The Reluctant Mullah

by Sagheer Afzal

  Suleiman stood transfixed as he remembered.

  He was in year ten at Compton High School, sitting in the row behind the clever group, the kids who were quiet when the teacher spoke and always put their hand up when they were asked a question. One such was Roopa Shah. She was taking her GCSEs a year early. Suleiman always sat behind her. For some reason he never tried to annoy her or even speak to her although he often threw screwed up bits of paper at the rest of the boffins. Roopa was very much the looker whose number everyone wanted. She had short hair and a Mickey Mouse watch he recalled. And on the back of her neck was a tattoo of a starfish.

  “What’s your name?” asked Suleiman.

  She looked up and her eyes narrowed suspiciously.

  “Why?”

  “Don’t worry I’m not gonna ask you for anything else.”

  She considered his response. Still wary, she replied, “Roopa.”

  “How did you get into drugs?”

  No more than a whisper, his voice disarmed her. Her mouth opened and the hollows of her face widened in a mutation of what had once been a smile.

  “My boyfriend used to give me them when I was feeling a bit down or when I was getting stressed. Then I started getting the habit.”

  “Where did your boyfriend get them from?”

  “From you.”

  “Me?” exclaimed Suleiman.

  “Yeah…Pedro.”

  Pedro Ramos. A tall man with shifty eyes and a perpetual half smile. Pedro, who asked no questions and was prompt with payment. He had realised that Pedro was not a user and was probably re-selling his drugs but that never bothered him. As long as he had his money, the chain of consequence and distribution was as flimsy as a spider’s web. Pedro Ramos had used his drugs to turn Roopa Shah into a whore.

  And now Suleiman, the pharaoh in his pyramid, stood looking at this creature that he had once admired from afar. She was now his own creation, his own vile, shameful creation, who reeked of semen and drugs.

  “Can I go now?” she asked.

  Suleiman nodded and Roopa took the packet with a sigh of relief.

  He heard her close the outside door but he did not replace the padlock. He closed his eyes and raised a hand to his brow. It was coming. A vein in his forehead seemed to swell a little and throb. Something inside him was starting to become naked. It was slow and cold like someone peeling off the layers of his skin with an icy knife. It felt like his father’s cold eyes boring into him and lacerating him with shame. The shame of children who are nothing in their father’s eyes. The pain of grown men who know they can never be what they were meant to be. The awful truth of knowing who you really are.

  If only he could make himself believe he was better than what he was. He had seen guys do that. They would make a little world inside their heads and become kings and strut around and talk loudly and brashly: he could never do that. But because he was a tough bastard and because shit happens and people get hurt, he knew there was no place for regret if you wanted to get on in life. That’s what he often said to himself and some days it worked. Everyone knew he was a tough bastard and nothing and nobody could make him do what he didn’t want to do. He was his own man. And that was something to be proud of, he convinced himself.

  “My own man,” he repeated aloud.

  Suleiman checked his watch. His family would be expecting him home soon but first he needed something to pull himself together. He went to the fridge and pulled out a bottle of King Cobra. He downed the contents and reached for another, feeling the alcohol begin to do its work.

  It wasn’t his fault, really it wasn’t. When Aboo got laid off work and told his sons to step up and take the responsibility that meant him. He was twenty and going nowhere. He had been no good at school, no good at those stupid courses they made him do after he left school. That was it you see. He was never any fucking good. He got a job but it didn’t pay enough. Aboo needed money to send home. His mum needed money and he wanted Shabnam to have nice things so she wouldn’t feel bad. And there were Musa’s boarding school fees. Aboo was so fucking obsessed about wanting Musa to memorise the Quran and become a Holy Man and take him to paradise. So he had to do something and that was that. He was a whore just like Roopa.

