“Me too,” Kofi added quietly.
Pain bloomed in his chest. “I wish he could have been here, too, but I like to think he knows that Imani and I are married, which was what he wanted.”
Music started playing, a traditional tune on a flute and drums, with the voices of a chorus of men joining in. Then attendants began handing out bamboo canes to all the guests.
“What’s this for?” Kofi asked.
Wasim smiled. “This is our traditional stick dance—Al Ayala. Watch and learn.”
The stick dance was a tradition that was being revitalized after the younger people had not expressed much interest in it. The cultural minister had been worried that the art would be lost, and so in the past, Wasim had allocated funds from his own budget to promote it in schools and cultural centers around the city.
The men lined up facing each other, and Wasim slipped into place between one of his cousins and Akmal. Moving in time to the chanting voices of the chorus, Wasim joined the guests as they lifted the canes high and then lowered them again. They moved in coordinated movements that had been honed through years of practice.
After a while, he glanced at his friends. “Come on, join in,” he told them.
He couldn’t be with his new bride yet, but he could have fun with his best friends and perhaps forget for a moment that there would be several more hours before the night ended and he and Imani could be alone.
Andres and Kofi stepped into the line and quickly caught on to the movements. Wasim tossed his spinning cane in the air and caught it, which prompted Akmal to do the same. Then the two brothers started doing other tricks as they moved in time to the sound of the beating drums and the chant of the male voices around them.
They twirled their canes, tossed them high, and caught them with ease. Youthful and exuberant, Akmal dropped low while twirling and then came back up again. With a hearty laugh, Wasim did, too. He and his brother were soon joined by several other participants who could do tricks, and the five men put on a show.
Later, at the appointed time, Wasim and the men he chose—his brothers, Prince Kehinde, Imani’s six brothers, Farouk, Andres, and Kofi—headed toward the room where the women celebrated. He hadn’t seen Imani in forty days. Impatiently, he waited outside while the women who guarded the door announced that the men had arrived so that the women who preferred to cover their heads in a man’s presence could put back on their scarfs.
Wasim entered first and he ignored every other woman, gaze landing immediately on Imani.
His breath caught. She was stunning.
She’d chosen not to wear the typical white gown that Barrakeschi brides preferred. Instead, she wore a silk dress from Zamibia, a loose-fitting white gown trimmed in gold lace that draped over her curves in a complimentary way. The rounded neckline allowed her to display numerous gold necklaces and though the sleeves were long, he could clearly see the henna pattern on her hands and the string of gold bracelets that decorated her wrists. Her hair was covered in a white and gold head covering that matched the dress. Gold lipstick and dots below her eyes in gold face paint completed the look.
Wasim’s chest grew tight as his gaze remained on his wife. He barely heard the applause and sounds of ululation from the women who surrounded her. She was even more beautiful than he expected.
Selfishly, despite the problems between them, he knew he’d made the right decision.
And tonight he’d do everything he’d wanted to do to her ever since she stepped off the plane from Zamibia six years ago.
17
Outside the sound of fireworks over the harbor cracked like gunshots in the night and marked the end of the celebration of Imani’s and Wasim’s wedding ceremony.
Inside, Imani stood at the side of the bed in her apartment, taking deep breaths to calm her racing pulse. She hadn’t been with a man in so long she wondered if she remembered how to have sex. A few minutes ago, the maids had left after cleansing her skin, washing her face, and styling her hair, and very soon Wasim would be coming down the hall from his apartment.
Her king-sized bed was filled with fluffy pillows and covered in simple white linens, a striking contrast to the rest of the bedroom’s luxurious gold and cream decor. Above her, a wide and deep recessed ceiling with a heavy chandelier showered bright light over the room, and on either side of the headboard rested ceiling-high mirrors with an etched design. A cream European-style dresser sat against the opposite wall with a large bouquet of red roses in a vase, while its matching tables sandwiched the bed.
The complete suite included a bathroom and another room that opened through an arched doorway where she could sit and have breakfast or read in the evenings. The room was lovely and the furnishings elaborate, but they weren’t enough to make her forget that tonight was her wedding night.
She heard the door snick open and then close, and her muscles bunched with tension. The light overhead went out and only the pale golden glow from one of the lamps on the bedside tables illuminated the room.
Behind her, Wasim didn’t say a word, and she had the sudden urge to cover her body and hide the lavender silk and lace nightie that barely covered her ass and left little to the imagination.
Imani faced her husband. “Came to claim your marital rights?”
“If you think by talking to me like that you’ll turn me away, you’re mistaken.”
“Can’t blame me for trying.”
“I’m not a monster, Imani.”
“So I imagined everything that took place over the past couple of months?”
