“Your father, before we married, had once said something to me that I had never considered in my own thoughts. I was young and in love with him and I listened and hung onto his every word, and he also clung to mine. As you know, I am from the north of Sudan and your father is from the south. He loved my talks to him about the Quran and my beliefs. I loved his talks to me about his childhood and growing up in the south and their beliefs. Well, your father said that being in love is not necessary to marry,” Umma recalled with a melancholy smile. She had mentioned my father. She had my full attention. I raised my head to look into her eyes, not wanting her thoughts of my father, and his not being here, to cause her to cry.
“I said to your father that of course love is so necessary for marriage. Then I asked him, ‘If I did not love you so deeply, what would be left over between us?’ ” Umma said and I smiled. I liked her question.
“Your father answered my question with a question,” she explained. “He said, ‘Sana, do you think every woman has the same kind of heart as yours? Do you think that each woman can love so deeply as you do?’ ” I smiled. I liked my father’s questions also.
“ ‘Some women want to marry with me because they think my father is a great man and they want to give birth to one of my father’s grandchildren.’ ” Umma imitated the rhythm of my father’s voice while speaking his words. “Your father told me that and I really laughed a lot at that idea. ‘Some women want to marry me because of the amount of land I have and the size of the house I will build for her. One woman wants to marry me because I have traveled outside of the village and she dreams of one day traveling the world with me. One woman wants to marry because her father is the chief and her father wants me to work for him. If his daughter is able to marry me, he promises her great wealth in exchange for bringing him the “golden son in law.” An even greater wealth than I myself can provide,’ he explained.”
“What did you say?” I asked Umma.
“It is what he said that matters. He said that he believes that marriage is a choice that a man and woman both make without force, and that was all that was necessary. He said there are so many different reasons to marry. There are marriages that are made to bring two certain families together in relation, marriage for tribe or nation, marriages that are made for money, land, gold, cattle, or fruits and vegetables. There are marriages that are made because a man took an oath to protect his brother or his friend’s wife in the case that their soul returned to Allah and that woman and her children became widowed and alone, and even marriages that are made out of pure compassion,” Umma explained.
“ ‘What about love?’ That’s what I asked your father at that point. He said to me, ‘The same as I just gave you a short list of reasons that two people want to marry one another, love is also another reason on that list. Different men and different women marry for different reasons. Their reasons lead them into marriage. But marriage is the bond. The reason is not as important as the bond. Bonds should not ever be taken as a trifle, or lightly, and easy to break or throw aside or away. That is why a man and a woman should clearly know each of their reasons for wanting to marry before forming that sacred bond.’ ”
“And what did you think about his words?” I asked.
“Honestly, after he told me all of the different reasons that different women and either their fathers or mothers or families or tribes wanted him as their son-in-law, I had counted about thirteen women all desiring to be his wife. Even though I felt I knew, I wanted to know what kind of marriage he believed he would have with me. What was his reason to form our bond?”
“Did you ask him?”
“Of course! Your father, in his sweet talk to me, said that our love exceeded the boundaries of north and south, of tribe and nation, and of even culture, soil, and family obligations and relations. He said that his marriage to me would be a marriage of the heart. He told me that I gave him Islam, and that he gave me his heart, and that we then shared the greatest love that could exist on the Earth.”
“Did you believe his words? Or, does a woman worry about comparing what type of bond a man has with his other wives and what each woman is receiving from the same man?” I asked my Umma. She smiled like the sun.
“What woman can hear such lovely words and not believe?” She laughed. “I believed him. We agreed to marry despite all of the opposition and challenges presented to our love and union. Your father chose me as his first wife. I knew there would be two others. I knew that his union and reasons to be with them were different, but that his bond with them and with me was the same. He gave each of us his word. His word was his bond. I did not worry at all about trying to figure out the percentages of his love. His love felt real to me every day whether he was with me or elsewhere. His love feels real to me even now. I did not feel cheated when he provided for them or spent time with either of them. I accepted them as co-wives and as family. I love him, so I love all that comes with loving him.”
