Ambata Kazi-Nance was born and raised in New Orleans and lives in California with her family. She earned an MFA in Creative Writing from the University of New Orleans. Her website is www.ambatakazinance.wordpress.com.
Shani walked out of the masjid into an unforgiving July sunshine. The transition from the cavernous women’s prayer hall, tucked deep into the grand refurbished former church, into the sweltering heat and brilliant light made her throw her hands up over her watery eyes. It was the intense brightness of the sun, she tried to convince herself, and not the sting of the women at the masjid, the ones who never made eye contact and ignored her salaams, that caused her tears. Nine months now going to the masjid in Bridgeport, and still no one there had ever even asked her name. Every time she left, she knew if she never returned they wouldn’t even notice, and every time she wondered if she should.
Shani dabbed her eyes with a corner of her hijab. She’d chosen her favorite scarf, the one with the lace trim in a soft coral shade that brought out the bronze undertones of her skin, to cheer her for the dreaded trek to Friday prayers. She huffed an ugly laugh at her own hopeless hopefulness. Now she wanted only to go home and crawl in bed, pulling her comforter over yet another failed jummah, but she had to run an errand first. Almost two months ago, inspired by the imam’s Friday sermon, Shani had committed to only eating halal zabiha slaughtered meat. Directly across the street from the masjid, a garish green-and-yellow sign, C & A Fresh Halal painted in thick cursive letters across the front, beckoned to her.
The post-jummah swell of cars typically caused a traffic backup on the already congested State Street, but because Shani left immediately after the prayer, she was able to cross over quickly. She pushed the door of C & A open; a jangle of bells rang over her head. Shani had adjusted to the smells of the store, but still only took shallow breaths once inside. Her first time venturing in, the stink of rotten egg and old mop had nearly made her turn around and head straight back outside.
C & A was a one-man operation from what Shani could tell: The same man with dark brick-brown skin who handled the meat in the back of the store also ran the register, which today sat empty. Sometimes, when Shani came in, he would have moved from the meat counter to the front register, where behind him a jumble of phone cards, chargers, and batteries, packaged in a rainbow of fluorescent colors, took up most of the space, with rows of cigarettes occupying the rest. In front of the register was a dizzying array of candies and chocolates, many of them with shiny labels written in Arabic and another language that looked like thick curls of ribbon hanging from bars. Shani often wondered how anyone could find anything in that blur of products, but when she stood in line, she’d watch other customers point to something on the wall, speaking a language she didn’t understand, and the man would grab an item without even looking.
Now, Shani turned towards the back of the store, expecting to find him behind the counter, but that one was empty, too. She walked across the compact store’s four short aisles and realized she was the only person in the store. She crept down one of the cramped aisles and stood at the butcher counter, biting her lip.
“Hello?” she ventured.
Nothing but the drone of the stainless-steel freezers responded. Shani dropped her shoulders in frustration and turned to leave. Just then a loud groan erupted from one of the freezers and its door opened, releasing a cloud of frosty air. The man stepped out carrying a large cardboard box. He wore low-slung jeans and a snug white polo shirt with pale blue stripes. He hefted the box onto the back counter and looked inside, his back to Shani, who cleared her throat to get his attention. It didn’t work. He tapped his fingers on the box and sang something to himself in a low guttural voice. A Bollywood song, Shani guessed, by the lilting melody. That much she’d learned dining at a few halal South Asian restaurants that offered cheap all-you-can-eat buffets. The movies were always playing on the television, the women singing in unearthly high voices that made Shani think of birds. Finally, the butcher turned around and saw her.
“Ah,” he said, with a slight nod.
Shani waited, expecting him to say more, then realized that was both his greeting and question to her.
“Uhm, hi, s-salaam alaikum?”
He blinked.
“Okay,” she said, flustered that he didn’t respond to her greeting. “I need some meat...” Still, he looked blankly at her. “Uhm, some chicken? I need some chicken.”
He sighed. His eyes looked tired below the thick black hair that hung low over his forehead, covering his eyebrows.
“What kind of chicken, miss?” He pointed up towards a large white sign above his head with pictures of each item and prices per pound next to each.
