories. 

It was only a matter of time before someone on the internet figured that “Alison Ferdinand” was “Seynabou Adamu” from some blog post she’d written in the past and deleted. Seynabou didn’t bother denying it. Fiction is fiction. But the people on Muslim Twitter didn’t agree with that sentiment, and since then, her inbox has been filling up with variations of emails calling her a homewrecker, a saddo for “being so hung up on a man” she wanted his marriage to fail. Seynabou blamed the person who read the story on camera in the TikTok that went viral and made it to Twitter. She’d started the reading with, “Guys can you believe this story?” which could obviously be misunderstood as a true story. At the end of her reading, the woman asked, “Ladies, would you get with your friend’s man after they divorced?” The majority of people in the comments and on Twitter went on about how unethical it was, but only a few people saw the sense in the story. (“One woman’s ex is another’s husband” was Seynabou’s favourite take so far.) Islam didn’t make a friend’s ex-husband haram to another friend, so why make up rules? The woman in Seynabou’s story didn’t cheat; she simply waited for nature (or the marriage) to run its course, and for what was destined to be hers to come to her. The story took its title from the popular Arab saying, “What is meant to reach you will reach you even if it is between two mountains.” Yet people still misconstrued the point. 

Seynabou’s phone vibrates to announce the prayer time for asr, and it’s only then she realises she hasn’t even prayed dhuhr. Thank God for the dedicated prayer space downstairs and toilet with private wash basins where she can make wudhu in peace, without worrying that someone will walk in on her sticking her foot in the sink. 

She shuts her laptop and slips it into her bag, but leaves her notepad and pen on the table to secure her seat. She has a lot to ask from God beyond forgiveness that she hasn’t been putting Him first, and top of that list is for her conversation with Tristan to go perfectly as planned. Of course, the conversation will start off being about his failing marriage, but she envisions the transition to the start of something new between them. She imagines walking out of here giddy, on cloud nine, an entire future with Tristan ahead of her. She won’t be able to hold his hands yet, but it’s only a matter of time, and in the meantime, she can hold onto the hope that he’ll be hers soon. God, what would it feel like finally having someone to talk to about her life, her plans, her hobbies, the most mundane things? To have someone ask her, “Baby, scrambled or poached eggs?” No one, besides her father, has ever called her “Baby.” 

She imagines a world like the one Solape, a protagonist in one of her prizewinning stories, was living. Solape’s Saturdays always began with sweet sex with her husband, followed by an hour-long cuddle talking about sweet nothings, big dreams, financial plans to fund said dreams, a second round of sex, then brunch in bed. The story is very loosely inspired by one of Seynabou’s friend’s life who never skimps on the details. Seynabou doesn’t care much for the sex though. Nothing beats having someone to share your life with. Someone who cares for you as you struggle, for example, with incessant premenstrual cramps. He will track her period with more attention and fervour, stock up on her comfort food without her needing to ask, and if she is lucky, he’ll take time off work to care for her. This is certainly something she can see Tristan doing. 

When Seynabou completes her prayer, her chest feels a little lighter, even though she spent half the time battling Tristan-related distractions. She folds over the mat, then pulls on her black suede ankle boots. The aroma of the café’s signature chicken sandwich makes her stomach grumble, a reminder to grab lunch. She checks out her butt in the mirror just before heading upstairs; she needs to add more protein to her diet if she wants her glute-growing regimen to work. Every two days or so, she stands in front of a mirror in her bedroom and pulls a tape around her butt to see if her efforts are paying off. Nothing much has changed but at least her butt is not parallel to her back. She laughs as she remembers the time she made herself do 250 squats each day for three months straight, confident that her lack of butt was why Tristan chose Maria over her. All that work, and she didn’t even need the perfect body for God’s will to come to fruition. 