Umma’s words silenced me, and for some moments she had even silenced herself.
“I agree with Naja. Your second wife is a bit complicated,” Umma suddenly said to me, and my jaw tightened. “Yet she is quite heavenly,” she added. My tightened jaw began to ease. “It’s not that Naja and I don’t love and accept your second wife. It is that Chiasa shines so brightly in every way that those closest to you, including your little sister, feel that you are only able to see her, when we are all living here closely in this one house.” Umma lay across her bed now so that she could look over and see into my eyes.
“It’s funny. You and your second wife are both quiet, yet your feelings for one another are so powerful and loud that in even complete silence, everyone around you can sense and feel them. The sea of emotions that swirls between you and Chiasa . . . What shall the rest of us do?” Umma asked me. I could tell she did not expect an answer. I also felt that she was speaking not about herself, but about Naja and my first wife’s feelings. But as my mind sped, I was one hundred percent certain that Akemi had never said or mentioned or even insinuated a bad opinion or feeling or issue about Chiasa.
“Not to worry too much. I have never seen you doing anything harom. You have treated your first wife with an intensity and tenderness and with great attention and affection. You have provided for her, protected her, and it is so obvious that you love her.”
I did not have a response. I never acknowledged or confirmed whether what Umma believed she had observed between Chiasa and me was accurate. I stood up. “Shukran,” was all I could muster, thanking her in Arabic.
“Afwan,” Umma said, Arabic for “you are welcome.” I liked that she only said that one word, and did not ask me to speak on the feelings of my heart when it comes to my wives.
“Don’t be too disappointed in your little sister. She’s so young. It’s easy for someone to pull her strings like a puppet. Especially if you and I don’t set her straight,” Umma said oddly. My hand was on the doorknob, poised to leave. My back was to my mother. I didn’t move, still listening.
“It’s not the first or the second wife pulling the strings. It’s the one who feels left out and unloved. When a woman feels that way, she will draw closer and closer to the mother and siblings of the man she loves, even as he keeps his distance from her.”
Then, I knew Sudana was the one dropping these thoughts and suggestions into my little sister’s head and heart.
* * *
Paused in the hallway once again, I was facing the stairway that would lead me to Chiasa’s room. I was four steps away from Akemi’s door. The way I choose to flow with my wives is that usually if I have spent the entire day and evening with one, I would spend the night with the other. If I need to think, read, or plan, or just get into my own head, I chill solo right on the floor in the basement. I don’t believe or feel that either of my wives are lonely. I’ve observed that women need and like time to themselves. Akemi needed a good deal of time to create her artwork. Chiasa loves to read and research. And if my
first or second wife were lonely, I know they would both take some kind of action to show me. When I was working hard on setting up this house before bringing them over, I’d return to the hotel we had been using, late at night. Both of them missed me. I’d wake up with one of them on each side. I felt like I was in paradise. I smiled.
Beneath Akemi’s door was a purple light. In my rhythm, it was Chiasa’s night. I had been moving with strictly Akemi for two back-to-back days and nights. But her purple pulled me. Akemi had a different color light bulb for every mood she felt at night, and an incredibly varied selection of music to match her nightly mode. In the upstairs hallway bathroom, I washed my face and hands, rinsed my mouth, and removed my T-shirt and belt. Back in the upstairs corridor as I stood completely still, the house was now silent. Umma’s lights were off. Naja slept. I would never know if the ninja girl downstairs was asleep or awake unless I was lying beside her. It had always been like that since we first met. I headed down.
In the kitchen in the dark, I was purposely light on my feet. I lifted a clay dish from the cabinet that was filled with cleaned dishes without clanking it or making even one sound. Gently, I pulled open the refrigerator. I did a good job, but the appliance betrayed me and began humming. Hurrying, I assembled some foods on the dish and grabbed a couple of glasses.
