She Wore Red Trainers. Na'ima B. Robert
to take care of me.’
Zayd groaned. ‘What’s with all this women’s lib stuff? Is that what they taught you in that school of yours? A woman’s place…’
I put up my hand and started shouting over him. ‘OK, OK, Zee, give it a rest! Let’s just agree to disagree, yeah? Because, if you think I’m going to be one of those deadbeat sisters on the dole, popping kids out every year, you’ve got another thing coming.’
I could have slapped that look of pity off his face. ‘You have much to learn, young grasshopper,’ he said, smiling. ‘For now, though, you can do the kids on Saturday mornings while I sleep in, all right?’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ I growled. ‘I guess that’s fair enough.’
Zayd knew just how to wind me up. Most girls who had been brought up in a strict, conservative Muslim family like mine, praying, wearing hijab since the age of seven, with a stay-at-home mum who never finished school herself, would have had no problem with my brother’s jibes. What he was teasing me about was the reality for most of the girls I grew up with: finish as much school as you can (GCSEs, if possible) and then hurry up and get married. Getting married was the biggest milestone, the one piece of news a girl’s parents would make sure they shared with the whole community. Once you’re married, you’re safe: you’re off the streets, you’re not a fitnah, a trial, you’ve got someone to take care of you. This was my background, these were the ideas I grew up hearing. But I was never like the other girls. You could say I was cut from a different cloth.
***
I looked in on Mum just before I left with the kids. I wanted to remind her that I was planning to go to the park to do some sketching after I had dropped the kids. I knew that she probably wouldn’t remember and would start worrying if I didn’t come straight back after the masjid.
The curtains were drawn and the room felt hot and stuffy. Mum was curled up in bed still, her hair spread over the pillow, a frown line between her eyebrows. I stroked her hair, tucking it behind her ear, and kissed her cheek. Her skin felt hot and damp.
‘I’m sorry, Mum,’ I whispered. ‘I’m sorry.’
As we left the house and walked down the close to catch the bus on the main road, I looked up at Mum’s window. The left side of the curtain was sagging badly, right where the broken glass had been sealed with masking tape, months before. Abu Malik was meant to have had the glass replaced but, obviously, he’d never got round to it.
O Allah, I prayed silently, take me away from all of this.
3
The drive into London took forever, mainly due to an accident on the motorway. We drove down with Dad on Thursday afternoon to make sure that the house was ready for the movers who were due over the weekend.
I must admit, even though Dad took great pains to explain the difference between a housing estate and a housing association, I was expecting the worst: grim estates decked out with rusting swings and dog mess on the scratchy lawns.
But our route took us through the bustle of Brixton, up tree-lined roads, past a beautiful park with a country house perched on a hill, to the gates of our new home. Looking around as we drove up the driveway, I could feel my heart rate start to slow down and the dread I had been unconsciously holding onto, easing away. The houses were neat, well looked after. Good cars stood in the private driveways and the close was flanked on one side by sky-high oak trees.
‘You sure this is it, Dad?’ I asked, suddenly anxious to check that this was the right place, that I hadn’t got my hopes up for nothing. ‘It doesn’t look that bad…’
Dad smiled, ‘Uncle Kareem wouldn’t invite us to stay in a dump, Ali.’
Umar kissed his teeth and scrunched down further in his seat, his eyes fixed on the phone he held in front of him.
‘I can’t wait to see what it looks like inside!’ Jamal was jumping up and down with excitement.
Dad chuckled and tossed him the keys. ‘Do the honours, son.’
And Jamal duly unlocked the door of our new home and let us in.
***
We went to pray the Friday prayers at the local mosque the next day and, as far as I was concerned, we stuck out like sore thumbs, even amongst other Muslims. We were obviously strangers, new to the community: we dressed differently, spoke differently, didn’t know anyone. But one of the brothers made his way over to us like it was the most natural thing in the world.
‘As-salamu ‘alaykum. My name’s Usamah.’ As tall as Dad, maybe even taller, dressed in a brown linen thobe with a crisp white turban tied around his head, he greeted us with such a smile, such easy confidence, that Dad was caught off guard. ‘Mashallah, fine set of boys you’ve got here, sir,’ he smiled, shaking us all by the hand, and giving Jamal a mock punch on the shoulder. ‘Y’all new to the masjid?’
‘Yes, we are,’ Dad answered him. ‘It’s our first time here as a family.’ Then he frowned. ‘Well, the boys’ mother – my late wife - and I visited a friend here a few times when we were newly married. But we moved out of London and didn’t come back here again…’
I stared at Dad. It wasn’t like him to speak so candidly – and to a stranger at that.
Usamah bowed his head slightly and said a brief prayer, then looked up at all of us. ‘May Allah make it easy for all of you,’ he said quietly. ‘Losing someone that close is never easy.’
I shifted on my feet then, feeling bare and exposed in the crowded prayer hall. How are you supposed to respond to a statement like that?
But Dad didn’t seem to be having any problems. He answered the brother’s questions about our family, where we were living, what we thought of the khutbah – totally unlike his usual reserved self.
Although I wasn’t at all comfortable with the upfront disclosure that was going on, I found myself warming to Usamah. He seemed laid-back but had a serious, focused look in his eyes; his manner was confident but humble, in that spiritual sort of way that you read about but seldom encounter. I decided to suspend judgement.
Somehow, we found ourselves talking about sports and, once he heard that I had been on the school rugby and basketball teams, he laughed. ‘No wonder you’re so pumped up, bro!’ And he invited me to play basketball with him and some other Muslim brothers the next morning.
‘I’ll introduce you to the brothers,’ he said, full of confidence. ‘It will make settling in easier.’
And then he was gone, off to greet the imam of the mosque and get himself some fried chicken from the food trailer parked outside the mosque.
‘Mashallah,’ said Dad, with a smile, ‘he seems like a nice brother…’
Umar scowled. ‘What’s with the wacky dress sense?’ he growled, then kissed his teeth and went to sit on the low wall outside the mosque, his hood over his head, his hands stuck deep in his pockets.
He stayed there, detached, not responding to anyone’s salam or attempts at conversation, until it was time to go.
‘He’ll come round,’ Dad had said.
‘Inshallah, Dad,’ had been my response.
***
By the time I reached the basketball courts on the other side of the park, the brothers were already there, messing about with the ball, shooting hoops, showing off to no one in particular. When I came the first time with Usamah, things were a little awkward but everyone relaxed once they saw that I could play. Now, it felt like I’d been playing with them forever.
I tossed my bag onto the nearest bleacher and called out, ‘Hey!’ My feet were itching to feel the heat of the court, my hands eager for the ball’s rough surface.
The three of them