The chicken legs, at less than three dollars a pound, were the cheapest item, so Shani could splurge. After rent and utilities, her bank teller salary didn’t leave much for food. This was a new thing, cooking, real cooking like a grownup. Since moving out of her parents’ home and into her own apartment six months ago, she’d relied on canned food and frozen dinners, and the occasional takeout after payday. She longed for her mother’s traditional home cooking. The tender callaloo slow-cooked in coconut broth with thick pieces of bacon—her mother had refused to make any without pork after Shani converted to Islam, leaving her to pick out the meat and hope it was okay with Allah when she was too hungry to eat only white rice. Or her spicy jerk chicken with rice and beans and fried plantain, which alhamdulillah she could still eat even if the meat wasn’t zabiha, if only she could stomach her parents’ silent reproach of her in her headscarf. She’d gone from those belly-hugging dishes cooked with scorn to gummy tuna casseroles and bland vegetarian chili in portions so tiny they made her want to cry.
A few weeks back she’d spied an Essence magazine in the employee breakroom that a coworker had left behind. A small headline next to Viola Davis’s impressive bicep whispered, “Eat Great on a Budget.” Shani had taken it home and read it over a dinner of eggplant parmesan the size of her fist and limp broccoli that was still cold in the center. The article advised her to invest in good spices and cook in bulk on the weekends. She’d gone to the Save A Lot the next day after work and filled her basket with all the spices and herbs the store offered, not exactly excellent quality at a dollar each but at least she had a variety, and now here she was at C & A buying real meat instead of the soy-based “chick’n” she had considered at Save A Lot.
Now, Shani studied the sign like she hadn’t seen it before.
“You try lamb?” the butcher asked.
He pointed to a photocopied page taped in the bottom corner of the sign; a lightning bolt advertised the deli’s specials.
Shani shook her head. She was pretty sure she’d never eaten lamb and she had no idea how to cook it anyway.
“Just some chicken legs. Two, no, three pounds.”
In the center of the butcher space was a large island with a hard white surface. The butcher nodded, resumed his humming, and began clearing off the top of the island. He brought a flat wooden crate over to the main counter where Shani stood.
“We just got these in,” he said.
Shani peered over and saw the crate was full of small, round, pale yellow balls. The butcher plucked one out and held it out to her.
“You try,” he said.
“What is it?” Shani asked, trying not to wrinkle her nose.
“Is date.”
“I’ve never seen dates like these.”
“These special dates. They come from my country, Bangladesh.”
Shani had assumed the butcher, who looked very much like the women at the masjid, was from India. She had never heard of Bangladesh. She stuck her hand out to accept the date he proffered to her, but just as it touched her palm, he pulled it back.
“Ah wait, I wash.”
He went to the sink and rinsed it off then brought it back to her. “You are from...Africa?” he asked.
“No.”
“But you are Muslim?”
Shani stiffened and adjusted the fold of her scarf near her cheekbone where her hair loved to escape. “Yes.”
He looked confused.
“So, where are you from?”
Shani considered his question as she rolled the yellow date between her thumb and fingers.
“New Haven,” she said.
“Just New Haven?”
“Yep,” Shani replied. “Just New Haven.”
She popped the date in her mouth and bit into it, instantly regretting her willfulness. The date was crunchy and sour, not even a hint of sweetness. The butcher watched her though, so she swallowed it down and forced a smile. She had no water to wash the chalky aftertaste off her tongue.
The butcher went back into the freezer and returned with a smaller box lined with plastic. He slipped thin latex gloves over his hands then reached for a pair of thick gloves that hung from a clothesline above the double sink. The gloves were a dingy, used-to-be white on the outside, and the palms were red. Shani cringed at the convenience of the color masking that of real blood, and wondered how often they were cleaned. The butcher grabbed chicken leg quarters from the box and tossed them onto the counter.
“So, New Haven,” he said. “That means you go to Yale, yes?”
He pronounced “Yale” like “yell.” Shani laughed, but not for his pronunciation. “No, I went to Gateway. Community college? But I’m starting at UB—University of Bridgeport?—in the fall.”
Shani noticed she was explaining things to him like he didn’t live in the same city she did. His accent suggested he was an immigrant, but still, why did she assume he wouldn’t know the acronym for the city’s university?
“You have nice laugh,” the butcher ventured.
Shani had been leaning her weight on one hip. Now she stood to her full height. “Hm?” she said.
“Your laugh. It is nice. Like wind chimes.”
This made Shani laugh more. She was nervous. She didn’t think he was flirting with her, but his compliment made her feel shy. As she watched him drop the chicken pieces into a clear plastic bag that sat on top of the scale, Shani realized her mistake.
“Oh, uhm, I’m sorry,” Shani started.
The butcher stopped and looked at her.
“I forgot. I just want the—the drumsticks, not the thighs. I’m sorry.”
“Ah,” he said, and began to pull the meat back out of the bag.
