The Consequences of Love

A startling and sensuous debut novel set in Saudi Arabia, "The Consequences of Love" tells the story of a young immigrant and a veiled girl as they defy strict Muslim laws in their attempt to be together.

SULAIMAN ADDONIA was born in 1974 in Eritrea, Africa. After spending most of his early life in a refugee camp in the Sudan, he emigrated first to Saudi Arabia, and later to England for political asylum. The Consequences of Love is his first novel. He now lives in London.

The evening of the second Friday in July was an evening of departures. It was 1989 and Jeddah was about to be abandoned by all of those who could afford a holiday. I had left my window open to let the humid breeze into my room. I breathed in the spicy kebsa meat mixed with the spice of men’s cologne; the smells of the day turning into night.

The phone was ringing. After six rings I picked up. It was Jasim. He wanted me to come to the café to say goodbye. He was off to Paris the following day. He regularly traveled abroad and always came back from his trips with presents; he claimed they would encourage sensuality in those he loved.

He also said that I needed to collect the latest of my letters to my mother. I had tried many times to send letters home but they were always returned to sender. I had used Jasim’s café as my return address ever since I had known him.

at that time I lived in a tiny apartment in a small two-story building. It was all I could afford, given that I was earning just four hundred rials a month at the car wash. The apartment was at the poor end of a long street that swelled at the middle, like a man with a big belly and long thin legs. At the rotary it was surrounded by shops and restaurants, before it stretched thin again all the way to Kharentina.

By day, its rows of white-painted buildings glistened under the sun and men in white thobes outnumbered women in black abayas. The scene made you feel like you were in an old black-and-white movie.

I walked past the villas, where the breeze had turned the garden trees into slow-moving ballerinas. Peering down Al-Nuzla Street, I could see the tallest building of our neighborhood. It stood out because of its nine floors and was well-known for the rich people who lived in it.

In front of me, on the pavement, two young men were strolling, holding each other’s hands. They made their way into the Yemeni shop. A few moments later I stopped to let a man pass, dressed in jallabiyah and tagiyah and carrying a box full of plastic Pepsi bottles. I tucked my T-shirt into my tracksuit and continued.

The fragrance of musk filled my nostrils. It meant I was getting close to the biggest mosque in the neighborhood. At one time I had been living with my uncle right next to the mosque; my new home was a few blocks away on the same street, but this mosque was still the closest.

I saw a group of six bearded men standing outside. They stood so close to one another that they looked like they were joined at the hips and shoulders.

They stepped aside to give way to the blind imam who was leaving the mosque. It was because of him that I no longer attended prayers. He was clutching the arm of a tall man who was holding a black leather bag. Their long beards quivered softly in the wind.

I quickly crossed the road and bowed my head as I started to walk in the opposite direction to where they were heading.

Then suddenly, a familiar Jeep with shaded windows swerved toward me and screeched to a halt. I froze. Religious police. I wanted to run but my legs felt heavy. Three bearded men jumped out and came toward me. I couldn’t move an inch. But they passed and entered the building behind me.

Seconds later, they came out of the building with Muhssin. Although I had never spoken to him, I recognized him from school. Muhssin was unmistakable—he modeled his look on the romantic style of Omar Sharif, the Egyptian actor from the sixties. I pulled myself back to the wall. Muhssin’s mother followed them, weeping, begging them to spare her son for the sake of Allah.

“Please forgive him, he is my only son, my only breadwinner. Allah is merciful. Allah is love.” The religious policemen shoved Muhssin into their Jeep and turned to his mother.

One of them brandished a stick and ran toward her, yelling, “Go inside and cover your face, may Allah curse

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Excerpted from The Consequences of Love by Sulaiman S. M Y. Addonia
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