Ayesha At Last(96)
Khalid sat down and looked genially at his former boss. “Hello, Sheila.” He figured he had the upper hand for another few minutes, until the shock of seeing him wore off. After that, she would remember that she had fired him ten days ago and call security.
He took a deep, calming breath and smiled at her, channelling his inner shark, or at least, dolphin. “This is a courtesy visit. I have such happy memories of Livetech. Did you know I worked here as an intern in university? John, the director before you, hired me as soon as I graduated. I would hate to sour my fond memories with anything as ugly as a lawsuit.”
Sheila leaned back, trying to regain control of the situation. “Pornography was found on your workstation, a clear violation of the employee code of conduct. You were terminated as a result. Any lawsuit would be dismissed immediately.”
“Yet when Amir confessed he was the one who paid for the subscription and showed you the network log and receipts, you did nothing.”
“You have no proof of that,” Sheila said quickly.
“Admit it, Sheila. You don’t like me because I’m Muslim.”
Sheila pasted a wounded look on her face. “I find that highly insulting. Amir still works here.”
“Amir is a light-skinned Persian man who does not identify as Muslim. My appearance makes you uncomfortable.”
“Employee dress code—” Sheila started, but Khalid interrupted her by pulling out a printed copy of Livetech’s code of conduct. He took his time riffling through the pages before reading aloud:
“‘Livetech recognizes the rights of all employees to express their religious beliefs through dress and behaviour. Livetech encourages all such religious freedoms and supports a diverse and respectful work environment.’”
Sheila blanched. “Well, in your case . . .” she said, stumbling over her words.
“I’m a peaceful man,” Khalid said. He realized he was enjoying himself. “But when the NCCM—a Muslim advocacy group, perhaps you have heard of them?—approached me looking for a test case on workplace Islamophobia, I considered it my duty to speak up.”
Sheila straightened. “You can’t prove anything.”
Khalid leaned forward and placed his iPhone on the table. He pressed Play and Sheila’s voice was clear: “I can’t stand men like Khalid. They come to our country and expect us to change everything for them. He’s probably got some sixteen-year-old virgin waiting for him in the desert.”
Khalid pressed pause. “There’s video too,” he said.
For a moment, Sheila said nothing. “What do you want?” she asked.
“I’m a reasonable man. I know you probably don’t hate an entire religious group, not all 1.8 billion of us. I know this all boils down to money. You presented the website I made to WomenFirst Design and took all the credit. I’m going to call them today and explain the situation. And when they offer me a job, Livetech will not sue me for non-competition. Because if they do, I’ll come straight back here to your office. With my lawyer.”
“Khalid, be reasonable. It’s a twelve-million-dollar account!”
Khalid stood up, looking down at Sheila. From this vantage point, she looked so small. “Then consider this a very expensive lesson on the dangers of workplace discrimination. The choice is yours.”
Sheila didn’t look at him as he left her office. Outside, he texted Amir:
It’s done. Thanks for the audio file and the makeover.
Clara emerged from the side entrance where she had been waiting and stood beside Khalid.
“How did it go?” she asked.
“She crumpled like a used tissue.”
“Gross.” Clara eyed the suit. “Somehow, the makeover just isn’t . . . you.”
Khalid loosened his tie and ran a hand through his neatly combed hair, messing it up. “What about now?”
“I miss the white dress.”
“I think I held on to the robe for too long. Just like I held on to some other things. But I’m learning to let go and ‘edit,’ as Amir would say.”
They smiled at each other.
“Thank you,” Khalid said. “For everything. Please let me know if I can return the favour.”
Clara was thoughtful. “Actually, I’ve been thinking about what you said before. About your Prophet Muhammad and his wife Khadijah.”
Chapter Forty-Five
Love Comes from Below
The words fall from above, dust in an old house
Coating everything, blurring lines, softening forms, covering up Love rises, a well filled for the first time,
Drop by drop
Transparent and clean, giver of hope and life
I see you now.
I see myself.
I see us.
I’m ready
For something new.
Ayesha sat back, frowning at the words. She was sitting on a bench near the baseball diamond outside Brookridge High, enjoying a moment of quiet after school. The poem was rough, but it felt like a distilled truth. She flipped through the pages of her blue notebook, reading over the half-dozen poems she had written in the past two weeks, since Hafsa’s return. One way or another, they all said the same thing: She was ready for change, ready for something different.
In reality, not much had changed since the general body meeting. Though Tarek had returned the money as promised, the mosque’s financial future remained uncertain, and her family was still tainted. Samira Aunty’s story (Hafsa had been kidnapped by a con man and held for ransom) didn’t hold much water with the Aunty Brigade, who were busy feeding off the entrails of the biggest scandal to rock their community in years. But her aunt was an old hand at the rumour mill; she knew things would settle down, eventually.