Love over Religion

Sam of other faith 2

She stared at the paper, then at him. Her eyes were even more striking up close, flecked with gold around the pupils, framed by lashes that cast shadows on her cheeks. "I did not," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Then I am mistaken." He made no move to withdraw the paper. "But perhaps you should take it anyway. In case you drop something later."

The line moved forward. The woman behind Halima coughed pointedly. Halima reached out, her fingers brushing his as she took the empty paper, and he felt the contact like electricity through a wire. She turned away quickly, moving to the pump, but he saw her slip the paper into her sleeve.

He walked home that day not knowing if he had been brave or stupid. Not knowing if she would burn the paper unread or search it for meaning he had failed to provide. Not knowing anything except that he would return to the borehole tomorrow, and the day after, until he saw her again or until someone stopped him.

She came on the third day.

He was there at dawn, helping an old woman carry her water containers in exchange for information. Yes, the girl in blue came often. Yes, she was Ibrahim's daughter, the Quranic teacher. Yes, she was sixteen and unmarried, which in this ghetto made her both valuable and vulnerable. No, she did not speak to boys. No, she was not like the other girls who giggled and flirted when they thought no one watched.

Sam thanked the old woman and waited.

When Halima appeared, she was alone. This was unusual, the old woman had said. She usually came with her younger sister or her mother. Today, something had made her come early, before the crowds, before the witnesses.

"I read your paper," she said, stopping three feet from him, maintaining the proper distance. "It said nothing."

"It said everything," Sam replied. "It said I am here. It said I am waiting. It said I saw you."

"You should not speak to me." But she did not leave. "You are Christian."

"I am Sam."

"I know what you are." She looked around, checking for observers. "My father says your people burned our mosque in Zaria. My uncle says your people killed my grandfather in the 1960s, before I was born. My teacher says your Bible is corrupted, your faith is error, your presence in this land is insult."

"And what do you say?"

The question seemed to surprise her. She opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again. "I say... I say I do not know you. I cannot hate what I do not know."

"Then know me." He took a step closer, close enough to smell the jasmine oil in her hair, close enough to see the pulse fluttering in her throat. "I am Sam. I build things. I read poetry when I can find it. My father died because we could not afford a doctor. My mother works as a cleaner at the university. I have never burned anything except my own dinner. I have never killed anyone. I have never hated you."

"You do not know me either."

"I know you run when you are afraid. I know you came back when you did not have to. I know you are taking a terrible risk standing here with me now." He smiled, the same smile that had transformed his face at the orange stall. "That is enough to start."