Forbidden

2. Me, Kahifa, and Friends!

The series of alarms on my phone woke me up. Still half-asleep, I reached for it beside my pillow. It was already 6:00 PM, and I was alone in the room. Sweat dampened the neckline of my tee and trickled down my back. The ceiling fan and electric fan did little against the lingering afternoon heat, but I was too exhausted to care. Part of me just wanted to close my eyes and drift back to sleep.

The guestroom was softly lit by a single LED light, casting a muted glow over the smoky, pale-orange tiles that covered the walls. The color gave the room a warm, almost hazy quality, like the dimming light of late afternoon. Along each wall, long cushioned benches were carefully arranged, their surfaces slightly worn from countless visitors who had sat here before. Directly above my head, a smart television was mounted on the wall, its dark screen reflecting the faint light. I realized that most homes here shared this same layout—a guest area, detached from the heart of the house, where outsiders could visit without crossing the invisible boundaries of family life. Guestrooms like these provided a buffer, a space where strangers remained strangers and where the private world beyond the doors stayed untouched. Here, men outside the family were strictly forbidden from seeing the women of the household, preserving a separation that felt as much about respect as tradition.

I stood up slowly and walked to the washroom, my movements sluggish as I tried to ease the weight in my bladder. When I looked into the mirror, a messy, sleep-worn version of myself stared back. I turned on the faucet and let the water run over my palms, feeling its warmth seep into my skin. Cupping my hands, I splashed water onto my face, droplets trailing down from my eyebrows to my mouth. I stared at my reflection, the lingering drowsiness clouding my eyes, my hair in complete disarray. Did I make the right choice in coming here? Or would this be something I’d come to regret? I decided to stay positive about my decision. With a sigh, I ran my hands over my hair, once, twice, until every strand fell back into place. I was already here, and there was no turning back now. I just had to make the most of this trip.

I decided that a bath might shake off the lingering heaviness of the day. Leaving the washroom, I crossed the room and knelt beside my luggage, rummaging through it in search of the essentials. My fingers brushed past folded clothes and familiar belongings until I pulled out a fresh towel, clean clothes, and the array of toiletries we’d picked up earlier in the day—shampoo, conditioner, a bar of rich, scented soap, face wash, and a small stick of deodorant. These little rituals of self-care felt grounding, a way to make this unfamiliar place feel just a bit more like home, even if only for a moment. With everything gathered, I headed back toward the washroom, feeling ready to let the warm water wash away the weight of travel and fatigue.

Humming a tune to myself, I stepped out of the bathroom, feeling refreshed and lighthearted. I had already pulled on my pants, and my hands were busy working the towel through my damp hair, trying to dry it. Suddenly, a movement flickered to my left, breaking my focus. My heart leaped into my throat, and before I knew it, I let out an embarrassingly loud cry of horror, stumbling back as I froze in place. My breath caught as I registered who it was—Kashifa stood there, her expression caught somewhere between worry and alarm. She looked more concerned than amused, her brow furrowing as she took in my reaction. I could only imagine the look on my face, or how absurd I must have sounded with that startled scream. Flushing with embarrassment, I finally found my voice, muttering an apology, my heart still racing from the unexpected encounter.

Realizing I was still bare from the waist up, I instinctively pulled the damp towel up to cover my chest, clutching it tightly as if it could shield me from the embarrassment flooding over me. “Oh, sorry!” I stammered, my voice almost a whisper. “I got a little too comfortable—I didn’t even think to put on a shirt before stepping out of the bathroom.” My face felt like it was on fire, and I could feel the flush creeping up my neck, heating my ears. I kept my gaze down, too mortified to meet his eyes, hoping Kashifa wouldn’t read too much into the situation. The last thing I wanted was for him to think I was trying to be provocative or, worse, to misinterpret my clumsy carelessness as some attempt at seduction. I shifted my weight awkwardly, still clutching the towel, my heart pounding as I waited for his reaction, praying silently that he would just laugh it off.