She Wore Red Trainers, page 5
‘Hey, Samia,’ I called over to her. ‘You found something?’
‘Yeah,’ she smiled up at me, sliding her finger across the screen to close down the phone. ‘I love this colour…’
‘Yeah, it will look great with your red hair,’ I agreed. ‘And your eyes.’
Samia blushed and looked away, chewing her bottom lip. ‘Mashallah…’ she mumbled before heading off for the changing rooms. I watched her as she walked away, head down, shoulders hunched beneath her puffa jacket. That was so typical of Samia: the girl just could not take a compliment.
I looked around for Yasmin and saw her standing in front of a rack of dresses, her arms empty. I grabbed a couple of the dresses I’d been looking at and went over to her.
She turned to look at me, a worried look on her face. ‘I can’t find anything, Ams,’ she said. ‘None of this stuff would look good on me. I can’t even see anything I like.’
I fingered a brown maxi dress with turquoise flowers. ‘This one’s nice…’
Yasmin wrinkled up her nose. ‘Nah, that would make my arms look like slabs of salami.’
‘What about this one with sleeves?’
‘Oh, no, look how low it is. I’d be falling out of that one.’
I sighed. Shopping with Yasmin really was tough. She just did not know what she wanted – and she was hypercritical of her looks and her weight. Over the years, she had accepted the part of the quiet one, the silent observer, like the grey background that allowed the butterflies to shine even brighter.
But eventually, we made it out of TK Maxx in one piece; arms full of bags, ready to dress to kill, flushed with excitement, hungry as anything.
Only one place would do: Katie’s Cafe.
***
‘I swear, I thought this year would never end!’ Rania said as we all squeezed into the booth at Katie’s Cafe. This was our guilty little secret: a greasy spoon with enough calories in the burgers to give you and your mum a heart attack. But it was cheap and it was halal so, sometimes, just sometimes, nothing else would do: it just had to be cheeseburgers and fries with double thick milkshakes at Katie’s.
‘I know,’ I said, jostling Samia with my elbow. ‘It’s so cool of your mum to combine her fundraiser with our end-of-school celebration.’
‘Well, I, for one, can’t wait,’ Rania said, waving at the waitress. ‘The last time we had a good party was Eid and, after those crazy exams, I think we deserve a good time, don’t you?’
Everyone agreed and, when the waitress came, we felt no guilt as we ordered enough carbs, calories and fizz to feed the entire ummah.
What can I say? Girls just wanna have fun.
11
I woke up thinking about her. Again.
As I made wudu, I looked at myself in the mirror, trying to see whether anything had changed. My lower jaw was covered with a light fuzz of hair and it made me look older, more serious. Did she like serious guys? Did she like beards? Judging by her brother, I thought it was safe to assume that she probably didn’t mind them, even if she wasn’t necessarily a fan. I puffed myself up and looked at my body critically. I had put on a bit of weight, what with all the takeaways we had been eating. It was time to get back into shape. At least basketball would help.
After Fajr, I slipped off my thobe and hit the floor to do some push ups. I was soon out of breath and, quite frankly, disgusted with myself. I had really let myself go. It was time to take back some control of my life, time to get in shape and get my mind focussed on the future. But even as those thoughts ran through my mind, I could feel the adrenalin running out of me.
I missed my mum.
I just did.
And, if I was honest with myself, I was crushing on a girl who was as unattainable as the stars, and almost as distant. She probably didn’t even know I existed.
The summer stretched ahead of me, like a life sentence, and, at the end of it, there was uni. I sighed. The prospect of studying Law had started losing its appeal last year after Mum died and I got over the initial sadness. Ever since then, the dream of being a hot shot lawyer had seemed less and less attractive. But what were my alternatives? And what would Dad say if I dared tell him that I didn’t want to study Law? He would hit the roof, for sure.
I slumped back against my bed and let sadness wash over me again.
I missed Mum. I missed having her there to talk to anytime and about anything. She would have known what to do, she would have known what to tell Dad.
Just as the tears welled up, my phone vibrated: a message. I checked the screen. It was a message from Usamah. ‘Wanna go skateboarding this morning? Bring your bros.’
