She Wore Red Trainers

She
Wore Red
Trainers

She
Wore Red
Trainers

Na'ima B. Robert

 

She Wore Red Trainers

First published in 2014 by
KUBE PUBLISHING LTD
Tel +44 (01530) 249230, Fax +44 (01530) 249656
E-mail:
[email protected]
Website:
www.kubepublishing.com

Text copyright © 2014 Na'ima B. Robert

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,
stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any
means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise,
without the prior permission of the copyright owner

Author
Na'ima B. Robert
Book design
Nasir Cadir
Cover design
Fatima Jamadar
Editor
Yosef Smyth

A Cataloguing-in-Publication Data record for
this book is available from the British Library

ISBN 978-1-84774-065-6
eISBN 978-1-84774-066-3

Printed by Imak Ofset, Turkey

To all those who are striving to
‘keep it halal'

1

She was still looking at me, I could feel it.

You know how it feels when someone is staring at the back of your neck; it's as if they're sending off radio waves or something. Of course, she was expecting me to turn around and look at her again. I caught the look she gave me, just before I sat down by the window on the bus. I knew what it meant.

I took out my phone and started to play a game, hunching my shoulders to show that I was
not interested
.

A year earlier, when I had started praying regularly and paying attention to halal and haram at last, Dad had reminded me of the Islamic guidelines on girls, now that I was finally ready to hear them: no second look, limited interaction, definitely no dating and, of course, no physical contact of any kind before marriage.

There's no point pretending it wasn't hard.

Some days, I thought I would literally go crazy, I was so tense and wound up. And all the girls in their summer dresses didn't help things, trust me. Plus I was still thinking about my ex-girlfriend, Amy.

‘Fast, son,' was Dad's advice. ‘Work out, play basketball or something. It will give you an outlet.'

‘To be honest, Dad, it's not that easy…'

‘Oh, I know it's hard, son, we've all been there. But you can do it – you just need to practice a little self-control. And don't allow yourself to get into any sticky situations, keep your distance.'

So, getting girls' numbers was definitely out. Back in the day, I wouldn't have hesitated. Even when I was in a relationship, I was a mega flirt, I had to admit it, and I'd have had that girl's number so fast, she wouldn't even have had time to notice the tattoo on my right forearm. She would probably still have been checking out my hair, the stud in my ear, my light eyes.

Girls always loved my light eyes.

But that was last year, practically a lifetime ago. Before I realised how short this life is, how something you think belongs to you can be snatched away at a moment's notice.

Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji'un.
To Allah we belong and to Him we shall return.

I couldn't wait to get off that bus.

***

When I got home, to our house which still ached with Mum's absence, I found Dad in the light filled kitchen, his laptop open on the marble tabletop, a cup of cold tea beside it. He was on the phone. He was always on the phone these days. I felt irritation at his extreme attachment to his smartphone and computer. They were his distractions, I felt, his way of avoiding a reality that no longer included his wife of 20 years.

‘No, Kareem, I really don't think so. I mean, I appreciate
the gesture but I couldn't, I just couldn't…'

My ears pricked up. It sounded like Dad was talking to his old friend, Kareem Stevens, someone we hadn't seen in forever. What was he offering him? And why was Dad turning it down?

Dad turned then and saw me standing there, watching him, and he nodded at me, gesturing for me to wait for his call to finish. Then he turned away from me and went out on to the balcony, the phone jammed against his ear. I went to the fridge and opened it to find the shelves bare aside from a half-finished bottle of milk and a carton of orange juice. Time to do the shopping again. The fridge had never looked this bare when Mum was around. I felt a twist of nostalgia as I thought of the boxes of cream cakes, the covered trays of cubed mango and watermelon, the bowls of spicy tuna salad and leftovers that tasted better than the day they had first been served. Mum hated an empty fridge.

I took the lonely carton of juice out and poured myself half a glass.

Through the open French doors, I could hear snatches of Dad's conversation as he paced up and down the overgrown path through Mum's herb garden.

‘But South London, Kareem? I don't know whether I'm up to parenting my boys in the inner city… ‘

What was he on about?

There was a pause, then I heard Dad sigh. ‘OK, Kareem, OK. I'll give it a try. It's not like we have any other options at the moment, anyway.' It hurt me to hear the defeat in my father's voice. But then his voice lifted again, strong: ‘
Jazakallah khayran
, thank you I really appreciate it.' I could practically hear him pulling himself up by his bootstraps,
straightening his shoulders. Dad never was one for self-pity.

When he came back into the kitchen, I looked into his face and braced myself for unpleasant news.

‘Well, son,' Dad said in a fake, cheerful voice. ‘How's it going?'

I raised an eyebrow and looked at him, warily. Whatever it was, it was making him extremely nervous.

‘Sit down, Ali.' He gestured towards the stool by the counter. ‘I've got to talk to you about something.'

I waited to hear the momentous news.

