Footsteps

by Umm Zakiyyah

  “You need a break,” he said, gently lifting her chin to meet his gaze.

  She nodded, looking at him for only a moment. “Yes, I do. But not tonight.”

  “Especially tonight.”

  “I have too much to do.”

  “You’ve done more than enough already.”

  She shook her head, but under her husband’s pleading gaze, a smile tugged at a corner of her mouth. “If only that were true.”

  “You won’t enjoy any of it if you don’t relax.”

  “Look at this place. How can I dine out with my house in shambles?”

  “Sarah, the house is spotless. I’m sure the neighbors can smell the Pinesol and Pledge right now, if they can’t taste it in their food.”

  She grinned and turned slightly to place the towel on a pile.

  “All we have to do is put these clothes away,” her husband said.

  “You say that like we’re not buried in them.”

  “It’s time for Maghrib. Let’s pray, eat, and we’ll be back in time to finish this before eleven, inshaAllaah.”

  “I wanted to vacuum the—”

  “You vacuumed this morning.”

  “But I should vacuum again.”

  “Then do it in the morning.”

  “I’ll be too tired then.”

  “Then I’ll do it.”

  She started to laugh. “You always say that. You know you don’t have time. You have to work in the morning.”

  “Sarah,” Ismael said, gazing at her until their eyes met, “I’ll do it, inshaAllaah. In fact, I’ll put the rest of the clothes away. And I’ll stay up all night if I need to.”

  Sarah wanted to tell him no, but she didn’t have the strength. She was too tired, and stressed.

  “Go upstairs, shower, and pick out your nicest dress.”

  “Jilbaab, you mean,” she said with a grin.

  “No,” he said, taking her hands into his, “that would go over the nice dress.”

  He released her hands, and she couldn’t keep from smiling as she felt him grinning and following her with his eyes as she went upstairs.

  Tamika ran a hand over the packaging tape to smooth it against the roughness of the used cardboard box that sat on the desk next to her bed. She felt the tape gather beneath her palm in stubborn resistance to her efforts to prevent air pockets. She placed her hands on her hips and examined the top flaps of the box. Shrugging, she decided the package could survive unopened the forty minutes it would take Sulayman to drive from Streamsdale to Atlanta tomorrow night.

  She glanced around the dorm room that appeared desolate now that she had finished packing her clothes and books. The few frames that she had brought herself to hang on the wall were now stacked on top of the suitcase she was using to put away the clothes she kept in the room. She knelt slightly as she reached for the top frame. She ran a finger along the crevices of the carved wood design as she read the quote that had been her reminder during her last year at Streamsdale. I have never regretted anything as much as my regret over a day on which the sun sets and my life span decreases while my good deeds have not increased.

  She often stared at it wondering what a righteous man like Abdullah Ibn Mas’ud could have been thinking when he said it. He had been a companion of the last prophet and messenger of Allah, an honor in itself. He had been praised by Prophet Muhammad for his piety and striving for the Hereafter. What regrets could he possibly have had as the sun declined in the sky?

  Tamika returned the frame to its place and glanced toward the window that seemed to have been an afterthought in interior design. In the small confines of the room, it seemed larger than the desk and bed, and placed there more for necessity than desire. It overlooked the foot of her bed like an intent watchman. Permanent, insistent, and still. She could access what was beyond only by perching herself in a huddle on the end of her bed and peering out. The only floor space below it was made too narrow by the protruding flat belly of the peeling wood dresser secured to the wall. The bed itself was immobile, not because it was stationary, but because there was really nowhere to move it. Its side was already pressed against the left wall, covering from view the only outlet in the room. Moved to the right, it would impede access to the dresser drawers and cabinets under the mirror and sink. The desk sat near its head and prevented the door from opening wide.

  When she first saw the room, she wondered why the headboard was opposite the window and not under it. After her first night there, she understood the necessity of the position. Lying in bed, one was able to have the only comfortable view of outside, and it fostered the illusion of capaciousness that the cramped room could not offer. Ever since her sophomore year, Tamika had dreamed of having a single. She had envied her then best friend Makisha for having the luxury of no roommate, and Tamika too wanted to relish in the solace of her own space. Now that she had it, she felt suffocated in her solitude and had to fight the heaviness she felt in her heart each Sunday night when Sulayman drove her back to Streamsdale and walked her down the corridor to her room. Like one imprisoned, Tamika felt her husband was walking her to her cell, and she could only count the days until her sentence would be over. Then she could return home and once again enjoy the comfort of the home they shared.

  Of course, she didn’t want to live in the dorm now that she was married. But she and Sulayman agreed it was best for her to at least have a room to go to between classes or at night if he was unable to pick her up until late. Gradually, the room became less an escape than a solitary confinement when Sulayman’s late nights at school became later and later, often approaching or reaching beyond midnight. It was too painful for him, he said, to pick her up from school and have to turn his attention to studies instead of her, so he completed all his work before making the drive. It was Tamika who suggested she come home only on weekends. She saw the physical and emotional strain it was for him to drive the distance late at night only to turn back around just after dawn to return her to school and then drive the forty minutes back to Atlanta to make it on time to his first class.