And even though I couldn’t skateboard to save my life, even though I associated skateboarding with long-haired white dudes from the States, it was just the distraction I needed.
***
The skate park in Brixton was small and scruffy. Low-rise estates surrounded it on all sides and the litter and graffiti on the pavement just added to the gritty, urban ambience. I was determined to keep an open mind but I could see that Umar was seriously unimpressed. Jamal stuck close by me and just stared.
But, as usual, Usamah was in his element. He knew some of the other guys there and, in no time at all, he had introduced us and managed to persuade his friends to lend us their skateboards and give us an introductory lesson. I felt quite silly, wobbling along on wheels but I could see that Jamal was getting the hang of it.
‘This is fun!’ he called out as he sailed past me for the third time. ‘You need to copy me, Ali!’
I was just about to shout out and tell him what a great job he was doing when I heard some raised voices behind me.
‘What you sayin’, blud?’
I turned around to see Umar literally surrounded by a group of young guys with bandanas and expensive trainers. They all had scowls on their faces. Umar did too, but I could tell that he was completely out of his depth. ‘Oi, what’s going on?’
The boys turned to face me as I hurried over to where they were all gathered.
‘What’s it got to do with you, man?’
‘He’s my brother, that’s what.’
One of them laughed, covering his gold tipped teeth with his fist. ‘Hear dat lickle posh bwoi!’
Another snarled, ‘Tell your brother to watch himself, yeah? He don’t belong here down these sides. Down here we hurt mans, y’get me? Especially if they’ve got attitude like this one.’ He jerked his head over at Umar who stood there, his hands in his pockets, his eyes blazing. I needed to get him out of there.
‘C’mon, Umar,’ I muttered, leading him away. ‘Let’s go…’ I ignored the insults they flung after us. Umar was shaking next to me, determined not to catch my eye.
When I told Usamah what had happened, he shook his head. ‘I don’t know what’s happening to these kids, man. They crazy down here… reminds me of the Bronx, for real. Come on, guys, let’s beat it. We can go get something to eat up on the hight street.’
We left the skate park under a cloud, the fun of trying, failing and finally mastering the skateboards now forgotten.
As we left, I looked back and saw that the group of boys were still there, sprawled across the low wall on the side of the skate park. Every one of them was staring hard at Umar as he walked away. I felt a shiver run through me. I didn’t think we would be coming back any time soon.
***
On the way home on the bus, I told Usamah about my dread of the long summer ahead with nothing constructive to do until A Level results came out.
‘Yo, they need some extra hands down at the Islamic centre,’ he said. ‘I figure you might want to help out, what with you having so much time on your hands and all. You too, Umar. You’re welcome to come on board if you like.’
I was speechless. Not only had I not expected Usamah to be the ‘community type’, but I had never envisaged myself in that setting: youth work. In the suburbs of Hertfordshire and the halls of St Peter’s, community work was something you did after a long plane journey, in Africa or South America, just like the school we had worked for in Mexico. But now that we were living in South London, not quite ghetto but close enough, the need for youth programmes was clear: without them, kids were on the streets, getting up to no good.
Umar glanced over at Usamah. ‘Don’t look at me,’ he said shortly. ‘I’ve got better things to do than hang out with a bunch of losers.’ And he turned to stare out of the window again. Usamah looked over at me and shrugged his shoulders.
’I’ve never really thought about it, to tell you the truth,’ I admitted, embarrassed by Umar’s lack of manners. ‘I’m not sure that I’m cut out for that kind of thing…’
‘All you need is time, and you got plenty of that! And anyway, I bet you got mad skills from all those years in that fancy school of yours, what did they teach you, riding, fencing, ballroom dancing…’
I laughed. ‘OK, OK, I’ll help in any way I can. Just don’t expect me to be a group leader or anything. I’ve never done anything like this before. And the boys… they may not take to me, you know?’
‘Too posh, huh?’ Usamah was clearly amused by my discomfort. ‘Nah, you’ll be fine, akh. Just relax. You can help Brother Omar out with his group and maybe go on the trips with them. You think you can handle that?’
I nodded, swallowing hard. Yes, I was pretty sure I could handle that.