Upstairs, the café is a lot busier than when she left, even though it’s way past lunchtime. She struts to the counter and orders a grilled chicken pesto sandwich with no cheese and extra chicken bits. Then, she does another round to the other bookshelf with more secondhand books, a reward for the 200 words she finally managed to write earlier. Her eyes glide through the books from the top row to the bottom, and when she spots Nafissa Thompson-Spires Heads of the Colored People, she squeals and pulls the book off the shelf. She has a copy of the short story collection, has gifted several copies to a few friends, yet she derives the same level of satisfaction or even greater, each time she rereads the stories. From the corner of her eye, Seynabou notices the barista leaving her sandwich on the table alongside a glass of water, so she hurries over with the book in hand.

“Thank you so much,” she calls out as the barista walks away. The barista turns around and flashes her a smile.

She flips through the short story collection to her favourite story, “Not today, Marjorie,” then she holds the book in one hand, her sandwich in the other. On her second bite, she notices a man across from her leaning to read the title of the book in her hand. She looks up, smiles, flips the book shut and extends it to him. “Hey, you can have a look if you want. I grabbed it from the bookshelf.”

He shakes his head. “It’s not the book. You don’t remember me?” He smiles as he adjusts the keffiyeh around his neck. “Hasan from UoB?”

“Hasan?” She gives him a once-over, running her eyes from his tightly coiled afro, with trimmed edges, to his colour-coordinated outfit. It brings Tristan to mind. Back when they were at university, Tristan always found a way to match his clothes with his trainers, and in the winter, with his coat. Something catches in her chest, and Seynabou worries that if Tristan walks in on her speaking to this random stranger, he may get the wrong idea. That’s the last thing she wants. But then it occurs to her that if Tristan sees her getting attention from this man, all six foot two of him, jealousy may spur him into quicker action. “Were we on the same course?” she asks, as she searches her mind for images of this man, but can’t seem to place it. She tilts her head to the side and squints slightly. There were quite a few Hasans in the ISoc community, so his name doesn’t really help. Besides, the only man on Seynabou’s mind throughout her uni days and beyond was Tristan, even after it was clear she wasn’t the one he wanted. 

“Is this seat taken?” He gestures towards the chair. 

“No, no, it’s not. I’m waiting for a friend, but he’s not going to be here for a while.”

Something like a worry crosses his face, but it’s immediately replaced with a smile. “What will I get if I remind you how we met?”

“You can have the other half of my sandwich.” She pushes the plate towards him with a smirk. “Come on, I’m dying to know.”

He leans forward so close Seynabou catches a whiff of his aftershave. He tilts his head to the side and fixes his gaze on her. “You were also waiting for someone the day we met.” Taking in her blank expression, he adds, “I’ll put you out of your misery. We met at Mowgli in Grand Central, you were meeting a friend for dinner, and he didn’t show up.” His voice trails off. 

Seynabou leans back in her seat and hugs her arms around her stomach. There’s an immediate tightness in her chest as she recalls the day he’s referring to. She didn’t pay much attention to him then, even though he sat with her for over an hour. The evening they met was the worst of the many times Tristan had kept her waiting. Seynabou had taken up a table for two in the restaurant for over two hours, constantly waving off the waiters to say her friend would be there any moment. Hasan was one of those waiters. He came off his shift, grabbed the seat next to her with ample space between them, instead of in front of her because he didn’t want her to feel awkward, and proceeded to have a meal with her. He’d carried the conversation for both of them because he saw how much she was struggling. Seynabou cannot recollect anything he said. 

“Do you remember now?” He says softly.

Seynabou nods. She recalls also that Tristan never messaged to say he couldn’t make it, never apologised or never explained. He tried to make up for it in other ways – they watched two movies together that night even though Tristan had a 9am lecture and Seynabou didn’t – but now that she thinks about it, that was exactly why she hadn’t seen it coming when he shared news of his conversion to Islam the next day, followed by the request that she chaperoned his date with Maria. And she didn’t have the heart to say no to him. Seynabou inhales sharply and turns her gaze to the ceiling. She doesn’t want Hasan to see her eyes water. 