‘We'll be spending the summer in London,
inshallah
…'

‘London? Brilliant!' My face lit up as I imagined spending the summer in London, as we had done before, shopping on Oxford Street and visiting Tower Bridge, riding on the London Eye. But my face fell when Dad shook his head. And that was when he told me: his business was in trouble, serious trouble, and we needed to do something drastic to keep the house. So that was why we were moving to London for the summer, to rent out our place to another family visiting from abroad.

‘I need you to understand, it won't be a holiday, son. I'll be working all the hours God sends so I will need you boys to be responsible and to look after yourselves, pretty much.' Then he smiled hopefully. ‘The good news is that we've got somewhere to stay for a few months… just until we get back on our feet and business picks up again and we can come home…' I saw the look in his eyes: he wanted me to believe him, to trust him to make everything all right, like he had always done. To be a superhero once more.

You see, when we were little, Dad used to tell us that he was a superhero with secret super powers. Of course, we were always begging him to show us his powers, and he always said
that he could never show them to us, but that we would know them when the time came. I'll never forget the day I realised that the powers he had been talking about weren't about being able to fly at warp speed or turn into a ball of fire; his powers were much more subtle than that. But the effect was the same: just like Superman, he made us feel safe, like there was nothing that could touch us, that he was always there to shield us from the baddies, from the harsher side of life.

Until Mum died, that is. Because then our superhero lost his powers and fell to earth, broken. And there was no one around to shield us anymore.

When I think about it, maybe that was what led us to find Allah again: the realisation that there is only One superpower on this earth, only One who can protect us.
La hawla wa la quwwatta illa-billah.
There is no power or might except with Allah.

But that afternoon, in the kitchen of my beautiful family home in Hertfordshire, I let my dad be my hero again. I wanted him to believe in himself again, to see a stronger version of himself reflected in my eyes. ‘OK, Dad, that's great.
Alhamdulillah
. Where will we be staying?'

‘Your Uncle Kareem's leaving his place for a year to live and work in the Gulf. He said we can stay there. It sounds nice: three bedrooms, garden, close to the mosque… There's only one problem…'

‘What's that, Dad?'

‘The house is on a housing estate.'

My jaw dropped. ‘You mean it's a council flat?' Whatever I had been expecting, it wasn't that! An image of our beautiful house here in Hertfordshire flashed through my mind and it was as if a knife had twisted in my heart. A council flat?

Dad must have seen the look of horror on my face. ‘No, Ali, it's not a council flat. It's a house and Uncle Kareem owns it. And it's not a real estate; it's in a compound with a gate so you don't have to worry, it is really secure.' I must have visibly relaxed because he smiled then. ‘And the best thing about it,' he continued, ‘is that all our neighbours will be Muslims. That'll make a change, won't it?'

I smiled weakly, trying to process what he was telling me. A new journey was about to begin.

2

I woke up to the sound of Mum crying. It wasn't loud or anything, but my ears had grown used to detecting the sound of her sobbing through the thin wall that divided our rooms. So that was how I knew that my brother Malik's dad, my mother's fourth husband, had left the night before, after their row.

I felt my insides contract, just a little. Must have been anxiety. Or the thought that I might actually get a peaceful night's sleep again, a night where my body wasn't on high alert. Abu Malik leaving may have pushed Mum to tears, but it brought me relief.

Some stepfathers are more toxic than others. Let me leave it at that.

Here we go again
, I thought as I pushed my little sister's sleeping body off my arm and towards the wall. I swung my legs over the side of the bed, the mattress creaking beneath me. ‘I wonder how long it will last this time.' It wasn't the first time one of their arguments had ended in a walkout.

I knocked on Mum's door, knowing she wouldn't want me in there, wouldn't want me to see her crying. ‘Mum,' I called softly. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?'

I didn't wait to hear her muffled response. I didn't need
to. I knew she needed a cup of tea. Soon, she would need me to give her her pills, too. Just to take the edge off the pain.

As I made my way down the stairs, stepping over piles of clothes, both clean and dirty, toys and books, I found myself growing irritated by the damp spots on the wall of the bathroom and the dust that had gathered in the corners. What with me spending so much time studying for my A levels, I could see that things had slipped around the house. I would need to whip everyone back into shape.

I put the kettle on and padded towards the back of the house, towards Zayd's room. I knocked and waited briefly before sticking my head in. As usual, he was all tied up in his duvet, just the top of his head and his hairy feet sticking out, like an overgrown hot dog. I stepped in, narrowly avoiding the crusty glass and plate by the side of the bed.

‘Zee,' I called out, giving him a nudge with my foot. He mumbled and groaned in reply. ‘Abu Malik's gone, yeah. Just thought you should know.'

Zayd didn't come out of his duvet sandwich. ‘Yeah, I know. I saw him last night, innit.'

‘Did you say anything to him?'

‘What's to say, Ams? It's the second
talaq
, innit, their second divorce. One more chance.'

I kissed my teeth and walked out of the door, disgusted. ‘Men,' I thought to myself as I banged Mum's favourite teacup on the chipped enamel counter. ‘They're all the same.'

So, that morning, it was up to me to get my little brothers and sister – Abdullah, Malik and Taymeeyah – ready for madrasah at the mosque.