  It was emotionally draining for Tamika too. It was torturous for her to wake up next to her husband only to be greeted with the reminder that, because of the drive, she could not linger in bed. There were times that she and Sulayman resisted, shutting their eyes and minds to the glowing red digits that stared at them impatiently, urging them to start the drive. Instead they held each other and relished the sweetness of the comfort they drew from each other’s presence. And for a brief moment, the world disappeared and they had the one thing they cherished most—each other. But the sound of a phone, the falling of a book, or even an escaped sneeze, the slightest disruption reminded them of Sulayman’s eight o’clock class and Tamika’s distant campus that demanded she return to complete her final year.

  Tamika walked over to the window and stood wedged between the dresser and bed to study the sky. Outside was a darkening blue and traces of the dying orange sun setting on the opposite side of the building. She remained there a moment more, taking in the way the trees created a silhouette, and knowing that somewhere far beyond was home.

  A furtive grin creased one side of her mouth as she walked over to the sink. Already she felt ecstatic as she imagined how her life would be after this weekend. She and Sulayman could finally live together like a real married couple, and they had an entire three months off from school before Sulayman had to return to medical school for the fall of his third year. The grin spread until she stifled laughter as she imagined the freedom she would enjoy after graduation. The day after tomorrow she would don the notorious cap and gown and walk across the stage holding a vinyl covered piece of paper enclosing her Bachelor of Arts in Religion, which had cost her four years of life and dues it would take a lifetime to account for. Undoubtedly, there were moments she rather not remember, but she held on to them because without them she would overlook the most harrowing and rewarding journey of her life.

  Tamika turned the bulky plastic knobs until
the faucet released a rush of water that beat against the metal sink with the persistence of one throbbing for release. The sudden noise was both awkward and reassuring in the stillness of the room and Tamika held both palms under the stream until the cool water calmed to tepidity. She adjusted the knobs until the water was a gentle stream and gave the appearance of a soft icicle. She filled her left hand with water and poured it over the right before rubbing the moisture over the front and back of her hand. She slipped the left hand fingers between the crevices of the right to complete this first step of ablution in preparation for Maghrib. She cupped her right hand to fill it and do for the left what it had done for the right.

  There were moments like this when she loved wudhoo’. When she first became Muslim, it had been a task learning the steps from Sulayman’s sister Aminah, who had been her roommate at the time. Although the ritual of cleansing oneself for prayer was intriguing, it had been confusing to Tamika, who as a Christian had prayed only before meals, when she wanted something badly enough, or on Sunday during church. And she certainly hadn’t prefaced the recited words with any ritual cleansing. But even as a new Muslim it was refreshing to feel the water being generously massaged on her hands, face, and arms. Though including her feet in the ritual felt a bit awkward at first, especially when she performed ablution at a sink, it too became refreshing over time.

  Prayer was her escape then, and at moments when she was not distracted by the minute hand on her watch, it remained her escape even now, two years after she converted to Islam. Sister Sarah, her mother-in-law, often joked that Tamika and Sulayman would be celebrating their first anniversary on Saturday night, the evening of Tamika’s graduation. Sulayman said it was the walimah they hadn’t had after their small, private wedding ceremony held in his home last June. And Tamika’s family imagined they were coming to a double celebration, of Tamika’s marriage and her being the first in their family to graduate from college. But to Tamika it was none of these, though their significance added to the magnitude of the momentous occasion.

  For Tamika, it was a celebration of her Islam. And an announcement and invitation for her family to submit to the religion their Creator had enjoined on humans since Adam and his wife grazed the earth. Of course, there would be no explicit invitation or teaching at the event, but Tamika’s prayer was that Allah would open their hearts to His religion on Saturday even if only through witnessing the beauty of Muslims gathered in one place. And witnessing Tamika among them.

  With the moistened palm of her hand, Tamika completed her wudhoo’ by wiping over the tops of the thin socks she often wore in her dorm room to keep from soiling her feet against the bare tiled floor. Besides, the air conditioning in the dormitory was set at a lower temperature than usual, and her feet would have been freezing in the carpet-less room if she hadn’t covered them. Given that the sink was higher than most sinks, most likely because of the cabinet space beneath them, she was grateful that she didn’t have to remove her socks for wudhoo’, having put them on after showering and performing ablution that morning.

  She turned off the water and immediately the room grew quiet. Tamika sighed as she slid open a closet door and removed the two-piece white prayer garment Sulayman had bought for her at the masjid near his parents’ home. Sliding the closet door closed, Tamika was able to briefly distract herself from her thoughts with the noise. She felt the heaviness growing inside, and her efforts to fight it made her chest knot in longing for her husband. She fought the urge to call him just to hear his voice right then. She needed to pray, and there was no way she could hang up the phone and pray Maghrib before its time expired after hearing him on the other line. Even as she adjusted the waist-length khimaar on her head and pulled the elastic-band skirt over her jeans, she knew that even her patience to wait until after prayer was a mental game she was playing with herself. She shouldn’t call him even after she prayed. She had finished her last exam this morning, but Sulayman’s last exam wasn’t until tomorrow afternoon. And he needed the time to study. She had promised herself, though not him, to wait for him to call, as he always did, when he was done. Calling her was always the first thing he did when he closed his books for the night. On Fridays, he wouldn’t waste time with a phone call. He would jump into his car and drive to Streamsdale University to pick up his wife, who was always waiting with orchestrated patience for his knock at the door. She would not disturb him tonight. Besides, tomorrow evening would be her last Friday spent on campus, and Sulayman would pick her up for the final time. She couldn’t wait. It felt like years until tomorrow.

