I was hoping this would be the end of the conversation, but he followed me out into the entrance where our shoes were kept.
“You young ones. You’re always working.”
Considering I was already forty-one, I didn’t know that I would describe myself as a “young one,” but I decided not to broach that subject right now.
“What can we do? We’ve got to make ends meet, Uncle.” I shrugged and found my shoes. The uncle just watched me, not caring to find his own.
“You and your wife should pop by one evening. It’s been a while since we’ve had dinner together.”
I squeezed my shoe and took in a deep breath, trying to compose myself.
“Zainab is not my wife anymore, Uncle,” I said.
I didn’t know how many times I had to repeat it until he, and everyone else, got the message.
“How about Sunday? I’m sure you and your wife don’t have to work on Sunday, do you?” he said, ignoring me.
“We do, Uncle, and like I said, I don’t have a wife. I’m divorced? It’s been two years already.”
“Ah, nonsense,” Uncle said, dismissing my statement with a wave of his hand. “She’s still your wife. You should give it another try.”
“We can’t give it another try, Uncle. We’re gay, for crying out loud,” I said before I felt a pair of hands behind me, and Zainab pulled me back, giving a fake smile and a nod to Uncle.
“How are you?” she asked him, and we made our escape before I said something inappropriate. “Whoa, Sami, what was that all about? You know his poor heart can’t take it,” Zainab said.
“His heart couldn’t take it two years ago, either, when we first split up, but he’s still fine,” I reminded her as we went down the steps of the old, converted community center and crossed the road heading back to the town centre.
Pastor Antonia came out of her church and waved at us with a warm smile.
“Hi, kids,” she said, and we greeted her back before we resumed our walk back to town.
“You know what might help make all the uncles and aunties realize you’re gay?”
“If I start wearing leather and waving a rainbow flag around?” I raised an eyebrow, and Zainab slapped my arm.
“Don’t be stupid. You don’t have to go to those extremes. You just need to get yourself a boyfriend.”
I groaned.
“Oh yeah? Really? How did I not think of that? Oh wow, Zay, you’re a genius. Let me get that sorted right now!” I said, and my ex-wife—and best friend—rolled her eyes.
“I’m not saying it’s easy?—”
“Pfft. Easy. You have no idea how weird gay dating is. It’s nothing like you lesbians. You go on a date, profess your love for one another, and move in together the next day. Believe me when I say that isnotwhat happens on a gay first date!”
“Hey! Don’t stereotype us,” she said.
“Isn’t that what happened with you and Alina?”
Zainab bit her lip and sighed.
“Okay, yeah, but we didn’t move in thenext day.”
“Oh yeah. I’m sorry. You had the pesky little issue of divorcing me first.”
“Hey!” Zainab groaned.
I wasn’t complaining. I’d known I was gay all my life. The only reason I got married was because I thought that was what I had to do in order to keep the “sinful” thoughts at bay. Naturally, that didn’t help one bit. But luckily, I’d somehow found a queer wife. Not that we knew that at the time. We had tried to make our marriage work for years before we gave up and became pals who never slept together or tried to procreate. If it hadn’t been for Zainab’s crush on Alina, and her courage to come out, we’d probably still be living together pretending we were in love.
