Across the hall in their bathroom, I threw ice-cold water onto my face and rinsed out my mouth and washed my hands. When I stepped out into the hall, I could hear the sounds of a full house out in their living room.
When I entered the living room, all the female family members began laughing, beginning with the mother. Meanwhile, Mr. Ghazzali and both of his sons suddenly stood up from their seats. A smile forced its way across my face. I was embarrassed.
“My bad, salaam alaikum, Mr. Ghazzali and family.”
“It’s really okay,” Mrs. Ghazzali said joyfully. “I tried to call Sana, I mean your umi Umma and let her know just how hard she must be working you, for you to have fallen asleep away from home. But even she wasn’t home.” She smiled.
Sudana brought me a glass of water.
“Yes, Umma is at work tonight. In fact I have to meet her at …” I checked my watch.
“It’s ten thirty, brother,” Mr. Ghazzali called out.
I drank the water.
“What’s happening, man?” Mr. Ghazzali’s son Mustapha, asked me.
“Yeah, what’s up?” The younger brother Talil greeted me.
“Mr. Ghazzali, I wanted to have a brief business meeting with you. That’s why I came by tonight. I hope I haven’t inconvenienced you in your home,” I said, my way of apologizing.
“Don’t insult me. You know that you are welcomed here anytime. I was so impressed with the way you handled your business, I was hoping we could work together again somehow.”
“Thank you, Ahki,” I said. It was a Sudanese way of acknowledging Mr. Ghazzali as my brother. If my father were standing right there, he would have scolded me to address Mr. Ghazzali as “Amm,” or uncle, which is what a young man calls any man who is older than himself by more than a few years.
“Well, good night, gentlemen,” Temirah Aunty (Mrs. Ghazzali) said, and three of her daughters followed her out of the living room area. Sudana didn’t. She came over to collect the empty glass from me and looked into my eyes like she wanted to say something, but then she didn’t. She turned to leave, then looked back and said, ‘I mentioned to my ub that I saw your wife, Akemi, in the Sunday edition of the New York Times, the Arts & Entertainment section. I’m sure that you’ve seen it already. I just wanted to say that the kimono she was wearing was incredible. Did Umma make it?” she asked, her eyes filled with curiosity.
“No, Akemi brought the kimono from Japan, and then she designed the outside herself. You know she’s an artist.”
“Obviously a great one. They only had her picture in there for the entire event at the Museum of Modern Art. I guess she overwhelmed them,” Sudana said.
“Yes, she overwhelms me too,” I said naturally, without thinking about hurting Sudana’s feelings. But her face didn’t reveal any hurt. I was glad.
“It must be something having a famous wife. I mean, you know Muslim men, and we know that Sudanese men don’t prefer to have their wives out in the open, right, Ub?” she asked her father. And before he could even respond, she said to me softly, “I would’ve worn the veil for you.” It was a bold statement for a Sudanese girl, especially in the presence of her father. More than that, it was a polite offer.
“Sudana, let the men talk,” Mr. Ghazzali said, dismissing his daughter. She turned and left obediently without a word of protest, as it should be.
* * *
Outside, Mr. Ghazzali sped his taxi in reverse down his driveway, stopping abruptly right before his fence. He waved me into the front seat. I got in. He got out to open the fence. His sons emerged from the dark corner of the yard to lock the fence back up.
“So what’s going on?” Mr. Ghazzali asked.
“I have to make a trip to Japan,” I told him, getting right into it.
“Whoa! Japan! Sounds nice, but very expensive. You know they say it’s the third most expensive country to live in in the world? I had a guy in my cab once telling me a slice of fish out there is eight dollars. They’ll slice one fish up ten times. They’re selling one mediumsized red snapper for eighty US dollars. If I were living out there, I’d have to turn my whole family vegetarian overnight just trying to make it.” He made a sound of disapproval with his teeth that most Sudanese make and understand.
