Love over Religion

The Breaking Point 2

The breaking point came on a Tuesday, a day they never met, a day Halima should have been safe in her ordinary life.

She was at the market, bargaining for dried fish, when she felt a hand close around her wrist. She turned, expecting her mother, expecting a thief, expecting anything but the man who stood before her.

He was perhaps fifty, dressed in the white robes and embroidered cap of wealth and status. His beard was carefully trimmed, his skin unlined by labor, his eyes the cold black of river stones. He smelled of expensive perfume and power.

"Halima Ibrahim," he said. It was not a question.

She tried to pull away. His grip tightened, not enough to bruise but enough to promise that he could. "I do not know you, sir."

"But I know you. I have watched you for three weeks. Your father is a teacher of the Quran. Your mother is Amina, daughter of the late Alhaji Bello. You are sixteen, unmarried, unbetrothed." He smiled, revealing teeth that were too white, too even, the product of expensive dentistry. "I am Alhaji Lami."

The name meant nothing to her. It meant everything to the market around them. She saw vendors look away, saw shoppers suddenly find other business, saw the invisible web of fear that surrounded this man settle over her like a net.

"I am honored," she said, because she did not know what else to say.

"You will be more honored." He released her wrist, reached into his robes, produced a small box of polished wood. "I have visited your father. I have explained my intentions. He is a reasonable man, your father. He understands that daughters are trusts from Allah, to be placed where they will prosper."

Halima did not take the box. She could not move. "I am not for sale."

Alhaji Lami's smile did not waver. "Everything is for sale, my dear. The only question is the currency. Your father prefers cattle and gold. I prefer obedience and heirs. We have reached an understanding." He pressed the box into her unresisting hands. "Open it."

She did not want to open it. She wanted to throw it at his feet, to run through the market screaming, to find Sam and tell him they must leave tonight, that the choice had been made for her. But her hands moved without her will, lifting the lid, revealing the gold bracelet inside, heavy and ornate and ancient.

"My grandmother's," Alhaji Lami said. "She was married at fourteen to a man forty years her senior. She bore him twelve children, nine of whom survived. She died respected, wealthy, surrounded by grandchildren. This is the life I offer you, Halima. Respect. Security. Purpose. In return, you offer me your youth, your fertility, your obedience. It is a fair trade."

"It is not a trade I agreed to."

"You will." He turned away, already certain of victory. "Your father expects you home. We will discuss the bride price over dinner. I suggest you wear your best hijab. First impressions matter, even in arranged marriages."

He walked through the market, and the crowd parted for him like water for a stone. Halima stood alone, the box in her hands, the bracelet heavy as a shackle. She thought of Sam, of the factory, of the vow she had made to herself in darkness. She thought of her mother, who had once been educated, who had once dreamed, who now wept in secret and accepted the world as it was.

She closed the box and walked home.