But he’s out of his seat and back with a tissue before she can say a word. He slides it across to her. “I’m sorry if I dug up a sad memory.”

She shakes her head. “No, it’s not you.” She dabs the tissue under her eyes. Today will be different. Tristan is the one who wants to finally make things work, to set things right. And seeing that she has the upper hand, she can set some ground rules to ensure he never ever takes her for granted again. He has to worship the ground she walks on, just like he did Maria’s. 

“Well…” Hasan’s phone vibrates mid-conversation. He glances at it, then presses on the power button. “Sorry about that, it’s my brother. He’s picking me up to go see our parents but he’d said he was running late, that’s why I stopped by the cafe. I guess he’s here now. But I don’t feel comfortable leaving you like this.”

Seynabou sits up and forces a smile. “I’m okay, I promise. My friend should be here anytime now.”

“Are you sure?”

She nods.

“Can I have your number please? I’d love to check in later… and also grab coffee sometime.”

Seynabou tilts her head to the side as she considers this. It wouldn’t hurt to have friends outside of the Tristan/Maria lot and beyond the writing world. “Um, sure.”

He hands his phone to her. 

She can block his number if he ends up being like Sulaiman, she reassures herself as she types her number on his phone. Besides, if things go well with Tristan today, she can introduce them to each other. Perhaps they can be friends. 

“Thanks. I’ll be off now.” He gives her a wide grin, like he’s just won whatever the halal version of the lottery would be. “See you soon.” He winks as he walks out the door. 

Seynabou’s toes curl in disgust. She does not find winking attractive. Tristan knew this about her, so he’d throw her virtual kisses whenever they said goodbye. 

Just then, her phone buzzes with a message from Hasan. “Salam alaikum, beautiful.” Seynabou reads the message without responding. She wipes her hands down the front of her shirt, stands up, walks towards the bookshelf to distract from her thoughts. Surely Tristan won’t leave her waiting here. Her mind is too hazy to fixate on a book, so she returns to her seat to find her cold half sandwich. Only then does she remember that she didn’t hold up her end of the bargain with Hasan. She wraps it in multiple tissues before placing it in her bag to feed the birds in the park near her house later that evening.

She opens her novel, reads the last paragraph she wrote and tries to type something coherent, but nothing comes out of her. She shuts her laptop, grabs her phone and clicks on the meditation app instead. Then, she plugs in her airpods and selects an hour long meditation exercise. This should hopefully do, until Tristan arrives. 

“Sey? Sey?”

She blinks her eyes open, and it’s only then that Seynabou realises she missed Tristan’s entrance, from being engrossed in part-meditation, part-fighting off negative thoughts. It takes all the energy she can muster to stop herself from squealing. Why did she ever doubt that he’d show up? He made it, he’s here, in front of her. She is one step closer to the start of her best life. 

She returns her airpods to their case and places it on the table. “Salams, T.” She smiles as she gives him a once-over. His hair could do with a shape up but his waves make up for it. He clearly still wears his durag to bed. His pale pink shirt is slightly rumpled, but remains smartly tucked into his black trousers. 

“Wa alaykum salam, Sey. How’ve you been?” He places his backpack against the wall, then pulls out the chair across from Seynabou and settles.

Seynabou recognises his aftershave and inhales its scent deep, as if it might fill the gaping hole in her heart. “Been good. You?”

“Right where you left me, Sey.” He tilts his head to the side and gives her a small smile. 

A certain warmth flows through Seynabou and settles in her stomach. It’s almost like being in Tristan’s warm embrace, what she imagines it would be like. There was a time this smile was enough to wipe away her worries, when she believed Tristan reserved the smile for her alone, until she chaperoned that date with him and Maria, and Maria got a better version. Seynabou’s stomach turned so hard, she couldn’t bear to look on after that. 

“I never left you, T. Always been here… anyway, would you like something to drink?”

He shakes his head. “Nah, heading to dinner after this. Do you want something?”

