"Death is so strange, why is her room still intact like she would return"
Unknown
We rode in silence, with him reading his newspaper the whole time.
Looking at him, I was certain he knew of my ongoing affair with his son.
The same way he knew I was all too aware of his own numerous trysts.
But apparently, putting up a show with a beautiful wife at his side was more important to him.
I knew better than to try to make any conversation, so I just kept my mouth shut.
It was only a 30-minute drive, but on getting to the venue, I immediately regretted wasting my beautiful outfit on such a local affair.
Apparently, one of the minister's office workers was marrying off his daughter, and had made him the chairman of the occasion.
We stood out like a sore thumb, with the locals captivated by the glamorous Mercedes Benz, but even more so by the beautiful wife.
"Is that a human being or a spirit?"
"You've got an eye for good things at such an old age, You are a very lucky man!"
I watched as my husband reveled in the praise and adulation and I saw that, even more than his affluence and finery, he was taking much pride in their admiration of his beautiful wife.
And I suddenly realised the power I wielded.
"I'm going to leave some money with Maria i on Monday morning," he said, as we headed back to his house.
"So you can get some more clothes. I will also give you some lace fabric you'll tie for some other important occasions we have to attend soon."
I had to stifle a smile from forming on my face. The worst was over or that's what I thought. "Okay," I answered casually. If this was our arrangement, then it suited me just fine.
Except it wasn't that simple.
As we walked into the house, and I headed towards the stairs, the minister called out to me. "Come to my room in thirty minutes."
I froze in my steps, shocked and not entirely pleased by what he had said.
He didn't even bother repeating himself and swept past me upstairs.
Getting to my room, I Didn't bother with any elaborate preparation. After a basic shower, I wore one of my casual dresses and went to his room as instructed.
Upon getting there, I found him sitting on his armchair wearing only a towel, pipe in hand.
"Get in the bed," he ordered.
I did as I was told and had to look away as he disrobed himself. Even though it was nowhere near as rough and forceful as it was with Ibrahim, there was nothing tender nor gentle about the act either.
When he was spent, he rolled off, got on his feet, tied the discarded towel around his waist, and walked into his bathroom. Nobody had to tell me it was time to make myself scarce.
Walking back to my bedroom, it was with a hollowness in my stomach that I realised I would also have to warm the minister's bed on occasion. The thought of subjecting myself to both father and son wasn't one that filled me with glee.
The silver lining came a few weeks after when a smug Ibrahim informed me that he was living for a while.
"So, because of our generosity, your peasant family won't have to bury another member," he smirked.
Even though I didn't understand the meaning of what he said I was happy nonetheless.
I was beside myself with happiness.
It made the sacrifice of my body, my dignity, my innocence worth it. I
longed to be able to speak with my mother, to hear her tell me how much better she was doing, but I knew she was no longer with us.
So I didn't even bother asking.
The day after hearing the news, after Ibrahim left my room, I was unable to get out of bed. It felt like the whole room was spinning, and I thought maybe I was hung-over from the joy of the previous day.
It had been so long I'd felt anything other than melancholy that the feeling of relief and hope had been alien to me.
I managed to drag myself out of bed, have a shower, and make my way downstairs for breakfast. But the moment I lifted the lid of the bowl of food .
I felt all the food I'd eaten the previous day rise to my mouth.
"Are you not hungry?" madam Maria asked me.
I spat into my napkin and shook my head. "I think I ate something that upset me yesterday."
Madam Maria looked at me keenly. "When last did you see your period?"
I stared back, surprised at the direction of her question until I realised that, truly, it was over a week since my period should have arrived.
Seeing my confused look, madam Maria shook her head and inhaled deeply. " It has happened. You are pregnant. What do you want to do, and who do you want to tell?"
I looked at her, confused. In addition to still having Ibrahim in my bedroom almost every night, the minister had summoned me to his room a few more times, meaning anyone could be responsible.
But I knew that a baby was a definite means to get some legs in the house, and so I decided to take the chance and ascribe responsibility to my husband.
So that night, unsummoned, I went to the minister's bedroom.
"Assalam, allah has blessed us," I said, the moment he let me in. "I am pregnant."
He looked at me for a few moments, before bursting into laughter. "What do you take me for, little girl? A fool?" he said, as his laughter ebbed.
"Sir?" was my bewildered response.
"You open your legs nightly for my son, and you dare come before me to tell me you are pregnant?" he barked, all humour gone. "Pregnant for who?"
I stared back, my mouth unable to form a suitable response.
"I'm going to leave some money for madam Maria. You better do the sensible thing!" he retorted. "Now, get out of my room, and never come back without invitation."
It wasn't until I was back in my bedroom that it dawned on me what he was demanding of me; an abortion.
In a fit of panic, I decided there was no way I was going to kill any unborn child Allah had deemed fit to bless such an unworthy person as me. No way at all!
When Ibrahim came to my room later that evening, he was in a foul mood.
"Where were you earlier? I came and you weren't here."
"I was upstairs. I went to see your father," I answered, noting the same rigid set on his face anytime I had cause to sleep with the minister.
