Forget Me Not
You are standing naked, arms akimbo, in front of the broken full-length mirror in your square bedroom. The only item he left behind. There’s no use for it now; the handcrafted full-length mirror is now a shattered antique, with bleak memories.
You’re surrounded by a pool of hair, your hair; you know you look like an offering to the gods—shabby, unkempt. You caress your scalp, tracing the scaly, oval patches on your head. Your dermatologist, Dr Patik, says it’d get better, but there is really no cure. You’re a wilting tree.
“If you stick to your medications, your growth sprout would be like the ebony tree, and less hair loss,” he says in his heavy Indian accent, fingers dangling on his head imitating leaves. He lets out a little laugh, looks like he is waiting for you to laugh too, but you don’t.
You don’t clean the dark strings of curls on the floor. You’re still naked, but now you’re slouched against your bed frame, knees under your chin, staring deep at your broken mirror. Now you understand why Aunt Layla cried without clothes on. There is something about grieving whilst being naked. You shouldn’t have judged her all those years. You thought she was a madwoman, but as you stare at the mirror, the only madwoman you see is you. You punish yourself, letting the cold from the tiles penetrate you.
You remember his last words before he walked out your door, before shutting life out of you. “Your jinns are eating up your hair. You’re a witch. A witch.” And then, a loud slam. You can still hear your ceiling crackle with fright. His words sounded inscrutable, like lines from a movie, so you wait. You are still waiting.
You’re awakened from your interminable cogitation by the notification sound from your phone. You hurriedly rush to your side table: he may have realized his mistakes, you thought. But you’re greeted by disappointment. It’s a string of iMessages from mama. You shouldn’t have gotten her an iPhone, too much access.
9:15 am
Hello habibty, how are you today?
9:30 am
Have you met a better dermatologist? What’s the progress so far?
9:31 am
We made paratas today, and your Cousin Naseem gave birth to the bounciest baby boy
9:32 am
How’s London? Aunt Rahma’s still waiting for Big clock photo. I’m tired of picturing it to her.
9:40 am
Why do you never reply my messages quick. Is there a problem with my phone? I hope Aman hasn’t spoilt it, stupid child!!
10:00 am
Red heart emoji, kiss emoji
Mama types unabashedly like an obsessed teenager. Typical mama, she never misses a chance to subtly insert the “you’re getting old, I need a grandchild before your ovaries rot” text. Her overindulgence is becoming more of an aspersion, yet you yearn for her warm hands on your spiked hair. You yearn for papa more: what would he have done if he were in this mess?
The Monday you were diagnosed, papa hunched his shoulders in disbelief, mama exclaimed like she had seen a ghost.
“Ina lilahi wa inalillahi rajiun!”
“What is your problem, Salma? Papa couldn’t hide his repugnance at her unfurled emotions. You remember how mama kept peppering the doctor with questions. You could swear you saw his veins throbbing violently.
“What’s the cure?”
“Alopecia?”
“How much does a transplant cost?”
“Is it possible?”
“Will she ever have a regrowth?”
At home, it was one phone call to another. Incredulity spread over mama’s plum face. You remember how mama kept pacing the balcony, trying to spread her sad demeanour poignantly over the phone. At the end of every phone call, she would extend a message of hope from cousin this or aunt that.
“Aunt Su says what the doctor said is rubbish, she says she knows a traditional healer that—”
Papa didn’t let her complete her statement before coming at her like an inebriated sports fan.
“Subhanallah! What has gotten over you Salma? Get a grip!”
“I can’t get a grip, dear; my only daughter’s hair is falling off. This would have caused a ruckus in India. Ever heard how a woman's beauty is her hair? Who knows it might be your Nigerian genes.”
“So now you’re blaming it on my race?”
You look at both parents in a kerfuffle. Maybe Aunt Su was right, you could be possessed.
Papa moved closer to you and engulfed you in a hug, stamping a deep kiss on your bulging forehead.
“Am I okay Papa?” your teenage fire quenched with saddened vulnerability.
