A Promise From My Heart

48.

My mother's favourite colour was black. When black is associated with the darkness, mourning, evil and death, mum associated it with elegance, sophistication, strength and power. She said it was the colour of prestige. There was a touch of black on everything she wore. It could be her shoes, bag or purse or a pattern on her dress.

We never really sat down to talk and plan my wedding but I knew she wanted it big and loud and she wanted to invite anyone who cared to come, from old and new friends to distant relatives. Wearing black or adding a hint of black to something I wanted to wear was an idea I never fancied. Who wears black to a wedding? However, when I sat with the asooke vendor in Big Mummy's living room, I looked out for asooke with a touch of black and wanted black gele and ipele.

I gave Amir the permission to come and see my family many weeks after I confessed my feelings for him. But he had to wait until I talked my father, Brother Yusuf, and grandmother about him. He had no problem with waiting.

I had contemplated and was nervous that I held back on telling them for another week. It started with my father and grandmother. It was after dinner I had told them about him. My father was surprised that I had someone all along but had told him there was nobody when he wanted me to meet Abdulsamad. I told him Amir and I were still testing the waters. Our relationship was complicated and the future was murky. But now that everything has been sorted out, we have decided to get married.

Alhaja was joyous, sang out her praise and had gotten up to dance on her frail legs. She had come to hug me and told me to tell her everything about him. Dad had interrupted and had told her not to be too excited. They were yet to know if he's someone worthy of me or good enough for me. The questions began and it shook my insides knowing I would have to reveal his races and identity to them. I had no idea how they would see him. What would they think of him, our relationship and a life together? I hoped my family were not narrowed minded to the point where they would think we can't have a life together because of his race even though he is familiar with the black side of him.

"Where is he from?" Dad quizzed.

I married my fingers together and folded them on my laps. "He's actually biracial."

"Biracial?" He frowned. "As in half caste?"

"Yes, if you understand it that way." I gave a nervous laughter. "His father is black, Nigerian and his mother is brown, Pakistani. He looks like a Pakistani so you would not call him a black man."

"So, he is an oyinbo?"

"Not really. He is part of us."

My father had eyed me sceptically with a haze of confusion. "What does he do for a living?"

"He does not live in Nigeria."

"Ah!" It was a quiet exclamation from my grandmother. "Where does he live?"

"In the UK, London."

"So, when you marry him, you leave here." Dad had spoken this time.

"Yes."

That had been one of the many reasons for my reluctance at accepting Amir's proposal. Relocation. I would leave everything I know and love behind and move to a foreign land to settle down with my husband and start a new life all over again. A stranger's land with no family member of mine. That sacrifice was one I faltered in making.

Dad was patient through it all, not persistent or troubling about it. He understood but I had seen the cloud of sadness, the pain of a distance that was to come and letting go of me. They did not have a problem with who Amir was and where he was from but he did not want me to leave to a place I knew nothing about.