Shani winced, annoyed at her own stupidity. This was the second time she’d done that, not specified which part of the leg she wanted. At least this time she’d found the courage to speak up. Last time she’d just watched him bag the leg quarters and bit her lip. She’d gone home and nearly hacked her fingers off trying to separate the chicken pieces with her one cheap dull knife. The mangled thighs were still in a Ziploc bag in her freezer. She told herself she’d make soup with the meat once she got a stew pot.
Just as the butcher dropped the first leg quarter onto the cutting board, the front doorbells jangled loudly over the sound of a voice shouting. A squat man approached the butcher counter, panting like he’d been running. He was balding and clean-shaven, with dark skin the color of ash. His belly strained against the buttons of his crisp pale blue business shirt, lapping over stiffly creased gray slacks. He spoke gruffly to the butcher, gesticulating with one pudgy hand out. The butcher responded, waving the knife at the chicken and then at Shani. The man jerked his head towards Shani, looking over her body and face, then back towards the butcher. He let loose a string of words that rose and fell sharply. All Shani caught was one word, ekhan, which he said several times and punctuated by slapping the back of his hand into his palm.
The butcher set down the knife and walked over to Shani, glancing sideways at the other man.
“Miss...eh, sorry, I must finish his order before yours.” He gestured towards the aisles. “Is big order so might take a while.”
Shani felt the man’s eyes on her but didn’t look at him. She shrugged. “Okay.” She pivoted on her heels towards the far aisle. She’d never looked at what the store offered beyond meat. A hodgepodge of items sat on the shelves: batteries, sponges, and an assortment of teas in metal tins lined up in neat rows next to jars of dried herbs and bouillon cubes. Shani picked up a sachet of incense cones and held it to her nose. Jasmine. She set them back on the shelf and grabbed a small bottle of orange dishwashing liquid and a pack of double-As. She’d been rotating the batteries in her TV remote for almost two weeks now.
Towards the front door there was a stack of yellow hand baskets. Shani dumped her items in one and looped the handles over her forearm. Above the baskets was a brightly colored map of South Asia. India stood tall and wide in the center of the map, a large pink tongue dipping into the Indian Ocean. To the left of it was Pakistan in jade green, the brackets of India around it like a mouth gripping the smaller country in its jaws. In the far right sat an even smaller mustard-colored country: Bangladesh. Shani tilted her head and squinted at the tiny yellow smudge. India didn’t even end where Bangladesh began, it just climbed over it like an ant crawling over a hill. Shani remembered learning about Partition in her World History class, but she couldn’t recall any mention of Bangladesh, only Pakistan.
If Bangladesh was an ant hill, then St. Lucia, her family’s homeland, was a crumb among a sprinkle of other crumbs between Puerto Rico and Trinidad and Tobago. She could have told the butcher that was where she was from, but it wouldn’t be true. She felt no connection to the island, despite having spent many summers there. She had hated those visits, spent sweating in hot houses overcrowded with relatives who stared openly at her and discussed her actions, no matter how mundane.
“Look how she eat that salad,” one of her aunts had commented one time. She nudged another aunt with her elbow and pointed at Shani. “She lick her fingers. She like that salad. Americans eat lot of salad.” The other aunt nodded vigorously, jowls trembling, though neither had ever been to the U.S.
They gawked over her “fine” clothes and shoes and asked many questions just to hear her American English so they could laugh at it. She had little time to enjoy the beaches because of all the family and friends they had to visit, dropping off gifts. In the months leading up to those trips, her mother and father filled suitcases with the odd items their families requested, Nescafé and orthopedic socks for the grandfather, Jean Naté bath splash and Vicks VapoRub for the aunties, and Barbies, action figures, and Hot Wheels for the children.
Shani had always been a curiosity to them, to be studied and made fun of at a safe bit of distance, but on her last visit to the island, after she had converted to Islam, she’d become something else. She’d gone to attend a cousin’s wedding in December at her mother’s request, just months after becoming Muslim. Never warm to her, the family’s frostiness at her appearance made bumps rise on her arms. They’d given her a wide berth at the church ceremony, and she spent most of the reception alone at a table fiddling with the silverware. As Shani stood in line for cake, the daughter of the aunt and uncle she was staying with sidled up to her and told her next time she came to visit she would have to find somewhere else to stay. The other family members had grilled the cousin’s parents about how they could let Shani practice her “devil religion” under their roof. Shani spent the remainder of her trip in the bedroom to avoid their dour expressions, so similar to her own parents. Upon returning, she’d begun looking for her own apartment.
Shani must have zoned out at some point after walking into the next aisle. Her hand rested absently on a bag of rice when she blinked and turned to see the man in the blue button-down standing at the end of the aisle watching her with his arms folded. She placed the bag of rice in her basket along with a box of spaghetti. The man turned back to the butcher counter, the heels of his black wingtips clicking sharply against the floor tiles.
