‘Finally!’ he cheers, and I imagine him beaming down the phone. ‘What did your mum say?’
‘She’s happy. But she wants to meet you and your family. Like, ASAP.’
‘I’ll sort it out, habibti. I can’t wait to meet everyone.’
‘Don’t get too excited. My mum’s a bit of a handful.’
‘Why am I not surprised?’
*
Hamza wastes no time in arranging a meet-up between both families the following weekend. He suggests a restaurant in West London and I agree. It’s much less formal than meeting up in either of our parents’ houses.
The week flies by with the usual work, gym and a dinner out with Layla and Ezra, who I share my news with. Layla, predictably, is relieved that I didn’t let Adam derail my marriage plans. She doesn’t say it in so many words, but I can see it all over her face. Ezra, on the other hand, is upset that she hasn’t met him. She and I used to see each other all the time, but she’s been so busy with her new job as a communications manager for a national charity that I’ve barely seen her this past year.
‘I can’t believe you’re marrying a guy I’ve never met!’ she wails. ‘I don’t even know what he looks like!’
‘Inshallah we’ll arrange something soon. He can’t wait to meet all of you.’ I take out my phone to show her a picture the two of us took together in Dubai and both Ezra and Layla peer at it, zooming in to our happy faces.
‘You both look great together,’ Ezra says. ‘I’m so happy for you, Zara.’
I stare at the picture long after the conversation has moved on, and I realise she’s right. We do look nice together, but more importantly, we complement each other with the important things; our values, character, interests. I wish I had realised it sooner.
*
Saturday soon comes around and it’s time to introduce our families. Hamza is on his way over here, having insisted on picking us all up and taking us to the restaurant (I’ve discovered his car can be adapted into a seven-seater), despite it being completely out of his way. Mum, Dad, Nani, Amina, Yasmin and I are sitting in the living room waiting for him to arrive. Everyone’s in good spirits, including my mum, which is a nice change from her usual stressed out/angry vibe.
‘I wonder what they all look like,’ Mum muses to no one in particular. I mean, if she asked me, I could have told her.
‘Like Cleopatra,’ Yasmin teases her. ‘And Mo Salah.’
‘Oh, stop it!’ Mum slaps her arm in jest. ‘I’m not one of those—’
‘Village mums, we know,’ the three of us groan in unison.
She carries on chattering away and I sit there and tap my feet nervously. I really, really hope that today goes well and our families like each other. Families getting along is so important in our culture. We don’t just marry our partners, we marry their families as well. If they don’t get along, our whole engagement could be called off.
Amina the Perfectionist has tidied the whole house in preparation and there’s now a scented candle burning away in the living room, emanating an oud-like fragrance reminiscent of my time in Dubai. Everyone is dressed to impress and I feel like bit like an old school Hollywood actress with my maroon lipstick – and a lot more confident than the day I went to his house in all my casual North London glory.
The doorbell rings and I get up from my seat to answer it, my mum right on my heels.
‘Hey, Salaams,’ I say shyly upon opening the front door. ‘Come in and meet everyone.’
Hamza looks nice in a pale-blue shirt paired with dark trousers, and he smiles warmly at me before extending his hand to my mum. She ignores it and gives him a hug instead, beaming and gushing about him being the son she never had. I gape at her. Who knew that all I had to do was to get engaged for her to thaw out?
She leads Hamza into the living room where he greets my dad, Nani, Yasmin and lastly Amina. After a few minutes of polite conversation, we all bundle into his car. My sisters climb into the back while I sit in the middle row with Mum and Nani, observing Mum’s subtle pleasure at the physical evidence of Hamza’s wealth.
Abbu’s in the front with Hamza, gently interrogating him the entire journey to the restaurant: what he does, how he got there, why he chose Finance, how often he goes to the mosque, everything. At first I feel bad for him, but as the journey progresses, I realise that I’m actually enjoying discovering more about Hamza and I really like how he deals with the questioning – with respect and intelligence, taking a moment before answering the difficult ones. He never once appears annoyed or irritated and my heart swells with pride; this guy is definitely one of a kind.
‘How many children do you want?’ Abbu asks when we’re almost there and I nearly die of shame on the spot.
‘Uh, well, I know I’d definitely like kids but so long as it’s at least one I don’t really mind how many. It’s up to Zara, really, she’s the one who has to grow them inside her body.’
My heart melts again. How could I ever have doubted him? I’m pretty sure it doesn’t get better than this.
‘This boy is perfect, too good to be true,’ Mum whispers loudly, and I nudge her sharply.
‘What?’ she continues, still ‘whispering’ loud enough for Hamza to hear. ‘It’s true! He is too good to be true! I hope all this isn’t an act!’