The Centre(15)

“Do you feel prepped for the interview then?” she asked, pouring the chopped apples into the porridge. “What kind of things do you think they’ll ask?”

I pulled out bowls and spoons, some honey, and a seed mix; we had done this breakfast prep before.

“No clue,” I said. “But listen to this: it’s not just an interview but also a medical checkup.”

“What?”

“Yeah.”

“What do they need a medical checkup for?”

“They said it was just blood pressure and things. Health and safety.”

“We don’t even do checkups for aya. Just a questionnaire.”

I shrugged. “They said it’s standard procedure.”

“Sounds bizarre.”

I carried on chopping fruit while Naima gently woke the four women in her living room. She went around the room tinkling a little bell, and they stirred in their sleeping bags, still processing, I imagine, the ceremony from the night before. After toothbrushings and showers, they gathered again in the living room, nestling porridge in their laps, ready for the sharing circle. I popped my head in and said hello, and they greeted me with radiant smiles, with the tenderness that comes into the body after ceremony and stays, well, for at least a few days, until the severity of the city hardens it up again.

I went upstairs to wait in Naima’s room while the women shared the details of their journeys. Sometimes sobs or laughter floated upward as they went over their experiences. Big things could come up in these ceremonies: old traumas relived, new insights uncovered, lifelong confusions untangled, repressed griefs released. I’d sat in circle with Naima a few times, helping her empty buckets and prepare food in exchange for her medicine and space holding, and I’d always come out revitalized. That woman truly knew how to hold space. And she was the only person we knew who ran these circles especially for women of color. For the participants, this was a balm. Here, they could discuss ancestral trauma and cultural specificity without the kind of defensiveness or shame they’d be forced to adopt in whiter spaces. The truth is when the aya strips you of all defenses, even everyday comments like “Where are you from?” or “Your skin is so beautiful,” things you may otherwise be inoculated against, can cause a kind of retraumatization. Naima provided a refuge from such things and a place to heal from them. She had a steady stream of attendees and a growing waitlist, as she could only accommodate four women at a time in her living room and held these ceremonies just once a week. I’d noticed that running these groups had been healing for Naima herself; ever since she’d started, she held herself in a more substantial way, with a greater sense of purpose. Anyway, eventually the four women left, and I helped Naima clean up. The conversation turned back to Adam.

“I guess it just felt like he was … enough, you know?” I said. “Like, I don’t even know what I’m holding out for anymore.”

“Men are trash,” Naima said.

“Men are trash,” I agreed. “But … what are we meant to do?’

“I don’t know. Sometimes, I think maybe we need to accept the situation as it is, you know? Just settle into it. I may meet someone, or I may not. But I need to be happy either way.” She put her tea towel down, taking a seat at the table. I turned the kettle on and plucked two mugs off the drying rack. “But other times I worry that total acceptance is a bit like giving up. I don’t know. These days, I’m trying affirmations.”

“You just said men are trash. Isn’t that the opposite of an affirmation?”

“Oh yeah, that just came out. No. No they’re not. Men are lovely.”

“Hashtag not all men?”

“Lol,” she replied, “I guess. But really, what do I know? It worries me sometimes. So many people come to me with this ‘twin flame’ shit—wanting to find ‘the one,’ have babies, all of that. And the truth is, I want that, too, and I don’t have it, and I don’t know why. How can I be counseling other people when I’m not even sorted out myself?”

“You don’t need to have it all figured out to help people. You’re naturally intuitive—”

“Psychic,” she corrected.

“Point is, you’re good at knowing this stuff.”

We were interrupted by the doorbell. Naima pressed the button on the intercom and said into the speaker. “Hi. Is that Simon? Come up.”

“Simon your tantra client? I should go.”

“No, no. It’s fine. Stay. Say hello at least.”

Simon was a shy-seeming, skinny guy in a worn Beatles T-shirt, jeans, and New Balance sneakers. He had curly, unkempt hair, and he’d brought along a box of chocolates, which Naima accepted with delight. He wore a bracelet made of wooden beads around his wrist and carried a backpack. They gave each other a prolonged embrace before he even noticed me.

“Oh, hi.”

“Simon, this is Anisa, my best friend. Anisa, this is Simon.”

We shook hands.

“Hi, Simon, I’ve heard about you.”

As soon as I said it, I wondered whether this was a betrayal of Naima’s doctor-patient confidentiality or whatever, but he seemed unfazed.

“Nice to meet you, Anisa. I’ve never met any of Naima’s friends before.”