by Umm Zakiyyah
“Where did she study?” Tamika asked as she sat in the passenger seat next to Khadijah, who was driving her home.
“Madinah.”
“Saudi Arabia?” She looked at Khadijah with her eyes widened in surprise.
Khadijah nodded, her black-gloved hands gripping the steering wheel as she drove. Tamika was still getting used to a veiled woman in all black behind the wheel. She couldn’t imagine dressing like that, let alone driving on public streets, but Khadijah seemed content, if not unaware of her odd appearance. “Her second husband was a student there. She studied Arabic and Qur’an while he was at the university.”
“How long did she live there?”
Tamika saw Khadijah’s eyes squinting between the thin slit of black fabric as she tried to recall. “Six years, I think. Allaahu’alam.”
Tamika gazed out the side window for a few minutes. Khadijah had told Tamika that her mentor’s first introduction to Islam had been in the mid-sixties through the Black empowerment movement under the Nation of Islam. After the death of its founder in 1975, Nusaybah, along with thousands of other Black Americans, left the race-based group to follow orthodox Islam. Nusaybah married her first husband in the late 1960’s while they were both members of the Nation of Islam.
“Did she ever talk about her first marriage much?”
“You mean when I lived with her?”
Tamika nodded, looking at Khadijah. “Yeah.”
Khadijah shook her head. “Not much. But I think she wanted me to learn from her experiences, so she told me some things, you know, to get me thinking.”
“So she’s married to her first husband now?”
“Yeah, they got married a few months before I lived with her.”
Tamika ran her hands over the fabric of her abiya as she reflected on what Khadijah was saying, intrigued by Nusaybah. She couldn’t wait until the next class. Tamika knew she wouldn’t be able to ask personal questions during class time, but she relished the opportunity to be near such a knowledgeable woman.
“When was that?”
“Hmm,” Khadijah said, “it had to be ‘bout five years ago, ‘cause that’s when I moved out of my house.”
“Did she ever say why?”
“Why what?”
“Why they divorced then remarried.”
Khadijah lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “She ain’t open up like that. But it ain’t too hard to figure out.”
“What do you mean?”
“Like I was saying before, they left the Nation, so most likely it had something to do with stuff that happened after that.”
“She tell you how long they were married before they divorced?”
Creases formed at the sides of Khadijah’s eyes, indicating to Tamika that she was smiling.
“Yeah,” Khadijah said, “she used to joke sayin’ when people asked how long she’s been married, now she gotta say eleven and one, eleven and two, like that.” She laughed. “She was a trip.”
“Eleven years?” Tamika shook her head. “That’s a long time.”
Khadijah shrugged. “Yeah, I guess.”
“You guess?” A half smile formed on Tamika’s mouth. “That’s a long time.”
“My parents been married for thirty six.”
“What?” Tamika stared at Khadijah in disbelief.
“Yeah, I know. It’s crazy, ain’t it?” Tamika saw the creases around her friend’s eyes when she looked at Khadijah momentarily before turning her gaze back to the road.
“Still, that’s a long time to be married.”
“I guess so.”
“They have children?”
“Four. Three girls and a boy.” Khadijah laughed. “Well, they ain’t exactly girls and boys anymore.”
“All from her first marriage?”
“Yeah. She only had one from her second. But he lives with his father.”
There was a long pause as Tamika stared out the side window.
“What were ya’ll talkin’ ‘bout after class?”
Tamika creased her forehead and looked at Khadijah. “Who?”
“You and Umm Barakah.”
Tamika was not used to Khadijah referring to Nusaybah with the term “Umm” or “mother of” followed by Nusaybah’s oldest daughter’s name. It took a second for Tamika to realize whom Khadijah was talking about. “Oh, just about me studying Qur’an.”
“Studying Qur’an?”
“Yeah.” Tamika didn’t want to divulge the entire conversation. It wasn’t that she thought it was a secret, but she didn’t know how to share what Nusaybah had said without sounding a bit arrogant. After class the teacher had listened to the four of them recite from the last chapter of the Qur’an they had memorized, and Tamika had recited from al-Burooj, chapter 85, the last soorah she had learned in reverse order, starting from the last chapter of Qur’an, number 114. Although Aminah’s recitation from somewhere in the middle of the Qur’an was much more impressive in Tamika’s view, Nusaybah had singled out Tamika and talked to her privately about her exceptional memory of Qur’an. She had asked Tamika where she had learned, and Tamika told her that she had initially learned from Aminah, then from tapes Aminah had given her, then from a Qur’an class during the summer of her first year as a Muslim. Tamika told her that, no, she wasn’t taking any classes this summer because she and Sulayman wanted to spend more time together, and the classes were held only in the evening and Sulayman worked during the day. Nusaybah had encouraged Tamika to find a way to continue memorization because Allah had blessed her with two gifts she could not take for granted, beautiful recitation and the remarkable ability to retain His words, all of this in a short period of time. Those who had been Muslim for years were still struggling to memorize how much Tamika had already. Nusaybah was genuinely surprised when Tamika told her that she hadn’t memorized anything new since last summer because she had been busy with school, but Tamika had made sure to recite everything she knew at least weekly. Nusaybah then promised Tamika that she would call her to discuss Tamika’s Qur’anic study options this summer inshaAllaah.