“My Umma and my young sister Naja will stay here in New York. That’s what I wanted to discuss. I want to set up car service for them for every morning and every evening while I’m away. I came to you because I need someone I can trust, not just a taxi driver to pick up and drop off.”
“You never told me where you and your family are living,” he reminded me.
“They’ll be staying at a Manhattan hotel while I am away,” I said, eluding him.
Mr. Ghazzali maneuvered around the double-parked cars but had to hit the brakes when he reached a triple-parked car. The Impala was in the middle of the street blocking any passage left, right, or straight. There was no driver seated in the vehicle.
“I lost a good driver from the Ivory Coast this way,” he said, sitting behind the parked car without honking or cursing. “My driver leaned on his horn on one of these Bronx streets where people park like they’re crazy. Some sixteen-year-old kid without a driver’s license or insurance ran downstairs and shot him dead for blowing the horn too loud. The kid jumps in the car and speeds away, leaving my driver’s bloody body behind. A valuable life lost for no reason. This is what I have been trying to say to you, young brother. You don’t need to explain to me what you want out of life or how you want your mother and sister treated. We are Muslim. We are Sudanese. We both understand and want the exact same things. It’s these animals out here,” he said, pointing to the people lingering on the block. “It’s them who don’t understand or care. They got no God, no boundaries, no limits, no respect for life.”
Just then a man dashed out of the building shirtless, jumped in the car that was blocking us, and peeled off, no acknowledgment or apology, straight New York ghetto style. Mr. Ghazzali waited five seconds and then drove on.
“So you need someone to make sure that your mother and sister are secured. You need a driver who will go inside if he doesn’t see them waiting where they are supposed to be, and someone who will not pull off before they get inside safely at night.”
“Yes, Ahki,” I answered, appreciating not having to exchange too many words about a simple but important plan.
“And the reason they are staying in a hotel instead of with their new friends is—?” he asked, checking my face and quickly moving his eyes back to the road.
“I don’t want to burden you with my family. I just wanted to hire your car service because I would feel more comfortable knowing and trusting the person who is transporting my mother and sister. I can pay for the whole thing in advance. I don’t know exactly how many days I will be gone, but I’m trying to keep it under one week.”
Mr. Ghazzali pulled over. “Get out,” he said calmly.
His command threw me off for a second. Then I reached for the handle and opened the taxi door. With one foot in the cab and the other on the curb, I pulled out a small stack of bills and peeled off a five to pay him for taking up a brief time in his cab. He didn’t move to accept it. I thought maybe it was not enough and that somehow the small amount had insulted him. So quickly I peeled off a ten and extended my arm again.
“I don’t know the story of your life, young brother. But I can see that there are no friends in your world. You say you want someone who you can trust, yet you trust no one. No man can do his time alone on this earth. This is why we have the Muslim brotherhood. I invited you to our mosque, yet you haven’t shown your face there at Jumma prayer. Is there anything that unites you and me other than this paper money?” he asked me with a stern stare at the measly ten dollars.
I went deep inside my own mind. My father had everything—land, an estate, money, power, family, and friends. In fact, the Muslim brotherhood met on our property, men bent in daily prayer at our mosque, whose children attended the madrassa at our estat
e, whose wives worked and entertained with my mother. But something did go wrong. And it went wrong enough for me to be standing in the streets of the BX and living in the projects of Brooklyn and grinding on American soil, not the rich earth of the Sudan, where I, my mother and father and father’s father and father’s father’s father and so on were born. If my father, a brilliant and bold, degreed, rich, and successful man could not win and rely on the trust of men in the end, why should I expect it now? My father is so much better than I am.
“I don’t know, Mr. Ghazzali. The Holy Quran says that ‘Allah is sufficient.’ ” I answered with the only truth that came to mind right then.
“Yes, and your mother’s name is Umma, a powerful name. Ummah! That word means ‘the community of Muslim believers.’ The believers have got to stand together, worship together, protect together, fight together, and eat together.” He searched me for a response. I didn’t have one.