“Of course, my princess. Let’s go for a bike ride.”
Pa knew how to make situations better. Ma on the other hand knew how to ignite and aggrandize things. Fire and Ice. They fit perfectly. You and papa left bickering mama for a bike ride— your last bike ride together.
The cold is getting worse now so you put on his favourite sweater, now yours. Another forget-me-not, you thought.
Maybe you were paying for your sins. Moving in with your supposed fiancé whom no one knew about. “Haram!” You could hear mama’s needle-like tone screeching through your ears. At least Londoners don’t care, except the nosey sisters at the mosque, but you keep your head high—with your sin, gracefully.
Sins.
Note to self: Never fall in love with anyone at an art gallery. Same taste in art meant a roller coaster ride to aestheticville.
You are Indian-Nigerian. He worshipped you.
“Kamla? You remind me of the Monalisa”
You knew it was bottom line cliché, but you didn’t care, you wanted company. Everything about his voice sounded foreboding, but you were sure it was all in your head.
“I’m Hakim. A full blood Nigerian.” He patted his chest as if fulfilled.
What sins were you paying for exactly?
You scanned through your thoughts, you always thought you were glistening clean except that one time you took alcohol and threw up on your maths teacher.
Seventh grade, you stole Nadi’s KitKat bar. But she had juvenile diabetes, so somehow, you did her a favour. Not a sin.
Hitting a stalker? Not a sin, a gracious thing. The sex with him? Your choice, not the devils. Astaghfirullah.
You have become more despondent due to your health. Missed doctor’s appointments, book signings and a pending email from your editor.
Grief.
Papa said it’s like a purple balloon filled with helium: you burst with intensity, you get numb for weeks.
“Sometimes you need grief to remember how humans are.”
You look through your window; the sun is shining with mundane intensity. You can feel the heat pricking through your skin. You unhinge the window, to let it in some breeze. Bad choice, it smells like a dump.
As you try to close the windows, you’re interrupted by a shriek. You strain your eyes at the pale, petite woman grasping her handbag, screaming your name most inappropriately. Mrs Finckleton.
Mrs Fickleton wears a purple pleated satin skirt every Wednesday. The last gift she received from her ex-husband before he left her. She says it’s a forget-me-not. You could see the frayed edges, but she wouldn’t put it away.
Once you had obnoxiously asked her why she held on to it. Her answer wasn’t very intelligent, at least to you.
“When people leave, they leave behind a piece that connects you with them, a forget-me-not. He might have been a blockhead, but this skirt has a melange of memories.”
Typical, white people and emotions. No wonder she still goes with a Mrs You thought it was quite sad. Could never be you.
Six months after that conversation, you’re wearing a forget-me-not. You like how the sweater wraps around your pale skin. The warm feeling melts the emotional rigour. You had never felt this helpless except when your father passed.
Three months after your father’s death, you had three therapists. You could have saved that money for a new dishwasher or a microwave, but you ended up with three therapists and six missed sessions.
Six years later, you met him. You had hoped he’d make the trauma go away. He did, for five wonderful months till you started wilting. He obviously took it as a joke when you flippantly told him about your disease.
Now he has left you a forget-me-not. Of course, he wouldn’t be forgotten. Does he think of you? You should have given him a forget-me-not too, but how does one know what to leave behind?
Your door coughed with a weak knock. Could be Mrs Fickleton again. You struggled to gain balance as you rose. Striding past your dark curls, you faltered till you stood face to face with your door. It coughed with another knock.
You hesitantly open the door; he is standing there with his brown curls and his sunset yellow eyeballs, like those of a jaundiced baby. You almost let out a cry, but you resolve to let him speak first.
“Hello. I should have called, but I think I left my sweater here. Sorry.”
About the author
Zahra found her love for writing during the pandemic. Her writing explores feminity and Africa. She could live all day reading African contemporaries. Her work has been published on Brittle Paper and other literary magazines. She is taking her writing journey slowly and steadily. One day, she hopes to view the hot air balloons at Cappadocia.