When I pushed open her bedroom door, Akemi was in the midst of a yoga workout, the wicked scorpion pose. Topless, she had on only her black satin panties. Her arms were on the floor holding up the rest of her body. Her legs were curved over her head and dangling with the exact fluid look and feeling and manner in which a scorpion tail is shaped. She didn’t move out of the posture or even glance my way. That’s how she communicates, instead of speaking.
I placed the dish on the small wooden tray stand, where she kept a pitcher of fresh water each night. As I stepped out of my jeans and shorts, I asked, “Akemi, are you hungry?”
“Sukoshi,” she said softly, meaning “a little.”
“Akemi, why do you have my babies hanging upside down?”
“Nani?” she said, meaning, “What?”
“Akemi, do you love me?”
“Mechya,” she said, meaning “a lot.” I lay down beneath her, breaking her pose on purpose. She tried to ignore me and hold it. I saw her concealing her smile. But when I raised my lips to her nipples and sucked them, the good feeling caused her scorpion curve to unravel, and she was then lying flat on my chest.
“Were you busy? Did I interrupt you?” I kissed her. “Are you hot?” I began pouring the water from the pitcher over her body, which was already moist from her workout. She rolled off, laughing, but lay on her back so I could wet her breasts and belly. I poured the rest on her and moved the moisture around with my hand, massaging her. I put honey from the dish on her nipples. She put one finger on her nipple, swiped up the honey, and pushed her hand inside her panties, rubbing the honey on her clitoris. She wanted me to lick her there.
I was brick, my joint was doing its own pose. I was pulling down her panties and using them to rope her over. She was on top; I was thrusting her from the bottom. She raised up and threw her head back, but her hips were still swiveling and I was still pushing in her. We changed positions. Face-to-face, we were sitting and fucking. She moaned. I pushed my finger in her mouth, the one with the honey on it. She sucked it, a sensuous, quieter sound, as we bounced in the room next door to Umma. When she came, she did a lobster grip, hugging me tight as she could, scratching up my back and purring in my ear while I was sucking her neck.
She was sitting on my shoulders now, her pretty feet each pressed against one of my thighs, her purple Picasso nail design glowing in her lovely purple light. She leaned forward, her long black hair flowing in my face. She began speaking to me, softly and slowly, as though in conversation. Not in Japanese, but in Korean, the beautiful musical language that was itself like a moaning. I was listening to every word, understanding none but knowing this was some sweet talk she was saying. I flipped her over with one arm, caught and held her with the other.
“Let’s eat,” I told her. She smiled, still wanted me to eat her. I gave her a caramel instead, my answer to her sweet talk and her sweets cravings.
Our mouths tugged over one piece of sushi. We were laughing and spilling rice on the wooden floor, where it was already wet and slippery.
Last thing I saw, a view from her bedroom floor, was her exotic fish, beautiful designs that Allah created. Already glowing and swimming in the lighted water, her purple light made them look more amazing. I remembered buying her that huge tank and walking from place to place as she said no to hundreds of fish and would find just one here and one there, and another eventually, until she had the most beautiful collection of living sea creatures. Everything Akemi did looked beautiful, and that was very sexy to me.
Before dawn, my eyes opened. Akemi and I had fallen asleep on the floor. She still held my balls in her hand as she slept. It had been like that with each night that we shared. I would awaken with her body glued to mine or with her holding my balls like she suspected that I would somehow disappear. I would never leave her. She has me for life, and that’s peace.