“No, I’m good.” What a subtle way to drop that dinner is on the cards too. Seynabou smiles. “So, how’s work? I hear you’ve been busy.”

“Not as busy as you, award-winning author. I read all your stories, I even have a favourite.”

Seynabou twirls the end of her hijab as she watches him. “You do? Which one?”

“‘Do good things come to an end?’ Maria and I agreed that the relationship between the characters is so realistic. For someone who’s never been in a relationship, you portray the lives of everyday couples to a T.”

“Maria?” Seynabou frowns.

He nods, then wipes his hands on his trousers. “We read your stories together. That’s kind of what I want to talk to you about.” He fixes his gaze on something beyond Seynabou’s side. “Maria thinks some of your stories are about her.”

Seynabou rolls her tongue, then bites on the inside of her cheeks in a bid to ignore the heaviness returning to her chest. “Why would she think that? They could be about anyone. Stories are inspired by life, aren’t they?”

He gives her a sorry smile.

Sweat forms on Seynabou’s palms, her heart races. She sits on her hands, so Tristan doesn’t see that they’re beginning to shake. She counts backwards in her head from fifteen.

“Your stories have been making Maria uncomfortable. I tried to defend you, but it’s gone too far.”

Seynabou runs her tongue across her front teeth. This is not even the worst-case scenario she envisioned for this day. She remembers the last time she was caught usurping other people’s lives for her stories, at sixth form. Her English Literature teacher was so impressed by her assignment, he printed it out and handed a copy to each student in both of his classes. “Take a leaf from Seynabou’s book. You can learn a thing or two from her approach,” he said. Before the end of class that day, notes were stuck to the back of Seynabou’s uniform and backpack. Some students even took the time to start a string of hateful posts on her Facebook page before she realised what was going on, and by then it was too late. No one bothered to ask her any questions, no one allowed room for explanation. Everyone agreed that Seynabou was a big fat snake.

“Sey, are you listening? Maria hasn’t taken too well to this, and she might be planning something with your other friends. I thought it would fizzle out, but I heard her talking about meeting you tomorrow. So I wanted to speak to you. You’re my friend and I care about you.”

Friend? Seynabou releases something like a whine. It makes sense now why the group chat with their other friends has been super quiet. She’d simply dismissed it as regular busyness, it wouldn’t be the first time. Her stomach drops at the realisation that she’s probably been the butt of not only her friends’ jokes, but Maria and Tristan’s. 

“Are you okay?” Tristan’s brows furrow.

She nods. “I’m good.” She forces something like a smile, her hand fiddling with the pages of Their Eyes Were Watching God. 

Tristan pushes his chair back and stands. “I have to rush off. It’s date night with Maria, and I don’t want to keep her waiting.” He grabs his backpack, leaning against the table. “Take care, Sey.” He flashes her a smile as he turns to leave.

As she watches him walk out the door, the word Friend rings through Seynabou’s head over and over. He’s looking out for her, he claims, but has he ever considered what she wants? The signs were always there; everyone knew she liked him back then, and she barely denied it. Where had she gone wrong?

She takes in a deep breath, then another, then another, until her chest begins to expand. Then she pulls out her phone and opens up her chat with Hasan. She types, “Wa alaikum salam, Hasan. I owe you half a sandwich. Coffee this weekend?” Then hovers her finger over the “Send” button.

Suad Kamardeen is an award-winning writer and editor. A graduate of the MSt Creative Writing program at the University of Oxford, her work bears witness to the lives, histories and cultures of Black Muslim women. Her young adult novel won the SI Leeds Literary Prize 2022 and her adult novel was shortlisted for Stylist Prize for Feminist Fiction 2021. Her writing has appeared in Rowayat, Sapelo Square, Bad Form Review and The Unheard Stories Anthology. Suad runs Qalb Writers Collective, a home for Muslim women trying to find their place in the literary community. She is currently revising her YA novel and working on a short story collection.