  After prayer Tamika sat in acceptance of her predicament. It wasn’t bad really. This would be the last night she would sleep alone. But how cold and desolate the bed would feel compared to the one she shared with Sulayman. Tamika began to recite the Qur’an that was customary for the Prophet to recite after prayer. She raised her voice to drown out her thoughts and mollify the yearning she felt for her husband. The miraculous words soothed her ears and calmed her heart, ensuring her that Allah would give her more than she imagined if she could just be patient through tonight.

  Reciting God’s words inspired relief and reflection. She was Muslim, a believer. And the affair of the believer was always good, she reminded herself. In times of ease, she was grateful. In times of hardship, she was patient. Immediately, she felt ashamed. She should be grateful. This trial was miniscule compared to what others faced around the world. And what was she upset about anyway? It was a blessing in itself that she had a husband, and not just any husband. Sulayman. That should be enough. But how could she blame herself for wanting to be near him right then? Oh God, she missed him so much. Her relief from the confines of this year was almost palpable right then as she thought of tomorrow night.

  Continuing to recite from the Qur’an, she shut her eyes momentarily as she recalled the promises she had made to herself, and Allah, this year. If she could just get through this year of studying and writing about religions that she couldn’t hope to comprehend, she would give the rest of her time to her own. Hugging her knees, she opened her eyes and stared at the aged wood of the door. It all felt so pointless, the weekly chapter readings, mid-term and term papers, exams, discussions, and philosophical debates during class. If it wasn’t so time-consuming and overbearing, she would have laughed at the ridiculousness of it.

  Her professors reigned in the classroom with an arrogant confidence that both irritated and depressed her. She imagined the sight of her Islamic dress was both repulsive and intimidating to them. The khimaar on her head that revealed only her face. The loose abiya, which she imagined appeared to them as it did to Tamika herself when she had first seen it on Aminah, as an oversized dress in need of tailoring. To them she wore the costume of the oppressed from distant lands and was the poster child of backwardness in a forward thinking world. To her, their faces bore the costume of the ignorant, and they were poster children for gross close-mindedness in an open-minded, ever changing world. Had she been Sulayman or Aminah, she would have vocalized her observation during class, but she spoke little and cursed herself for saying too much. She was best at questions because they were short, and protected her from the awkward awareness she felt at the sound of her voice. And that’s how she won small battles throughout the year, although she wasn’t naïve enough to imagine she had won them all.

  She had imagined her last year of school would be the easiest, if for no other reason than it was her last. But the closure of it all did not ease the stress school provoked but stoked it. That she had to push through, had to make it, made it all the more suffocating, and she longed for reprieve. It would be senseless to stop running when she was inches from the finish line, and yet that made it all the more difficult to reach it.

  The professors in all their towering glory and pedagogic pride depressed her as they threw out historical facts and “groundbreaking” research statistics as if this knowledge had earned them the solitary key to the treasures of the earth. The teachers depressed her
because she knew them too well, perhaps more than they knew themselves. And she felt ashamed, guilty because she should have said something, anything to let them know that they did in fact hold that solitary key, buried somewhere deep in their souls. If only they could uncover it.

  Tamika bit her lower lip as she recalled moments she should have spoken but did not. She held onto the moments when she did speak, when she had felt in the lecture hall itself the sweltering revelation of the profound. At such moments, even the haughty professor was silenced, even humbled, if only for a moment. But in the roaring beast of pride he, or she, would reclaim the class with a vengeance so inappropriate that Tamika would know then, for sure, she had won.

  Still, it all felt like a waste. On spare moments, or at least moments she made spare, she hungrily read the pages of an Islamic book from home, highlighting inspirational passages or poignant explanations she could not have thought of on her own. Often she found that she had highlighted an entire page. But most days her hunger for time to herself, her life, and soul were met with stacks of texts to read and lengthy papers to write. She would pause from her reading or writing in an effort to gather her thoughts only to be met with the stinging quote of Abdullah Ibn Mas’ud that hung as a weighty reminder on her wall. It was at such moments that she wondered what good deeds she had gained at the setting of the sun. And what was she gaining with such a sacrifice of moments from her life span that would only continue to decrease? It had never been her dream to go to college. Singing had been her love. Although she had chosen Islam over it, nothing had erased her disdain for the scripted pantomime required for a university degree. As a student, Tamika spoke, but used no words. At least not ones others could hear. She moved about, but only on a stage with other actors who filled a similar role. And when the curtain closed, and reopened to real life, what would the students do? Wait for the applause of an audience that would then be a lone reflection of one’s self?