“It’s only a few days. Your Umma and sister are welcome to stay in our home. My wife already loves your mother and young sister. My daughter Sudana admires you, so of course she loves your mother. It is only you standing on the outside. Let me be a help to you.”
“You know well that my Umma cannot sleep in your home where you have two grown and unmarried sons. And then there is also you, Mr. Ghazzali.” I looked him in the eye.
“Of course, but there is a separate apartment downstairs. Your mother and my wife were planning to have a women’s business there, remember? Umma can use that apartment. It’s well furnished, with a small kitchen, a separate entrance, and a separate key,” he told me calmly. I listened but questioned his eagerness in my own mind. I think my seconds of silence insulted him somehow. “Sure, you can choose to put your family in a hotel. There they will be surrounded by kaffirs (nonbelievers), unmarried or married, untrustworthy either way,” he said with a stern sarcasm.
“How much do you rent it for?”
“Eh?”
“Your basement apartment.”
“Six fifty. Per month,” he said, exasperated, and as though he pronounced the first figure that popped up in his head and had never really rented out his basement before.
“Okay. I’ll bring you six fifty tomorrow plus the transportation fees.” I got out and shut his taxi door, leaned in, and handed him now a twenty-dollar bill. He took it.
“I wouldn’t be surprised to see you as the prime minister of the Sudan one day. So much power, business, and intensity in such a young brother,” he said.
“Good night,” I told him before walking away.
Chapter 7
MY WOMEN
It was well after midnight when I carried my seven-year-old sister on my back to our Brooklyn apartment.
Umma said, “She should really walk on her own two feet.”
Naja said, “But Umma, you two have been out having fun without me. Can’t I at least get a ride on my brother’s back?”
“Out having fun,” Umma replied softly, in her way. Then she looked at me and said, “You see?”
Naja clenched me tightly with no plans of climbing down before the elevator reached our floor and she was “delivered” to her bedroom.
Umma was right, as she usually is. Naja is our protected princess who has no real idea of worry or struggle or stress. I thought that was good. I planned to protect my sister and keep her hidden away from those things that should never be revealed to little girls. In our traditions, a young girl lives under the protection of her father and brothers until she becomes a young woman. Then the father and her brothers will marry her into the protective care of her tried and tested, carefully chosen husband.
As I looked into Umma’s eyes, so striking behind her niqab that shielded and covered everything else, I could see and feel that she was worried. I thought to myself, Umma, don’t you worry. If you are uneasy, I will not move one inch from your side. I will stay right here with you. But Umma noticed me noticing her, and she cleared her worries and lowered her gaze.
Tuesday, May 6th, 1986
We made Fajr prayer together, my mother, sister, and me, followed by a warm and comfortable breakfast. Umma and I did not discuss the details of my Japan trip until after Naja was safely seated in the school bus to Khadijah’s Islamic School for Girls. Naja waved as the bus eased off. She was so happy this morning because she had her sitter, Ms. Marcy, Umma, and me all escort her to the bus. Usually Umma and I are already on our way to Umma’s job and Naja is left in the care of Ms. Marcy and walked directly into the care of the teacher who travels with the students on the bus. But today Umma would not report to work until four in the afternoon. She had switched her schedule for this week with a coworker from the night shift. She and I both agreed that there was more planning and work for us to do than time to do it. She also wanted to complete some products for me to deliver to Umma Design customers before I left for Japan.
“When you go to see the jewelers again today, you should also select a gift for your father-in-law,” Umma said. She slid an old, high quality jewelry box across the table.
“Why should I? He stole my wife,” I answered swiftly yet respectfully. I opened the box. It was a Rolex Datejust. The hands of the clock were paused in time. The crystal was cracked. I had never seen it before.