"I've told you I don't want you going to his bedroom," he sneered.
I shrugged. "How can I refuse when he sends for me? He's my husband," I patted on the space beside me on the bed.
"Can you please sit down? There's something I want to tell you."A wry smile slowly formed on his face. "Let me guess. You're pregnant. And you're thinking of pinning it on me."
"Pinning it?" I exclaimed. "Who else would be responsible? Except for the days when I have my flow, you're the only one who touches me."
His slap sent me falling off the bed.
"Will you keep quiet! Keep quiet, you prostitute! You open your legs for my father and I, and who knows, maybe even some of the servants, and you think you can accuse me of being the father of your bastard?"
I lay on the floor, not daring to move lest I provoke him into beating me some more.
I could see the same rage I'd seen in weeks past, when he beat me to a pulp right there on the same bed.
But my immobility wasn't enough to prevent him from kicking me twice as he walked out of the room, for the first time losing his desire for sex.
Lying on that floor, I made a decision. I was going to have the abortion.
The next day, madam Maria took me to a small clinic in town, where it was confirmed that I was indeed pregnant.
But a few short hours later, my abortion was complete. As we were driven back home, I felt an even bigger sense of shame, of despair, of emptiness.
I had lost a part of me I didn't even know I wanted. And it hurt like hell.
That night, I locked my door, ready to damn the consequences and face whatever would happen when Ibrahim came and couldn't gain entry to my room.
Thankfully, he didn't come that night, and I was able to have a quiet night, meditating on what I had lost that afternoon.
But the next night, he did return, and he wasn't as patient.
"Zeynep, you better open this door!" he shouted.
But I was determined to stand my ground. "I'm still recovering," was my sardonic answer. "I can't see you tonight."
I don't know what I thought would happen, but if I thought he would go back to his own bedroom, I was deeply mistaken.
The door was suddenly kicked open, and a furious Ibrahim walked in. The first thing he did was to punch me in the face.
"You must be very foolish for that stunt you just tried to pull!" he shouted. "Telling me 'you're recovering'? Are you crazy?"
I couldn't even get another word in, as in came another punch, followed by slaps and kicks.
When he was spent beating me, he dragged me and threw me on the bed.
"I can't do anything for at least six weeks," I pleaded. "I'm still bleeding. You know I had an abortion…"
His slap silenced me, before he mounted me. I screamed as he penetrated my very sensitive area, and after he'd rolled over and fell asleep, I wept at the sight of my blood-stained thighs and bed…and the thought of my lost child.
I think that was the night I started to die slowly.
Even animals don't deserve this.
That was the night I realised that there would never be anything 'normal' of my existence in that house.
It was the night that the little ember of light I still had inside me was extinguished.
After that day, I moved around like a zombie, like a soulless robot.
I extinguished all my feelings, obediently submitting myself whenever Akanna came to my bedroom or when the minister decided on my company over his typical women. I was past the point of caring.
Or so I thought.
The minister had been away for a few days, having travelled back to India for business. That particular morning, Ibrahim hadn't left my bed at his usual time but had just lain there, whistling away.
He was in an uncharacteristically good mood, and I couldn't quite figure out why. But I kept my mouth shut and didn't ask.
"Aren't you going to ask why I'm still here?" he asked, a broad smile on his face. "You're not curious why I haven't left for the UK yet?"A glance at the clock revealed that, at 9 am, it was well past time for him to have left, but I simply shrugged in response. The only thing I was upset about was missing out on my morning sleep, but even that was something I could still make up for when he eventually left.
When I made to get out of the bed, he held me by the arm.
"Where are you going?" he demanded.
"I want to wear my nightgown," I answered, using the sheets to conceal my nakedness.
Even though he had ravaged me so many times, I was still uncomfortable allowing him to see my nude body.
"I'm not done with you yet," he answered with a wink.
I lay back in bed, angry; angry with him for the humiliation I felt, angry with myself for being so helpless, angry with Allah for allowing all this to happen to me, I was just a child.
For how long was I going to continue this way?"I'm expecting someone," Ibrahim continued, when he got no reaction from me. "I wonder what's taking so long?"
I sat up in bed, panicked. "You're expecting someone? Here?"
Just then, there was a knock on the door. I stared from the door to Ibrahim and back to the door, my anxiety rising. How could he have summoned anyone to my room of all places? And he hadn't even had the decency to allow me to cover my nakedness.
Even though our affair was no secret, putting it on full display for whomever was at the door was the highest disgrace for me.
He rose to his feet and slowly started pulling on his trousers. "Come in," he bellowed, a wide smile on his face.
In hindsight, his behaviour should have tipped me off.
The door opened, just as Ibrahim was threading his belt, and as I lay staring ahead, looking like a deercaught in the headlights…a naked deer caught in the headlights.
"Welcome, baby brother," Ibrahim declared, beaming proudly. "I would introduce you to your father's wife, but I think you've already met."
I gasped in recognition. Standing at the door, his face also a mask of shock, was …the love of my life.