The Halal Butcher's Daughter | بنت الجزار الحلال
"He comes to the Birmingham shop for meat. He stays for the woman behind the counter—thick, sharp-tongued, and absolutely off-limits as his friend's sister."
The Halal Butcher's Daughter
بنت الجزار الحلال
Ahmed's Halal Meats has been on Stratford Road for forty years.
I've been coming here since I moved to Birmingham for uni—Imran, my best mate, is the owner's son. Free lamb chops are a powerful motivator for friendship.
But it's not the lamb that keeps me coming back now.
It's Zahra.
Imran's older sister.
Thirty-five, divorced, back home helping in the family shop. She's got curves that her modest clothes can't hide and a tongue sharper than the knives in the display case.
"You again?" she says when I walk in. "Don't you own a kitchen?"
"I own a kitchen. I just don't own a butcher who knows the difference between halal and haram."
"Flatterer." But she almost smiles. "What do you want?"
You, I think. I want you.
"Chicken. Whatever's fresh."
Imran is my brother in everything but blood.
We grew up together in London before his family moved to Birmingham. He was my roommate at Manchester. Best man at my wedding—and the shoulder I cried on when that marriage ended two years later.
I cannot want his sister.
I want his sister.
"She's off-limits," I tell my reflection every morning.
My reflection doesn't care.
Every Saturday, I come to the shop.
"You're here more than the meat," Ahmed bhai says, laughing. "Take a job! We'll pay you in kebabs."
"Just supporting local business, uncle."
He doesn't notice how my eyes follow Zahra as she moves through the shop. How I time my visits for when Imran isn't there and she's working alone.
How I've memorized her schedule like a stalker.
"Why do you really come here?" she asks one day.
We're alone. Ahmed bhai is at the mosque. Imran is making deliveries.
"The meat."
"Bullshit." She leans on the counter. "There's a halal butcher two streets from your flat. I checked."
"You checked?"
"I'm thorough." Her eyes narrow. "So. Why?"
"I like the company," I admit.
"You like me."
"Is that a problem?"
"It's a problem because you're Imran's best friend. It's a problem because I'm divorced and thirty-five and live with my parents. It's a problem because—"
"Because what?"
She doesn't answer.
"Because I like you too," she says finally. "And I shouldn't."
"Why not?"
"Because nothing good can come from this. We're not teenagers. I'm not going to sneak around behind my family's back."
"What if it wasn't sneaking? What if I talked to Imran? To your father?"
"About what? Dating? We're not white people. Our families don't do 'dating.'"
"Then I'll do it properly," I say.
"What?"
"Rishta. I'll send my mother. She'll talk to your mother. We'll do it the halal way."
"You're mad." But her eyes are shining. "We've never even had a proper conversation."
"We're having one now." I reach across the counter, take her hand. "I've watched you for two years, Zahra. I know you're kind—I've seen how you treat the customers. I know you're smart—you've got an accounting degree you don't use. I know you're lonely—"
"Don't."
"I'm lonely too. And I'm tired of pretending I come here for lamb."
She pulls her hand away.
"This is insane."
"Probably."
"Imran will kill you."
"Probably."
"My father will never agree."
"Let me worry about that." I lean closer. "Say yes, Zahra. Say yes to letting me try."
She says yes.
I tell Imran first.
We're at his flat, watching Arsenal lose again. I turn off the TV.
"I need to tell you something. And you're going to want to hit me."
"What did you do?"
"I want to marry your sister."
He does want to hit me.
For about thirty seconds. Then he bursts out laughing.
"Took you long enough."
"What?"
"Brother, I've watched you stare at her for two years. I was starting to think you'd never grow a spine." He punches my shoulder. "But if you hurt her, I will actually kill you."
"I won't hurt her."
"You better not. She's been through enough."
My mother is less easy to convince.
"A divorced woman? Who works in a butcher shop?"
"A woman with a degree who helps her family business. Would you prefer I stay single forever?"
"I'd prefer you marry that nice girl from the Siddiqui family—"
"Ammi. Zahra. That's who I want."
She sighs. "Fine. I'll talk to her mother."
The rishta process is excruciating.
Mothers meeting mothers. Fathers meeting fathers. Questions about finances, living arrangements, expectations. Both families scrutinizing everything.
But finally, finally, they agree.
The engagement party is at the shop.
Closed for the evening, transformed with lights and flowers. Zahra in a red shalwar kameez that makes my heart stop.
"We did it," she whispers when we're alone.
"We did it." I want to kiss her. I don't—too many eyes. "Four more months."
"Four more months of being proper."
"I can be proper."
"Can you?" She smirks. "Because I've seen how you look at me."
I cannot be proper.
Not entirely.
The first kiss happens in the shop's storage room.
She's doing inventory. I bring dinner. One thing leads to another.
"We shouldn't," she says against my mouth.
"I know."
"Anyone could walk in."
"I know."
"More."
We don't go further than kissing.
Not then. But the kisses become more urgent as the wedding approaches. Hands wander. Boundaries blur.
One week before the wedding, I find her alone in the shop after closing.
"I can't wait anymore," she confesses. "I'm going crazy."
"Seven more days."
"Seven days is forever." She pulls me into the storage room. "Just... not everything. But something. Please."
"Something" turns into me on my knees.
Her shalwar pushed down, her back against the wall, my mouth between her thick thighs.
"Oh God—ya Allah—"
"Quiet. Your father's upstairs."
"I'm trying—I can't—"
She comes with her hand over her mouth, muffling the sounds. I stand, kiss her, let her taste herself.
"One week," I promise.
"One week."
The wedding is three hundred people.
Proper Pakistani affair. Mehndi, baraat, walima, all of it. I barely see her through the chaos.
But finally, finally, we're alone.
Our new flat. Our new life.
"Wife," I say.
"Husband." She grins. "Now. Do what you've been wanting to do since you first walked into that shop."
I worship her.
Every curve. Every fold. Every inch of the body I've been dreaming about for two years. She's soft in all the right places—hips I can grip, thighs that cushion me, breasts that spill over my hands.
"You're beautiful," I tell her.
"I'm fat."
"You're perfect." I kiss her belly. "Don't argue with your husband."
She laughs until I make her moan.
I take her properly that night.
Slowly, because it's been four years since her divorce and she's nervous. Gently, because I want to remember every sensation.
"Okay?" I ask as I slide inside.
"More than okay." She wraps her legs around me. "Don't be gentle anymore."
I'm not gentle anymore.
We christen every room in the flat.
The bedroom, obviously. The kitchen counter. The shower, which is more difficult than the movies suggest. The couch, while her parents think we're at dinner.
"We're going to get caught," she giggles.
"We're married. It's halal now."
"Try explaining that to my mother."
One year later
The shop is busy on Saturday.
I'm behind the counter now—part of the family, part of the business. Zahra handles the books in the back.
"You're here more than the meat," a customer jokes.
"Part of the package deal." I wrap his lamb. "Comes with the wife."
Zahra emerges from the back.
She's showing now—five months pregnant, glowing in a way that makes my chest tight.
"Taking your break?" I ask.
"Ten minutes. Coming?"
The storage room is the same.
Same shelves, same cold air, same spot against the wall where it all started.
"We shouldn't," she says as I pull her close.
"Probably not."
"Someone could—"
"I know."
I kiss her anyway. She kisses back.
Some things never change.
Bismillah.
In the name of God.
For halal meat.
For halal love.
For a life I never expected to find.
In a butcher shop on Stratford Road.
The End.