There were times when I enjoyed this. I’d see someone look at me with admiration, and I would be seduced by this gaze and by the object of it, which was me but also not me. Plus, my parents were proud, giving copies of Songbird to all their friends. And doors opened more easily for job stuff. Also, frankly, it felt nice to have people being so nice to me. Being respected felt nice. Being taken seriously felt nice. I felt that people were listening to me the way they listened to men, carefully, attentively, as if something of great value might drop out of my mouth at any moment.
Other times, however, this attention made me feel like the world was a shallow, fickle place, without depth or substance, hollow, vacuous, matlabi, and cruel. It was as if, overnight, my words mattered, even when they were, frankly, somewhat mundane or being uttered by a million others who were patronized or outright ignored. The same people who I’d previously been invisible to were now looking at me with something like awe. And not just awe, not always awe. I sometimes detected a kind of presumed beneficence in their gaze that reminded me of photographs of white missionaries in India. So proud were they of having a brown woman on their stage, of humbling themselves by taking her seriously. And other times, I saw a variation of that beneficence, something more like penitence, like they wanted me to tell them what was wrong with them. As if, by having me up there, they were somehow atoning for their sins.
“Classic BDSM,” Naima said when I shared these thoughts with her. “They want you to tell them what bad boys they’ve been.”
“Naima.”
“I’m serious. Did you see their faces when you said that thing about translation as colonialism? They were practically salivating. You’re basically a dominatrix now.”
She was kidding, of course. It wasn’t really like that, but still, sometimes, when I was on those panels, it felt like there was this kind of shimmering mesh between the audience and me that was obscuring their vision, rendering me one thing to one person and another to the next. And I would watch my fellow panelists, so smug and self-serving in their leather chairs, so convinced of their superiority, so confident in opinions that were often devoid of any real insight and depth, and so devoted to being, essentially, PR machines for themselves. Then I started to notice the amount of books and TV shows that centered the media industry—propaganda, I decided. Since they controlled the stories we consumed, they chose to focus on glamorizing their own industry, these so-called “tastemakers.” I became highly skeptical of it all. But, at the same time, convinced of the superiority of this opinion that I held.
From time to time, I would think to myself, Peter would have liked this. I felt him there with me sometimes, when I was on my way to a meeting or onstage. I would remember his difficult school days, his fraught relationship with his dad, and my chest would swell with a kind of redemption on his behalf. I’d even sometimes feel him when I was by myself, cooking or reading a book. And when the book was in German, I often found that I read in his voice. You know how they say every significant relationship leaves a mark on you? Well, I was surprised to find that even this relationship, with someone I hadn’t technically met, had radically influenced me. Even behaviorally. Random things like I became more punctual, and better at asking for what I wanted and expecting that those demands be met. I would only speak for a fee. I would ask for transport and accommodation to be paid. I would negotiate my salary. I mean, who knows, maybe these new behaviors were actually a reflection of a rise in self-esteem due to Songbird’s success. It’s hard to tell. But basically, I was of two minds, both pleased with my newfound success and utterly disillusioned. And the unbridled joy I imagined feeling at becoming a Great Translator, well, that never really came. It made me wonder whether I was simply an insatiable pit, never to be fully satisfied.
Naima, though, was by my side throughout. She came to all my events, applauded the loudest, and often took me out to celebrate afterward. And I was proud of her too. Her work was going well. She’d started holding larger retreats in a yoga studio in Bristol once a month and had a proper staff now—an assistant who did the admin and a musician/shaman woman who helped her hold space. I still attended her ceremonies occasionally and would always emerge feeling closer to myself, at least for a bit.
Then, she met someone. Azeem.
They’d got talking in the comments section on Facebook for an event about psychedelics and racism.
“Anisa, I can’t believe someone like him actually exists. Good looking, tall, Muslim, woke, like truly woke, you know? It’s as if I manifested him.”
I mean, I had to admit he sounded great. And I wanted to reflect back to her the love and support that she had shown me. And on the surface, I did. But as Naima retreated into coupledom, I felt her moving away from me. We no longer spoke on the phone every day nor met as frequently. Then, within a few months, she started talking about moving away from London.
“You know it’s always been a dream of mine. A cottage with a garden, somewhere less city-ish.”
“Isn’t everywhere outside of London racist?”
“Not everywhere. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I’ll have Azeem.”
I know it’s narcissistic to make my best friend’s new relationship about me, but it was only when I heard that Naima was thinking of moving that I realized I’d had a companion all this while in what I’d seen as a well of loneliness. And now she was distracted by this man she claimed to have manifested. And I was like, what about me? Why didn’t you feel like you’d manifested me when we met? We form these elaborate fantasies of romantic partnerships, Romeos and Majnus who we’ll spend our days and nights with in a passion of rose petals and fireworks, while discounting our non-romantic relationships （if such distinctions can even be made）， often more enduring and authentic. We discard them as soon as some man comes along, flashing his teeth and brandishing his penis. But it’s always the friends in the end, isn’t it, who remain to pick up the pieces when the men have gone, leaving destruction in their wake? Still, only the romantic partner is taken seriously. Friends and family will not gather, ever, to celebrate my partnership with Naima—there will be no anniversaries or acknowledgments, no congratulatory cards, no celebratory ceremonies. And yet, it is this slow burning love of female friendship that actually keeps the world turning.
Truth is, I felt pushed out by this “Azeem” guy, who, to be honest, didn’t even seem that amazing once I’d met him. I mean, at least not compared to my phenomenal friend. He was good looking, it’s true. Six foot two, with a nice beard. And he wore trendy sneakers with the exact right cut of jeans, cool T-shirts, and well-fitting sweaters. And according to Naima, he was house-trained, meaning he could cook and clean and was generally considerate. But all these traits—style, hygiene, the ability to care for oneself and one’s home—are, in a man, considered exceptional, almost miraculous, whereas in women, they are the bare minimum. I wasn’t impressed.
Azeem worked for a start-up and was five years younger than Naima.
“The younger generation,” she said. “They’re so much better than men our age.”
“I don’t think five years counts as another generation.”