Showering, I was thinking of her, my first wife. Loving her, over the many months of our less-than-one-year, new marriage, it is actually her who disappears. Because she does not speak English or Arabic, she sometimes slips away through those silences and no one can blame her, especially not me. When Chiasa and I were half an hour late meeting her at the Ghazzalis’, she was already gone when we arrived. Akemi has a way of sending a shock wave through me with her disappearances, enough to keep me focused on her and to keep her heavy on my mind. I’m never worried about her wanting or choosing anyone over me. She wouldn’t ever. But she disappears through her silence and slips into her art. Her art is a magnet that draws every careful eye that recognizes the magnitude of her beauty, talent, and expressions. She is a diamond, my diamond. So of course, she is always in danger. So I guard her. Protection from a husband, father, or brother is a necessary thing. She has that in me. What she doesn’t have yet is faith. She sleeps through the prayers and doesn’t pray when she’s awake. There is no sign of her worshipping anyone . . . but me. To be without spiritual protection is a highly vulnerable and lonely position, no matter how much your man stands beside you. Only Allah can be everywhere at the same time. Still, there is no compulsion in Islam. I don’t force her. My prayer is that she will come along naturally on her own schedule, using her own feeling, thoughts, and will. I am one hundred percent certain, however, that she desires our children to be the same as me. They will be born Muslim, and will certainly be raised into the faith, Insha’Allah.
Dressed, I checked Umma before going downstairs to make prayer. She was not in her bedroom. Naja was not in her bedroom, either. Downstairs, Chiasa was not in her bedroom. I jumped into my kicks and pulled the front door open. It was unlocked, so I knew they went through the door. As soon as I stepped out, I saw Umma sitting on our front steps. She greeted me with a silent smile. I gave her a puzzled look. She pointed to the right. I looked. Chiasa and Naja were jogging in the dark, headed up the block towards our house. “Come on! Don’t stop! Don’t slow down! You can do it!” Chiasa was looking back, cheering Naja on to catch up to her.
“Ohio gozaimas!” Chiasa called out, waving and running towards Umma and me. Naja finally caught up and was standing there, huffing and puffing, her little brown face covered with sweat. “Drop down!” Chiasa said.
“The grass is wet,” Naja complained.
“It’s just dew,” Chiasa said. “It won’t hurt you. We’re gonna stretch!” Naja slumped into the grass. Chiasa led her into some stretches. Umma looked up at me. I looked at my second wife. All I could do was smile.
“Salaam,” Naja said, brushing by Umma and me. “She’s crazy!” she muttered about Chiasa as she went back into the house. Umma followed her in.
“Are you next?” Chiasa asked, her eyes sparkling and her smile bright. “I ca
n go for much more. Come on, catch me!” She ran off. I chased her. She wasn’t jogging no more. She dashed like lightning around the whole block twice. On her third attempt, I sped up and passed her, then spun around and snatched her up and spun her around some more, her heart pounding. “You’re making me dizzy. That’s so unfair!” she said, laughing and falling. I grabbed her arm and pinned her against a tree.
* * *
When it was time for Naja to leave out for her school bus, Chiasa said, “I’ll take her. I am going to school with her today anyway. We’ll go together.” As they walked out the door, Naja gave me a look. I didn’t sympathize with her. I thought she should be grateful to have an amazing sister-in-law like Chiasa. Besides, she was getting to leave with my woman, who I was planning to take out with me for the day. Chiasa looked back and gave me her look. I gave her mine. Her eyes thanked me. She was always thanking me, as though I was doing her some favor.
“She gave Naja cucumber juice for breakfast,” Umma said, smiling. “But she did pack her a lunch.” Umma was leaning against the kitchen counter. I was just listening. “Maybe I’ll go out exercising with them tomorrow morning,” she said, stunning me. “Your second wife told Naja, ‘Your hijab is not a prison or an excuse. Go out and live life!’ ” Umma recounted. “When Naja translated Chiasa’s words to me, I felt something in my soul. You chose quite a powerful one. Her love for you is immense. And she is simply heavenly.”
* * *
When Chiasa and I were up against the tree earlier, seconds before sunrise, she asked me, “Do you know what the secret is to understanding girls?”
“Can any man say that he does?” I asked her.
“In a girl’s heart there is a desire for adventure. If she doesn’t get it, she creates it. But of course there is a difference between adventure and mischief. Bored girls create mischief . . . because they are not experiencing adventure, and they don’t know how to get it started. Some of the most evil, most jealous, and rudest girls in Tokyo were the bored ones. Those girls loved chaos, just sat around gossiping, lying, and commenting on the other girls who were actually living out their adventures.