“Oh, she probably wonderin’ how you know all them verses.”
Tamika chuckled. “I guess so.”
“People usually don’t know Qur’an like that when they new.”
“Whatever.”
“No, for real. I was thinkin’ the same thing. I been Muslim six years, and I only know five soorah’s. And I even got them jacked up.”
Tamika shook her head. “You’re crazy.”
“Girl, you heard me in there. You know if a Arab was sittin’ right there, he wouldn’t know what language I was recitin’ in.”
Tamika laughed.
“But for real, though. You should keep it up.”
Tamika remembered Aminah telling her something similar shortly after she became Muslim.
“Allah give you somethin’ like that, you can’t play.”
“I guess I never thought about it. Maybe because I lived with Aminah.” She forced laughter. “And you heard her in there.”
“Yeah, mashaAllaah, I don’t even know where she was recitin’ from.”
They laughed in agreement.
“Naw, you can’t compare yourself to her. She’s different. Plus she been Muslim all her life.”
“That’s what I was thinking.”
“Oh, girl!” Khadijah looked at her quickly as she turned into Tamika’s neighborhood. “Guess what?”
“What?” Tamika wore an expectant smile.
“We got our first gig.”
“What?”
“Remember I was sayin’ how we should start singing for people’s walimah’s and stuff?”
“Yeah,” Tamika said slowly, still smiling as she remembered them joking about it on the phone a few days after her walimah.
“I was talkin’ to this sister, and her friend is getting married. They want us to come.”
“What!” Tamika couldn’t keep from laughing.
“Yeah, I’m for real.”
> “You said we’d do it?”
“Yeah, girl. I was like we’ll get back with her for a price.”
“No!”
“You think we doin’ charity?” Tamika saw Khadijah roll her eyes in the small opening of the black fabric.
“I just can’t believe you actually are gonna do this.”
“You in or what?”
“I’m in, inshaAllaah. Let me check with Sulayman to make sure we don’t have anything to do.” She paused as she thought of something. “When is it?”
“Next Friday after Jumu’ah.”
“Where?”
“Girl, just talk to your husband. I don’t know. I’ll be driving anyway.”
Tamika chuckled and nodded. “Okay, inshaAllaah.” She was excited about the idea, but it reminded her so much of preparing with Dee for Spring Formal that it was uncanny. She wondered if she would be able to go through with it.
“What will we sing?” Tamika asked.
“You used to write songs, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, I did.” She hoped Khadijah caught the emphasis on the last word.
“Then that’s what we gonna sing.”
Tamika nodded slowly, her gaze on the parking lot of her apartment complex that they were pulling into.
“But I’ll call you, inshaAllaah,” Khadijah said as the car slowed in front of Tamika’s building.
“Okay.” Tamika’s thoughts were distant as she nodded in agreement and pulled the door handle as the door opened, the humidity of the summer heat drifting on her face with the motion.
“As-salaamu’alaikum, girl.”
“Wa’alaiku-mus-salaam.” Tamika shut the car door and walked as if in a daze to the steps leading to her door. She couldn’t help feeling as if she were embarking upon the most beloved and dreaded thing since she became Muslim. Singing at her own walimah was not so difficult because it had been impromptu. No preparations were required. Despite Tamika’s wide-eyed surprise and outright refusals indicated by a shake of the head, Latonya succeeded in getting Tamika in front of the microphone after she herself had finished singing. Tamika then called Khadijah up, and the three of them spent the rest of the evening taking turns or singing altogether before the guests. But that was spontaneous, and fun. There was no pressure, no rehearsal. She hadn’t had time to think about the parallels to the night she stood next to Dee singing on the hotel’s portable stage, a microphone before them, singing a song written by Tamika herself. No time to remember that night as the last Dee would be alive.
Alika checked her watch as she pulled into the driveway of Imam Abdul-Quddus’s home. She was already thirty minutes late. He had asked her to arrive at one thirty, when he would be returning home after Thuhr prayer. He usually remained in his office at the masjid until night, even on the weekends, but he had told Alika he wanted to talk to her at his house. His wife thought it would be a good idea for Alika to come for lunch in any case. It had been almost a month since Alika had visited, and then she had been distracted, to say the least. She had spent the entire time—more than three hours!—in the living room talking to the brother who had expressed interest in marrying her. They had spoken in the imam’s office on several occasions in the last four months, and on the phone too many times to count.
It was awkward not being able to go out to dinner or to a movie together. But Alika respected Islam’s limits on male-female relationships. And she respected the brother even more for adhering to them. She had met Muslim men before, particularly in undergrad, and had she not been introduced to Islam on her own, she would have never guessed that Islam forbade unrelated men and women from being alone together. The men hadn’t been shy to ask her out or even give her a hug. She never dated a Muslim, but she had befriended several in school although religion was never a topic of conversation. She had never given the religion a second thought because Islam was not mysterious to her as it had been for other converts. Islam had always been around her, especially since she frequented Nigeria at least once a year before moving to Atlanta. Islam, like Roman Catholicism, was a religion of the many religions of the world. Until she interviewed a Muslim brother for her master’s thesis.