Staring at the large plastic jars of ghee and tahini on the shelf, Shani let out a strangled sigh. She was as out of place in this grocery store as she was everywhere she went, the masjid, St. Lucia, even Connecticut. Her cousin at the wedding had told her, nodding towards her headscarf, “This isn’t us, cuz.”
No one could understand. Cocooned in her scarf, her forehead pressed to the floor when she knelt in prayer, she felt...something. Something that connected her to the earth, to something bigger than herself. Tears dripped on her hand as she smoothed a torn label on a can of pickled beets with her thumb. Once again, her scarf doubled as a tissue. Behind her, the butcher cleared his throat.
“I finish your order now, miss.”
She ducked her head and followed him back to the counter. His knife sliced easily through the bones of the chicken legs. He slid the thighs to one side of the cutting board and tossed the drumsticks into a clear plastic bag on top of the scale. When he was finished, he gripped the top of the bag in his fist and spun it around. He then tied the top into a tight knot and slapped a printed-out price label on the side.
At the front register Shani placed her grocery items on the counter.
“Uh, sorry,” the butcher said, his voice low. “My uncle.” He gestured towards the door with his chin. “This his father’s store. When he come to order meat, I must stop whatever I am doing and help him straight away.”
“Oh,” Shani said, “I thought this was your store.”
He snickered. “No, miss. I am only store clerk.” He laughed a short puff of air. “Perhaps I should go to UB like you.”
“And study business?” Shani guessed.
The butcher looked off in the distance.
“No. If I could, I would study literature. Poetry. I like poetry.”
Shani almost laughed but caught herself. Mokhtar registered her surprise.
“Yes, is strange thing. No one in my family do this kind of thing. But I like song, I like poetry. If I could, that’s what I would do.”
Again Shani was surprised, and also humbled by his conviction. She had broken from her family’s traditions and gone her own path, despite their refusal to respect her lifestyle changes and their many warnings that she wasn’t thinking clearly. Why couldn’t she be a Muslim just because no one else in her family had ever been? Why couldn’t Mokhtar study poetry for the same reasons?
“Well,” Shani said, “I mean you could, if that’s what you want to do.”
“Hm,” he responded, his eyes downcast. “You know,” he continued, “I knew you were a Muslim when I first saw you. I knew.”
Shani ran her fingers over the lacy edge of the scarf.
“Not because of—” he waved his hand vaguely towards her head. “No, it was the noor in your face. You know this word, noor?”
Shani nodded.
“Yes, it was the noor shining from your face, and in your voice. It calms me like...like air in my lungs.”
Shani felt her own breath catch in her throat. She nodded again and mumbled a thanks. The butcher chuckled to himself and began ringing her up, humming a new Bollywood tune. He picked up each item, punched numbers on the register, then laid them back on the counter. Satisfied that he had accounted for all the items, he placed them in small black plastic bags. He handed Shani the receipt then held up his index finger.
“One moment.”
He walked over to the produce aisle and came back with a small bag of lemons. He put them in another black bag and set them with Shani’s things.
“No,” Shani said. “I didn’t order these.”
The butcher held up his palm. “Is gift, miss. What is your name?”
“Shani.”
“Ah, Sha-nee,” he said slowly. He placed his hand over his heart. “Okay, Miss Shani. I am Mokhtar. We friends now. You come to store, and we talk, yes?”
Shani laughed, then shrugged. “Okay, sure.”
In her car, Shani set the grocery bags on the passenger seat. Through her rearview mirror she could see the red brick façade of the masjid across the street, its white dome that had formerly been topped by a cross that now held a gilded crescent moon and star. She sighed and looked at the lemons that peeked out from one of the bags, their lush thick skins brighter than the sun.
When she got home, she would untie the bag of chicken, releasing the funk of questionably fresh meat. She would peel back the skin and rinse the drumsticks thoroughly until the slime rolled off under her fingers, then lay them out in her one baking pan and drench them with the juice of the lemons till all she smelled was the fresh scent of citrus. Then she would season them well with spices from her new collection, garlic and onion powder, paprika, a pinch of thyme and basil, and cook them with rice and beans and vegetables. She would chew the food slowly and savor the tastes on her tongue, flavors that didn’t match her mother’s cooking or what she knew of her ancestral homeland, but still good, still filling her belly. The meal would last her till almost next Friday when, after jummah, she would return to C & A Fresh Halal. Maybe then she would order the lamb and ask Mokhtar for advice on how to cook it. It was time for new recipes.