12
‘Hey, Samia, what’s the latest with your wali, Imam Sajid? Has he tried to marry you off to any more serial polygamists lately?’
Samia’s face went red.
‘Don’t even joke about that, Rania, it’s really not funny. Just because I’m a revert, my wali thinks it is of the utmost importance that I get married ASAP, never mind that the brother doesn’t have two miswaks to rub together, has three other wives or has just come out of prison!’
‘And everyone knows how popular white revert sisters are, eh?’ I remarked drily.
‘As if I would ever settle for one of those losers!’ Samia snapped. ‘People think that, just because I’m a revert, I’m going to put up with their rubbish. Well, guess what: I wasn’t desperate before Islam and I sure ain’t desperate now…’
‘Waiting for Brother Sunnah-to-the-max to sweep you off your feet, eh?’ I smirked. ‘Dream on.’
Samia looked over at me pityingly. ‘The last thing I want is to be swept off my feet, my dear. I want my feet firmly on the ground where I can see them. As far as I’m concerned, it’s all that Western crap about romance and Prince Charming that sets marriages up for failure. That’s why I prefer the Islamic approach: don’t try to woo me, speak to me plainly, honestly, tell me what you’re bringing to the table. I’ll judge you on your merits, with a clear head, and make a rational decision, one that is based on fact, not butterflies.’
‘Ughh,’ Rania shuddered. ‘I hate the way you make that sound: just like a business contract!’
‘But isn’t that what it is?’ Samia asked. ‘A contract between two people to give each other their rights, to fulfil responsibilities: so simple. Beautiful.’
‘I don’t think it sounds beautiful at all,’ Rania pouted. ‘If a guy came to me with that kind of talk, I would chuck him out so fast his head would spin. I want to be wooed. I want the romance. I demand to be swept off my feet! After waiting this long, it’s the least he can do!’
We all laughed and made smoochie faces at Rania. She chucked a couple of menus at us. I laughed with the others, of course, but couldn’t help asking myself: which approach did I prefer? The no-nonsense, Islamic approach or the romantic, fairytale one? My heart fluttered as I saw him again in my mind’s eye. But I quickly shut it down. Of course I didn’t prefer either of them. I wasn’t getting married, remember?
‘Rania,’ I said, smiling, ‘you are wasted on those brothers, sweetheart. You’re too good for them, girl, you know that.’
‘Oh, come on, Amirah,’ Samia sighed, ‘haven’t you grown out of that guy hating phase yet?’
‘I never said I hate guys, Samia!’ I said, making googly eyes at her. ‘I just don’t trust them, OK? And besides, Muslim brothers make lousy husbands.’
‘How can you say that?’ The expression on Samia’s face was one of genuine surprise. ‘The Prophet Muhammad – sallallahu alayhi wa sallam – was a fantastic husband.’
‘Yeah, I know that, Samia. But let’s be honest, you’re not likely to find anyone like that anytime soon, especially not walking the streets of Lambeth!’
Everyone laughed and, when the waitress came to take our order, we waved her away, saying, ‘the usual, girl, the usual!’
Yasmin looked at me. ‘Don’t you believe in love, Ams?’
I gave her my most incredulous expression. ‘Yaz, what’s love got to do with it? You can love the guy as much as you want, it doesn’t stop him being a scumbag and taking liberties with you.’ I was getting warmed up to my favourite subject: useless Muslim men. ‘Listen, ladies, let me spell it out for you: Muslim men these days want all the perks and none of the hard work. They want the little obedient wife who will give it up whenever they’re in the mood, who will have ten gazillion children and homeschool them all and help pay the rent. Why? Because they’re spoilt and too lazy to get off their backsides and step up to the plate, like real men.’
‘Really?’ piped up Yasmin. ‘Your brother doesn’t seem that type. I think he’d make someone a great husband, mashallah.’
I chuckled to myself. Yasmin wasn’t fooling anyone. We all knew that she had had a crush on Zayd practically forever. ‘Listen, girl,’ I said to her, putting my hand on her shoulder, ‘forget about Zayd, all right? He’s still in cloud cuckoo land, waiting for Miss Ideal Muslimah to appear.’ I took a slurp of my extra-thick strawberry milkshake. ‘Besides, he won’t consider any sister who’s not already wearing niqab.’ I saw Yasmin’s face fall and, for a moment, I felt bad for being so blunt. I sipped the milkshake it was cold and sweet, just the way I liked it and I thought to myself, It’s better I be honest with her so she doesn’t get her hopes up.
