Hijab and Red Lipstick by Yousra Imran

Author:Yousra Imran
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Hashtag Press
Published: 2020-04-15T00:00:00+00:00

Majlis

Over the next couple of weeks, Fahad and I went on more dates on the days I finished early from uni and had enough time to be dropped back in time for the five o’clock bus.

After three weeks of dating, the furthest we’d gone physically was holding hands while he drove the car. He’d have one hand on the steering wheel and his other hand holding mine, our fingers interlocked. I was relieved he hadn’t tried to go any further. It hadn’t taken me long to become smitten and he was already calling me his habibah, the Arabic word for girlfriend.

When I was at home, we contacted each other via text message, and every time I saw him, he’d give me a top-up card with more phone credit.

One evening, he sent me a text asking me to come to his house for lunch and to play video games in the majils. The majlis is the part of a Gulf family’s house where only male family members and their friends are allowed to hang out. They chat, play cards, eat and play video games.

His invitation sounded innocent enough and so I accepted.

FAHAD: So what are you going to tell your dad?

ME: I’ll say I’m at a friend’s house studying and having dinner. That way I don’t have to rush back to university to catch the bus. But how are you going to sneak me into the majlis?

FAHAD: Oh don’t worry about that. It’s a separate building so no one will see you. I’ll have it sorted.

I was going to take a big risk and have him drop me off home, not too close to the house, probably a few streets away from it, so that the neighbours wouldn’t see me.

Now I just needed to ask Baba for permission to be out after university the next day. I’d only been out three days ago over the weekend, at one of Heba’s friends’ parties, so I wasn’t sure how he’d react to a request to go out again so soon, even if it was on the premise of studying.

I went downstairs to see what kind of mood he was in. He wasn’t in the living room, and I could hear water running in the ground floor bathroom, so I assumed he was in there making wudu, the ritual washing Muslims make before praying.

I perched myself nervously on the edge of the sofa, barely listening to the TV. Baba walked into the living room towards the crockery cabinet, where he’d left his glasses and watch.

“I didn’t know you enjoyed watching Faisal Al-Qasim. I think it’s time he went to Turkey like all the other Al Jazeera presenters and invested in a hair transplant,” Baba said grinning, as he buttoned up his shirt cuffs.

I pretended to find his joke amusing and faked a loud laugh. He seemed to be in a good mood.

“Baba, can I go to Heba’s house tomorrow to study?”

“Didn’t you just see her a few days ago when you went to that

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