  And now he could not walk steadily. He would feel ashamed if his parents saw him like this and at that moment a phrase his father often used flashed through his mind. “The best son is the son who has shame in front of his parents.” Shame…look how much shame he had. How his father would be proud of him! The thought made him laugh uncontrollably. But just as the face of Roopa Shah had changed, Suleiman’s laughter became ugly and hard. The torrent of shame ran through him anointing him with tears and crucifying him with truth. He became a martyr on that battlefield where sons searched for their fathers, who in turn searched for their sons, stumbling upon the corpses of broken dreams.

  14

  The rain beat down. At times like this the homeowners, men whose toil and strife had secured for them a stronghold against inclement elements, found themselves in desperate need to hear their own voice. Aboo felt this need keenly. Now, by the side of his father, the patriarch, he was compelled to hurl his weight at his family whilst awaiting the arrival of another prospective bride for Musa.

  “Auntyji? Huh! This is what it has come down to. I spend my life trying to provide for you and educate you and in the end you go and ask this bloody woman to find a wife for Musa.” He shook his head in disgust.

  “Stop being such a drama queen, Aboo. We all agreed to help Musa and even Dadaji said it was OK.”

  The family, with the exception of Suleiman, waited in the living room. Musa deliberately sat facing the door as he wanted to be the first to drink from the eyes of his intended. Amma, worn with worry, noticed that her daughter for some reason had chosen to dress conservatively. Shabnam’s attire was without adornment; just a simple dark blue tunic with a high stiff neckline and dark trousers and her hair was pulled into a tight bun.

  “What exactly did she say to you?”

  “How many times have I got to repeat this? I rang up and an operator asked me for some options.”

  “Options?” exclaimed Aboo.

  “Yes, Aboo, options. Such things do exist when people consider marriage.”

  “And then what?” asked Amma.

  “And then I specified that I was looking for a decent Muslim girl, who wants very much to live with her in-laws.”

  Aboo’s mask of disapproval slipped for a second to reveal a pleased smile. “I said that she must be a practising Muslim who is suitably veiled.”

  “That’s it?” said Amma incredulously.

  “Pretty much. I had to pay her of course. I used your card Aboo.” Shabnam grinned at her father’s furious reaction.

  “My card? My bank card? That card was only supposed to be used in emergencies! What has this blasted society done to you? You go off spending your parents’ money on stupid things. Listening to what your parents advise is always better and cheaper but you will only realise that when you have bills and responsibilities of your own.”

  Aboo shook his head mournfully.

  “What if it doesn’t work out? Will we get our money back?”

  Shabnam sighed. “No Aboo, this is not like shopping at Sainsbury’s.”

  Amma’s concerns were elsewhere and she wanted to get back to the subject of her future daughter-in-law. “What about her personality? Did they give you any details about her personality?”

  “Well, Auntyji said she had found someone who was very pious, confident and proud of her identity as a Muslim woman. She felt she would suit our requirements.”

  “It is not good for a woman to be too confident. I have seen women like that,” sighed Aboo. “They end up controlling their husband, and their husband’s wage. Abdul Gafoor across the road is like that. One night when I came home from the mosque I saw him leaving his house and I asked him where he was going. He told me, ‘I came home with ninety pounds and my wife said, Get back
in your taxi and bring me another ten pounds.’ I felt so sorry for him.”

  “Why didn’t you give him the ten pounds?” asked Shabnam.

  “Bugger that. I just felt bad for him.” Aboo smiled grimly.

  “Not all women are the same but sometimes it is good for a woman to speak her mind,” said Amma.

  “The tongue of a woman can be like the poison of a scorpion or the honey of a bee,” remarked Dadaji as he puffed away on his hookah.

  Aboo looked at him, baffled by his remark. A split second later, however, the light dawned and he bowed his head in agreement.

  “Are you sure she really wants to stay with her in-laws? Girls in this country do not usually want to do that,” said Amma.

  “That’s what Auntyji said. Apparently her own mother is arthritic and she gave up her job in London to look after her.”

  Amma smiled, settling back into the sofa and breathing a huge sigh of relief but Aboo was dismayed.

  “She’s not going to bring her here is she?”

  “Don’t be silly Aboo. She has a younger sister.”

  “Is she going to bring anyone with her?” asked Musa.

