Swallowing away the lump that had formed in my throat, I turned to Pretty, who had the decency to look guilty. ‘I can’t believe you posted this,’ I managed to say, my throat so tight that getting the words out was an ordeal. ‘How could you?’
‘It was just for laughs,’ Pretty replied lamely. ‘It’s not that deep. I can delete it if you want. Hardly anyone has seen it anyway.’
‘Thanks,’ I said flatly, looking away. Not that deep? That girl didn’t post pictures of herself on Snapchat until she had edited them to perfection, but it was fine to post a video of me looking like a maniac?
‘Ahmad’s here,’ Pinky announced, jumping up.
‘Who the hell is Ahmad?’ Pretty asked, clearly grateful for the change of subject and pace.
‘The taxi driver. Come on, let’s go. We have an aeroplane to jump out of.’
I didn’t have time to process the awful video because the next traumatic event was already looming. Not for the first time, I cursed Noah and his blasted list as I sat waiting on the plane, strapped to my instructor.
We had spent the past few hours being trained and briefed on the procedure. I barely listened to a word they said, I was so furious about the video. This trip was supposed to be epic. It was the first time I had gone on holiday with the girls and I was going above and beyond what was required from me to complete the list. I was beginning to make my own list, forge my own path. And now it was tainted.
Pinky sat next to me and Pretty was across from us. Both had their eyes squeezed closed and their fists scrunched up so tight that their knuckles had turned white from the pressure. Above the sound of the plane, I thought I could hear Pinky muttering prayers. Feeling faint from nerves, I closed my eyes and did the same, reciting every dua that came to mind. Ayatul kursi for protection, the travelling dua, the one the Prophet Yunus – or Jonah, as he was known in the Bible – recited when he was stuck in the belly of the whale. When I ran out of the relevant ones, I prayed whatever came to mind: the sleeping dua, eating dua, the prayer for rainfall. Everything and anything to calm myself down.
The speed with which life was racing by was insane. One minute I was in London, excited about finally getting my place at uni and holding Dina’s baby . . . and the next I was on a bloody plane, strapped onto a burly South African man called François, about to fall to my death.
One by one, the others in our group leapt out of the plane. Then it was Pretty, followed by Pinky and before I knew it, it was my turn. I stood frozen, unable to move closer to the opening.
‘I can’t do this!’ I shouted above the noise of the plane, as François all but dragged me to the opening where we were going to fall from 13,000 feet. My legs began to shake so violently that if he hadn’t been strapped to me, I would have collapsed.
‘You can, Maya! I’ll be with you every second, don’t worry!’ François shouted back, a massive grin on his face. ‘You won’t regret this, trust me. No one ever does. But if you don’t do it, you will regret it.’
The opening was right in front of us now. The wind was fierce, whipping violently around us. I squeezed my eyes closed, my heart lodged in my mouth, pounding louder than the wind. Lenny, the cameraman, gave me a thumbs up and promptly jumped out of the plane. I stifled a scream. Ya Allah please do not let me die today! Please don’t injure me! Please let the parachute open!
‘You’ve got this, Maya! Let’s do it!’ François positioned us in front of the opening, lifting me up when my legs refused to cooperate. ‘Three . . . Two . . . One . . .’
BISMILLAH.
Then we were out, careening towards the ground at 120 miles per hour.
‘OH MY GOOOD!’ I screamed as we fell, the wind and the pressure pulling my cheeks away from my face, making my eyes bulge out. A moment later, I felt a tug, then resistance and then the parachute had been activated. It worked! ALHAMDULILLAH, it worked! I wasn’t going smash into the ground and shatter every one of my bones. It bloody hurt though – the G-force causing the straps to cut into my thighs.
Once the parachute had been activated, I dared to open my eyes to the sight of the magnificent Palm Island, spread out below, surrounded by turquoise sea. Subhanallah, it was spectacular. We were no longer speeding down towards the ground, but gliding. I soaked it all up in awe, like a sponge in water. It was utterly breathtaking.
It was over all too soon and as we reached the ground, I bent my knees and braced myself for the impact, but it wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. I hit the ground, fell backwards and slid on my bum across the grass until I eventually came to a stop.
My cousins were waiting for me in the lounge and I wobbled my way over to them, my legs shaking from the adrenaline, a massive grin plastered on my face. As soon as they saw me, they began to jump up and down, screaming. I did the same and we hugged each other and continued to shriek, the earlier confrontation forgotten as we united over our shared experience of narrowly missing death.
That evening we went out to celebrate at a fancy restaurant. It was our last night in Dubai and our morning flight meant that we wouldn’t be getting any sleep, so we might as well enjoy our last moments.
The three of us went all out with our clothes and makeup. Pretty was in a slinky, black calf-length dress with sky-high stilettos. Pinky was more modest, in a teal-coloured jumpsuit and gold hijab. I wore a red satin maxi-dress and with the help of the twins, applied matching lipstick and fake lashes. It was difficult to walk though, with all the bruises on my thighs from the parachute straps digging into them. It was worth it. I probably wouldn’t be able to do it again – the hours before the jump were too stressful – but I was glad I had done it.
At least eight men tried to get our numbers, from Emiratis to a couple of white Brits. There must have been something in the water, I told myself, when the eighth guy, a good-looking Emirati in a pristine long white thobe, placed three business cards on our table as he walked past. Pretty was documenting the entire thing on Snapchat, capturing our giggles and our commentary.
‘I can’t believe he left three cards,’ Pinky laughed, grabbing the shisha pipe and inhaling it like she was breathing in fresh air. ‘Talk about not putting all your eggs in one basket.’
‘What happens if we all call him?’ I mused, stealing the pipe back.
‘Ménage arba’ah?’ Pretty quipped, using the Arabic for ‘four’.
‘Gross,’ we all said in unison.
I took my phone out to take some pictures and nearly dropped it into my plate of kunafeh when I saw that I had a text from Zakariya. There had been no meaningful communication between us for so long, so I stared at the phone in confusion, unsure how I should feel:
ZAKARIYA: Salaams Maya, how are you? How’s it going in Dubai?
I continued to stare at the message, wondering if I should reply. Who did he think he was, texting me out of the blue after ghosting me for weeks? It was unacceptable. I began to type this out and then stopped when common sense prevailed. I deleted the rant and put my phone down. Seconds later, another text came through:
ZAKARIYA: What’s happening? You were typing something and then stopped?
What the hell? Was he stalking me? Something in my face must have given away the irritation and confusion I was experiencing because Pinky picked up on it immediately. Pretty was too busy smoking and tracing her fingers over the embossed business card of ‘Salah Al Din Al Hashimi – CFO – Al Hashimi Group’ to pay attention to me.
‘What’s wrong? Has something happened?’ Pinky asked, worried.