Alika turned the ignition key toward her until the car silenced, and she checked her appearance, at least what she could see of it, in the rearview mirror. She didn’t like how she looked. Wearing a cloth on her head didn’t suit her, and she had no idea how to look attractive in it. She was grateful she had met the brother before becoming Muslim so he didn’t have to assess her beauty beneath all the fabric. She had recently discovered a self confidence in herself, especially in her natural African hair, and she found it a huge sacrifice to cover it all up in public, even if she wasn’t covering full-time. Today she wore a long sleeved silk peach blouse and loose fitting stone washed jeans, at least they were loose to her. It didn’t take long for her to discover that a Muslim’s definition of loose was completely different from what she had thought as a non-Muslim.
On second thought, maybe they complimented her form a bit more than her Muslim conscience should have allowed. But she wasn’t yet completely attuned to that part of her. Which explained why, although she had found a cream colored scarf with floral peach prints to match her shirt, she still felt tacky. But she couldn’t help feeling a bit dignified, if not righteous, in taking her baby steps to embracing Islamic dress entirely.
He probably wouldn’t be here in any case. The imam did not mention him, and Alika had found that a bit strange. Before, it was the brother who would call the imam, after which the imam would call her and inform her of the meeting. Initially, it was awkward talking through a liaison, especially since they talked on the phone without him. But she learned that it was respectful to talk through her wali if they wanted to meet in person. Besides, it was her appointed guardian himself who approved of them talking on the phone in the first place, as long as they maintained Islamic etiquette and kept the conversation to what was necessary to determine compatibility for marriage. And they had. Although it took some getting used to the brother’s apparent evasiveness if she were inclined to talk casually. But they managed to have enjoyable conversations nonetheless, and Alika honestly felt this was someone she could spend the rest of her life with. And that was a first.
Growing up, she had always lived in the affluent suburbs of Virginia, surrounded by White people. Her father had managed to build up his computer contracting company from, literally, the basement of their D.C. home before Alika was even four years old. By the time she was five, they moved to a spacious Virginia home, where she would live until high school. She never had the experience of public school. And she never had the experience of people like her, until she went to college. There had been a few Black students in the Catholic schools she attended from kindergarten through twelfth grade, but never in her grade, and never in her class. She saw them in passing, but they were as consumed as she with the pressures to prove they were good enough. Which she was able to do, thank God.
There were White students who asked her out in high school, even to the prom. But she turned them down though she did entertain a few phone conversations every now and then. When she went to college, she went on dates for the first time, but none of them ever amounted to anything serious. In the end, she was grateful for that. If there was anything she was determined to protect, it was her chastity. Although religion wasn’t exactly the heartbeat of her Christian upbringing, she had a clear understanding of the wisdom behind every major religion forbidding relations outside of marriage. She had gone through high school listening to friends and classmates talk openly about their relationships, and she had always felt disgusted, as if they were demeaning something sacred. When she saw the results of their break-ups, heartbreaks, and boyfriends’ infidelity, Alika knew she was on the right track. She even had a close friend who left college during the second semester of her junior year because of pregnancy. Now, as a Muslim, Alika was certain that Allah had been protecting her, and guiding her to Islam.
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nbsp; Umm Muhammad opened the door and greeted Alika with a handshake and hug followed by touching her face to either side of Alika’s after Alika entered. The woman wore a black abiya with a matching khimaar thrown over one shoulder, as if in preparation for a man to come to the door any second, making Alika wonder if Imam Abdul-Quddus had invited the brother too. The woman’s straight black hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and Alika remembered Umm Muhammad telling her when they first met that she was Nubian. Her and her husband’s family were originally from southern Egypt, Aswan, but most of them now lived in Alexandria and Cairo, where her husband graduated from Al-Azhar, the famous Islamic university, before coming to America for a secular education.
Although the conversation that first day had begun casually, Alika had asked if Umm Muhammad minded some of the information being used for her research. Umm Muhammad said she would be happy if it was, saying that the topic was too often swept under the rug among Muslims while non-Muslims openly discussed it and publicly offered solutions to the world’s race and color problems. The imam’s wife openly shared the color clash in her own country and how most Egyptians abhorred any affiliation with the term African despite their country’s history being the heart of African pride among Afro-centric Americans. Upon arrival to America, like most immigrants Alika had interviewed, Umm Muhammad explained how most of her people refused to be categorized as Black or colored, even if their skin was as dark as her own. Some even checked White as a matter of course when filling out formal applications. Even many of the Black Latinos Alika had spoken to did not think of themselves as Black despite their shared history of slavery with Black Americans. Ironically, Faith had explained that in the view of most White Americans, a Black American was of a higher status than any non-European immigrant, simply because they had some inherent right to the title American, while others had to “earn” it. And even this many Whites frowned upon.
“Maha,” Umm Muhammad called to her oldest daughter who was watching television in the kitchen, which was adjacent to where Alika sat in the living room, “make some tea please.”