  “Nope. She’s gonna come here and talk to all of you. Auntyji said that she doesn’t want to talk privately with you as that is not Islamic.”

  Aboo looked at Dadaji speculatively and the old man gave a wry half-smile.

  “Maybe the Angel of Mercy has finally visited us. This could be the one!” exclaimed Aboo.

  The prospect of a compliant, caring daughter-in-law no longer seemed like a fantasy. It was achievable! It was imminent. Aboo saw how silly he had been to mourn Musa’s departure from custom. Why, girls in this country were every bit as Islamic and upstanding as those back home. In fact, more so! They didn’t have the passion for gossip and intrigue the girls back home had. You didn’t have to watch what you said or did in front of them for fear of it being broadcast. Yes! A mental picture was forming in Aboo’s mind. An English speaking daughter-in-law who could be trusted with the management of the household and who could be relied on to care for them in their old age and not send them to an old people’s home. Old people’s home…Old people’s home. Those three dreadful words. How deplorable it was that you could spend all your life caring and providing for your children and they – the worthless ingrates – would send you to an old people’s home because they wanted to spend some quality romance time with their wives and in your home. And all because they couldn’t afford to buy their own property with the way prices were now.

  “Shouldn’t she be here by now?” he asked. He touched his face and wondered if he had time to run upstairs and apply some of his aftershave.

  “She’s just coming. Look outside, her car has pulled up,” said Shabnam.

  Musa went to the window and saw a figure re-arranging her nikab as she stepped out of a silver car. He frowned.

  “Hey Shabnam, her face is covered!”

  “Yes I know. Normally she wears the nikab but once she is in the house she will take it off. Auntyji made sure that she would do that. Look sharp now Musa! Everybody sit up straight and get ready to smile.” With that dictum Shabnam strode to the front door.

  Musa heard his sister’s voice, high pitched and welcoming.

  “Hi! Assalaam-u-alaikum. Look at the rain! Come on in!”

  A tall veiled woman stepped into the room. She wore a long white silken robe; her head scarf and nikab were also white, but her eyes were black and huge.

  They fixed on Musa in deep appraisal and he at once felt ashamed. It was as though a sin he could not remember had been exposed.

  “This is Habiba Al-Shahbaaz, everyone,” said Shabnam brightly.

  Aboo stood up and smiled with the simple humility of one who is truly honoured. He bent forwards a fraction as if he were about to bow.

  “Welcome to my home, Habiba. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Musa’s father and this is my most respectable father.”

  He indicated Dadaji who was staring at Habiba, captivated.

  “And here is my wife.” He gestured towards Amma who nodded at her prospective daughter-in-law.

  “Whatever happens the will of Allah will decide everything so please be relaxed in my home. While you are here, you are like my own –”

  Habiba reached for her nikab and took it off. Her face was proud, with wide delicate cheekbones, a firm purposeful mouth, a jaw that stood no nonsense and that flawless complexion which is unique to the women of Kenya.

  Four sets of eyes stared at her and at Shabnam. Aboo’s mouth opened but no sound came.

  Dadaji stared at his gormless-looking son and then at Musa. He jerked his arms upwards and, beside himself with laughter, he screeched,” What is this?”

  There was silence until, with great dignity, Habiba spoke, startling them all.

  “Assalaam-u-alaikum everybody. May Allah bless this union if it is written in his decree. May the Angels shower their blessings upon you if not. May our entry into this meeting be one of honour and may my departure be one of honour.”

  The living room filled with venomous Punjabi in response to her solemn benediction.

  “Shabnam what have you done?” exclaimed Aboo.

  “The Day of Judgement has come! The Day of Judgement has come!” shrieked Amma.

  “I did as I was told. You said a practising Muslim of good height and I got you a practising Muslim of good height. You’ve got no right to be annoyed at me!” retorted Shabnam.

  “Look at her making eyes at Musa. I knew it. The girls in this country are up to no good. Wait till I get my hands on that Auntyji!” snarled Aboo.

