“He wanted me to have an abortion,” Verena said. Malaika was nine years old. “But I refused. He told me that if I decided to keep you, then he wouldn’t see me anymore. As if I’d want to see that wixer after that.” Verena had met Gustav when she was eighteen years old, and backpacking through South Africa. Meeting him had made her stay in the country, though Verena often insisted that she felt at home in South Africa for other reasons, too: the weather, the lush, natural beauty. It was so different from her native Switzerland, so much warmer and full of color. But she’d gone back to Basel as soon as Gustav ended things with her. “The only thing I brought back from Cape Town was your name: Malaika. It’s so pretty, isn’t it?” But Malaika didn’t care about the origins of her name. She wanted to learn more about her dad.
“Has he ever tried to find me?”
“No, my liebling. I’m sorry.”
Learning the truth about her father had seeded in Malaika an unshakable notion that men should not be trusted. When all her friends turned fifteen and began talking about boys with the same enthusiasm that they used to talk about dolls, Malaika felt uncomfortable and out of place. She channeled her budding adolescent energy into her true passion: fashion. She’d begun making clothes when she was eight years old, at first for her dolls, and then for herself. As a teenager, she took pictures of everything that inspired her, from funky looks she saw on random strangers, to collages she made out of magazine cut-outs, to her own outfits. Her Instagram account took off: soon she had over twenty thousand followers. She spent hours tweeting and snapping about the various fashion shows in Europe and successfully predicted new trends before moguls like Vogue or Harper’s Bazaar.
It wasn’t until she was sixteen that Malaika began to think that the real problem wasn’t men, but rather her mother’s choice in men. According to Verena, Gustav was the most attractive guy she had ever seen: a bad boy with a mischievous streak and a family of his own. He was supercilious and arrogant—Verena had readily admitted as much. Why she’d expected him to morph into prince charming when she got pregnant was beyond comprehension. Verena had gotten the thrills that come from being with someone exciting and daring, but she had also suffered the consequences.
Malaika would do things differently.
To her friends, Hans was an unexpected choice for a boyfriend. He was shy and more than a little awkward, not to mention six months younger than Malaika. But he was also kind and sweet—and, more importantly, he worshiped her. Hans called when he said he would, walked her home from school every day, and used his money to buy her ice cream and fabrics. She had no intention of getting pregnant, but she knew that, if that were to happen, he would support her emotionally and financially.
Verena saw the wisdom in Malaika’s choice of men. “You know how to pick them.”
Even her friends eventually understood. “You’re, like, his queen,” they said, awestruck. “He reveres you.”
But after one full year of dating Hans, Malaika was bored. So bored that she decided to break up with him. It wasn’t fair on poor Hans—he hadn’t done anything wrong—but Malaika felt suffocated. Hans wrote too many love notes, called too often. Malaika was beginning to understand why her mother had succumbed to a bad boy—being on the receiving end of tireless, unconditional devotion was stifling.
Predictably, Hans was heartbroken. He began following her around, pleading with her to take him back. Her friends started calling him her shadow and went as far as to take pictures of him trailing her and posting them on Instagram. He was labeled a stalker, a freak.
Malaika was able to get her friends to delete the pictures. Still, she felt awful about the teasing. Hans was being ridiculed and it was all her fault. And so, she agreed to meet with him, to have one last conversation about their relationship. Seeing his love for her reflected in his wide, pleading eyes led to the stupidest decision of her life: she couldn’t take him back, but she agreed to spend one last night with him. A terrible idea: like rubbing a ketchup stain on a white blouse, it would only make it harder to remove. But Hans had insisted that all he needed was one last memory of her. Malaika didn’t have the heart to say no. He had been so kind to her, so loyal and loving. She felt as though she owed it to him. Owed him her time, her body—one final time. It was the least she could do.
They met at his house and he made love to her with a ferocity that he had never shown before, like he was trying to pound away his feelings. She didn’t know whether it was his animalistic energy or her guilt, but Malaika found herself reciprocating with gusto, moaning in pleasure. When they were done, she leaned over to kiss him, but he turned his face. At the time, she had interpreted the gesture as one of sadness. Their time together was over, after all.
Three days later, Malaika got a call from her best friend, Lena. Did Malaika know about the video going around? Lena’s tone had been tentative, embarrassed. It had taken a few minutes for Malaika to understand what Lena was saying: there was a sex video going around their school. A sex video featuring Malaika.
At first, Malaika didn’t believe Lena—Hans was the sweetest boy in the world, he loved her. But then Malaika saw the video and she began replaying the night in her mind. How he had insisted that they go to his place. The viciousness with which he approached her, mounting her like
