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constant stream of sweat that cascaded down the sides of my torso)—and they all wore the same sweet, overpowering jasmine perfume that brought dizzying waves of nausea. A few took the time to speak to and about me with kindness, asking what it was like where I was from, and how I met Adé. Those women told me I was lucky to be marrying him, that all the girls had wanted him since he was a young boy.
So handsome!
they said.
And strong!
A few of them laughed, referring, I think, to his presumed sexual prowess.
    Other women were angry and threw cutting knives of jealousy at me with their extraordinarily expressive eyes. The movement of their hands was sharp as they spoke quickly and gestured to me, a newcomer to the circle. I could not understand what theywere saying. I wondered if one of these women had been chosen to marry Adé. I could not be sure, but I could imagine the loss of him, and what it might mean to the community—I was a foreigner, after all.
    On some days, I felt afraid, neither inside nor outside. But then the breach was always crossed in the tiny room at the top of the hill—on the bed Adé carved, in the world Adé, seemingly, built with his bare hands.
    In the evenings, Adé took me to meet the elders—the men and women who raised him, the ones who taught him how to carve, sail, and read the Qur’an. I didn’t feel as if he was seeking their approval, but after the fifth or sixth visit, I understood I was being vetted. Each night, Adé would lead me by the hand to a new part of town I did not know existed, with homes secreted behind immense carved wooden doors opening onto proper stone courtyards that to me were as grand as the Taj Majal.
    Once inside, it was always the same. Adé would sit quietly in a chair as our host asked him questions about me, my family in the U.S., and our future plans. At Adé’s every response, the host looked me over carefully, making mental notes of my features and body movements. I became quite agile at this ritual penetration, and performed the appropriate greeting and leave-takings as required.
    None of it bothered me, the strong, independent woman from America. I didn’t feel demeaned or degraded. Some would say I could feel this way because I could leave. I still had my father’s credit card and my mother’s cash. But instead, each meeting brought me closer to Adé. I understood I was his decision. And as each day passed, I grew more confident that he was mine. Whynot allow myself to be observed? I had nothing to hide. Why not stand by his side? Was there someone else, anywhere, better than him?
    Still, sometimes at night, in our bed, gripped by insecurity, I asked him why he chose me. Because you are my destiny, he might say. But this most often: because you were free to choose, and you chose me.
    One morning, Adé told me it was time to visit the
shamba.
I had no idea what this meant, only that we were leaving the island for the first time together, going to the mainland. I dressed carefully. I was not confident enough to wear my
buibui
away from home, but knew I had to approximate the effect, so I put on a black skirt and a white shirt with three-quarter sleeves. I draped my black headscarf around my shoulders, and asked Adé if I looked okay. He pulled the fabric over my head and hair and told me I looked beautiful that way, covered.
    “Why won’t you cover for me?” he asked. “I am almost your husband, and still you won’t cover for me?” And then again, “Ah, but you look like a real Swahili girl that way. Pure.”
    I laughed and brought it back down, looking into his eyes. We both knew I was not ready. He kissed me then, a long kiss in our little room before a grueling day of travel.
    We boarded the ferry. I reached for his hand, but he did not take it, which shocked me, but only for a moment. We were not walking the narrow streets of his tiny town, after all, but entering the larger world of strangers. Within the walls of our room anything was