  “What if somebody has seen her coming in? That Shofiq woman across the road is always on the look-out,” said Amma.

  And then Dadaji began to laugh hysterically.

  With an effort, Musa gathered himself. He stood up and motioned to Habiba to sit down next to Shabnam.

  She waved a gloved hand towards Dadaji.

  “It doesn’t run in the family does it?”

  Musa shook his head vehemently: “No…no…He’s just getting old, that’s all.”

  “It’s just that I had an uncle who used to act like that before he got committed for drug-related schizophrenia.”

  Musa smiled politely. “You don’t need to worry about that. The only drug my granddad uses is tobacco!”

  “This place has stunk like a fucking chimney since he’s been here!” muttered Shabnam.

  Musa cut an angry glance to his sister and then turned back to Habiba, smiling cordially.

  “I hope the journey was not too unpleasant, sister, I mean Habiba,” he said softly.

  “By the grace of Allah it was not too unpleasant. I had to get out of the car but that’s about normal these days.” Habiba beamed a brilliant smile.

  “Oh, why?” asked Musa faintly.

  “The problem is, brother, there is too much ignorance and Islamophobia in the minds of the white men. When they see a veiled woman, a Muslim woman, driving a car they give you dirty looks. And I ain’t one for taking a dirty look lying down. When I was coming up here, there was a traffic jam on Stockport Road. A couple of men were in the car in front. They were looking at me in the rear-view mirror and laughing so I got out, knocked on their window and shouted at them, ‘You ain’t got no right to laugh at me. I ain’t your slave woman and this here ain’t your highway.’ Then they started getting all aggressive with me. But I told them I been dealing with rude boys since I was three and that there was nothing they could do to me that I couldn’t do back but ten times worse. That shut them up big time.”

  “Oh dear that sounds dreadful. You should have reported them to the police,” said Musa.

  “That was the second time, brother. Earlier some other guys started giving me some jip and then I start giving them some of my jip and then they ran away like a bunch of fairies. So I got in my car and went after them and then I get stopped by a policeman for speeding. So I said to the policeman, ‘I have been a victim of I
slamophobia and I am well within my rights to defend myself.’

  “Then the copper gives me a mouthful and I give him a mouthful and then he pulls out a book and I pull out a book but his is a notebook and mine is the Holy Quran. And I say to him, ‘I got the word of the creator and you got the word of the created. You want a head to head, I’ll give you a head to head.’ You know what the copper does? He just gives me a dirty look. So I invade his personal space and say, ‘Bring it on sarge, I’ll sue you for every kind of harassment there is!’ You know what he does then? He legs it! So I go after him and shout out the verse from the Holy Quran, you know the one don’t you? – When Truth confronts Falsehood lo! Falsehood turns and runs away! – I’m telling you brother. That is the greatest thing about being a Muslim. Every day you see your faith realised. In the tyranny of the police. In the ignorance of the non-believer. These are all little tests for us to become better Muslims.”

  “But my dear you are…you’re…” Aboo’s voice trailed off as he gawped at her.

  “That’s right sir. I’m a woman and I’m proud to be a woman. Most importantly I’m proud to be a Muslim woman. No disrespect to you sir, but we women have the toughest job in society. The future of Muslim kids is in our hands and it’s about time we got the respect that we deserve. Ain’t that so sister?” She elbowed Shabnam who smiled in polite but fearful empathy.

  Habiba turned her attention to Musa. “Can I ask you a question?” she asked belligerently.

  “Sure.”

  She fished in her pocket for a piece of paper.

  “It says here you have memorised the Quran?”

  “Correct.”

  “And that you have spent six years in a madrasah?”

  “Correct.”

  “So how come you don’t have a beard?”

  “What?” replied Musa, taken aback.

  “You know that the Holy Prophet (Peace be upon Him) had a beard. And as Muslims we must all follow his example. If we don’t follow his example in our appearance how can we follow him in our behaviour? Do you think you know better than the Holy Prophet (Peace be upon Him)?” she asked truculently.