Rania took a huge bite out of her burger and rolled her eyes. ‘I don’t care what anyone says,’ she said, her mouth full of beef. ‘This is by far the best burger in the south of England. No contest.’
I had to agree. Just the right amount of meatiness – not so much that you felt you were chewing on someone’s leg – and just enough crumbliness, with a spicy, salty edge. Teamed up with crisp lettuce, a juicy slice of tomato, pickles and salad cream (no onions), you were talking serious burger beefcake, right there.
‘Another cow dies needlessly,’ Samia said sourly.
‘Oh, no, Sami,’ I winked at her, ‘that’s where you’re wrong. This cow needed to die so it could end up on my plate right here.’ I tapped the plate with the tip of my finger. ‘An honourable end indeed for any bovine.’
Samia wrinkled up her nose and sniffed. Ever since she had decided to go vegetarian, she’d become a pain to go to Katie’s with. She spent the whole time trying to make us feel guilty for being happy-go-lucky carnivores.
‘Samia,’ Rania pointed a French fry at her veggie burger, ‘how do you square your new vegetarian ideals with the fact that the Prophet Muhammad ate meat? Isn’t that a bit of a contradiction on your part?’ She leaned in and narrowed her eyes. ‘Isn’t it, in fact, haram to choose vegetarianism as a lifestyle choice?’
‘Ooohhh!’ That was low and Rania knew it. But then I saw the wicked glint in her eye and realised: of course, she was just trying to wind Samia up.
You see, out of all of us, Samia was definitely the most cautious when it came to religious matters. She even did proper research into things, finding out whether they were halal, haram, disliked or recommended. And the Sunnah, the way of the Prophet Muhammad –peace be upon him – was a big deal for her.
Now, I’m not saying that it wasn’t a big deal for us born Muslims but she was definitely the most conscientious about things like that. When you’re born a Muslim, you do tend to take certain things for granted, accepting the rules pretty much without question and getting on with life. But as a convert – or revert as she liked to be called – everything for Samia was deliberate, a conscious decision to choose the correct Islamic position, to halalify her life in every area. I thought she’d be really offended by Rania’s low blow but she just shook her head. ‘No, babe,’ she said, nibbling on a piece of lettuce, ‘I’ve done research into this…’
‘Of course…’ I added.
She shot me a look. ‘And my decision to be a vegetarian is not haram because I’m not saying that it is forbidden to eat meat; I’m just choosing not to because I disagree with the way animals are treated and the whole way in which modern farming works. Did you know that they have bred bulls that have butts so big that they can’t reproduce properly?’
That was it. We all burst out laughing. I laughed so hard that I almost fell off my seat. LMBO, literally. Rania choked on her Coke and sent it spraying across the table. Yasmin squealed, dabbing frantically at her hijab while I tried to control myself, wiping the tears from my eyes.
‘I’m serious!’ Samia’s face was going red. ‘If you don’t believe me, look at this!’ And she whipped out her phone and typed a search into YouTube. When she showed us the genetically modified bulls with their enormous rumps, we started howling all over again.
‘Oh, I give up on you guys!’ Samia huffed, even though a little smile was tugging at her lips. But soon she was giggling too. ‘Yeah, yeah, I guess it is pretty funny…’
‘Not for the cows, it ain’t!’ More howling laughter that earned us dirty looks from our waitress. She probably couldn’t wait for us to leave but, hey, we’d been coming here for longer than she had been wearing that striped pink apron so she’d have to just sit down and zip it.
Then Yasmin spoke up in that quiet, deliberate way of hers.
‘My aunts were talking about scheduling some marriage meetings with brothers before uni, in the next couple of months.’ She said it so carelessly, like it was no big deal. But it was a big deal. It was a huge deal. The table erupted again, this time with everyone asking about the hows and whys, names, details and Mottie stats.
