He was sweating now. No, not everyone’s eyes were on him, some were looking away, hiding their amusement or feeling embarrassed on his behalf. He sat forward, his elbows on his knees.

In the Name of Allah, the Compassionate, the Merciful, her brother whispered helpfully.

In the Name of Allah, the Compassionate, the Merciful, he repeated, his voice hoarse but loud enough. All praise to Allah, Lord of the Worlds and the rest followed, one stammered letter after the other, one hesitant word after the other.

Silence, the scratch of a pen. His hand in her father’s hand. The Fatiha again, everyone saying it to themselves, mumbling it fast, raising their palms, Ameen, wiping their faces.

Congratulations, we’ve given her to you now. She’s all yours now.

When he saw her, when he walked down the corridor to where the women were gathered, when the door opened for him and he saw her, he could only say, oh my God, I can’t believe it! It was as if it was her and not her at the same time. Her familiar voice saying his name. Those dark slanting eye smiling at him. But her hair long and falling on her shoulders (she had had it chemically relaxed), make-up that made her glow, a secret glamour. Her dress in soft red, sleeveless, she was not thin …

God, I can’t believe it! And the few people around them laughed. A haze in the room, smoke from the incense they were burning, the perfume making him light-headed, tilting his mind, a dreaminess in the material of her dress, how altered she was, how so much more of her there was. He coughed.

Is the incense bothering you?

A blur as someone suggested that the two of them sit out on the balcony. It would be cooler there, just for a while, until they could get a lift to the hotel. He followed her out into a sultry darkness, a privacy granted without doors or curtains, the classic African sky dwarfing the city below.

She did not chat like she usually did. He could not stop staring at her and she became shy, overcome. He wanted to tell her she was beautiful, he wanted to tell her about the ceremony, about the last few days and how he had missed her, but the words, any words, wouldn’t come. He was stilled, choked by a kind of brightness.

At last she said, Can you see the henna pattern on my palms? It’s light enough.

He could trace, in the grey light of the stars, delicate leaves and swirls.

I’ll wear gloves, she said, when we go back to Scotland, I’ll wear gloves, so as not to shock everyone.

No, you needn’t do that, he said, it’s lovely.