“Your wife is his daughter. Our family has not ever been able to meet and greet him properly. We haven’t offered him anything. Yet he gave me such a lovely daughter-in-law. You just have to go there and ease his fears. Once he sees you and discovers how respectful you are toward him, and sees how much Akemi is in love with you and you with her, his heart will soften toward you. If it does not soften toward you, he will certainly soften his heart for his daughter. Remember that even though we feel sad and insulted and ashamed that Akemi is not with us, he stole her away out of love more than cruelty.”
I was not focused on feeling any sympathy toward Naoko Nakamura. I was keeping him right where he needed to be in my mind just in case I had to do him something …
I slid the box containing the Datejust in my pocket.
“Umma, I thought I saw worry in your eyes late last night. You know I won’t go anywhere if I see that.” I was watching her closely.
“I was just tired and I was also thinking too much. After you told me on the train about the arrangement with Mr. Ghazzali, I wondered if he had asked his wife first, if it was okay for me to stay with them while you are away.”
“I didn’t give him a chance to speak with her first. I rode in his taxi with him and we talked it out right there. He was on his way back out to work for the night.”
“I see,” Umma said, sounding hesitant. “You know the Ghazzalis are new friends to our family. It has been good for me because Temirah Aunty doesn’t ask me personal questions. It is as though our friendship began from the moment I took her and her sister’s and daughters’ measurements for their garments for their nephew’s wedding. And she and I have moved forward from there without ever looking back or discussing the past. I appreciated her for that reason. If I go to stay over there at her house, it may all very well change.”
“Then come to Japan with me,” I said with a smile. I was serious and sincere. She pushed away and hit me on my shoulder as though the idea was ridiculous. “We have spent every penny of almost one hundred thousand dollars on our new house and I love it. Now we have minus three pennies left!” She laughed. “You go on and get your wife, and Naja and I will stay at Mr. Ghazzali’s. Naja will be excited living in a house with such a big family, and her Arabic will improve, I’m sure.” Umma brightened all the way up to reassure me that she was okay.
“You know, Umma, even though you and Mrs. Ghazzali have become friends, I handled this as straight business. It’s their house, but it’s a separate apartment, separate entrance, separate key, and rent.”
“I know you have made it right for me. And I know their basement apartment is very nice. It is where Temirah Aunty and I plan to have our Sudanese women’s group meetings. So I am sure it will be fine
.” I stood up from our kitchen table where Umma was seated. I needed to grab my things and head out to the diamond district.
In my room I stood still thinking. After twenty minutes or so, I began flipping through a short pile of papers I had concerning my wife. In a small notebook that I rock daily in my right pocket, I jotted down what little information I had on Akemi.
The first word I wrote was Kyoto, the place where Akemi was born. The second note to myself was Kyoto Girls’ High School, the place the MOMA art exhibit event pamphlet said Akemi attended school. The third note was the address Akemi had given me for her father, Roppongi Hills, Tokyo, Japan. The fourth note was the address that her father had written down for himself on our wedding documents: Ginza, Tokyo, Japan. Those were my clues. I shoved the notebook in my pocket.
Reluctantly I pulled out the letter that Akemi had written to me and had delivered to Cho’s, where I worked my weekend job, on the exact day that she went missing. She had written it all in kanji. Maybe she had explained herself in those pages, or left the name and address of where her father was about to drag her. She knew I could get the letter translated into English, the same way that I had arranged for her marriage documents to be translated into Japanese, and the same for our marriage contract. I pushed her letter into my back pocket. I wanted to know what it said. Yet I didn’t want to know what it said. Either way I was gonna go get her, regardless. In a last-minute decision, I grabbed Akemi’s diary off my desk, secured my diamonds, and headed out into a blue-gray cloudy day.
Chapter 8
CASH MONEY
By noon I had sold one of my three, three-carat diamonds.
“Where did you get them,” the jeweler asked, eyeing the gem through his loop, which was lodged in his right eye.
“From Africa,” I said, knowing the continent was so huge, that my response was the same as not answering him at all.