She Wore Red Trainers (26 page)

‘Didn't Abu Malik tell you, Mum?' Zayd shot him a cold glance.

‘Tell me what?' asked Mum, frowning.

‘Well, the brother asked me about Amirah,' he said, digging between his teeth.

‘Asked you what exactly?' Zayd's voice was hard.

‘What she's like, innit,' was Abu Malik's response. ‘So I told him, OK?'

‘You had no right to go spreading lies about my sister!'

‘Wait, just wait! What did you tell him?' Mum started shrieking. ‘Will someone please tell me just what is going on here?'

‘Kids,' I said, nodding at them, ‘take your plates and go and eat in the kitchen. Quick!'

They all scuttled out, glancing back at us.

‘Ams? Zayd?
Tariq
? Can someone please tell me what the hell is going on!'

I looked down. I had been dreading this moment. ‘Hassan doesn't want to marry me anymore, Mum,' I said softly, trying to stop the tremble in my voice.

Mum looked at us all, from me to Zayd, to Abu Malik and back to me again, confusion written all over her face. ‘What?' Her voice was now a hoarse whisper. ‘Why? How?'

Zayd took a deep breath and, looking right at my stepfather, said, ‘Well, Abu Malik thought it would be a good
idea to tell the brother some wild stories about Amirah's past…'

‘Like I said, he asked me what I knew, so I told him,' Abu Malik replied.

‘No, don't try and sugar-coat it. You went and told Hassan a whole heap of lies about Amirah's past, stuff you heard about her, things you never even verified. You know what the worst thing is? Amirah and I had already agreed to talk to him about Amirah's teen years and what happened when I was in Saudi, but when I went to speak to him, he'd already been poisoned by your garbage!' Zayd kissed his teeth and pushed his chair back from the table. ‘I've lost my appetite. I'm going out.'

Mum was still staring at her husband, her mouth open. I could see her hands starting to tremble. ‘Did you tell Brother Hassan lies about Amirah? Did you?' she rasped.

Abu Malik looked over at her and said, in his fake apologetic voice, ‘No, babe I wouldn't do that. I love Amirah like my own daughter, you know that… But a man has the right to know who he's marrying. And I thought it would be better coming from family…'

‘From
family
?' Mum squinted at Abu Malik and, for the first time, I heard her raise her voice to him. ‘How
dare
you? How dare you stick your nose in my daughter's business? What gives you the right, eh? What gives you the right to mess things up for her?'

‘I was only doing the right thing! I told Zayd…'

‘The right thing? The
right
thing? You wouldn't know the right thing if it slapped you across your face!' She got up violently and her chair toppled backwards. ‘It is from a person's
iman
to leave alone that which does not concern
him,' she said, emphasising every word by stabbing her finger on the table. ‘Sound familiar? Or can you only take the
deen
when you're the one dishing it out?'

Zayd and I looked at each other, unable to believe what we were seeing, what we were hearing. Neither of us had ever heard our mother challenge any of her husbands, certainly not in front of us. This was a different woman in front of us, taking offence on behalf of her daughter, telling her husband where he could stick it.

‘
Out
,' she was saying now, her voice low and menacing. ‘I want you out of my house.'

‘Oh, come on, babe, not all that again! I was only trying to help…'

‘
Out
!' Mum shrieked, flipping his plate into the air in front of him. The unfinished lamb and mashed potatoes sailed through the air and landed on his T-shirt and in his lap. Then Mum really lost it and started throwing things at him – cups, spoons, the salad bowl – screaming for him to get out, out, out.

Zayd and I just stared, fascinated, covering our ears when the plates started smashing on the floor.

It sounds mad but, even though Mum was totally losing her mind, I had never had more respect for her than I did in that moment.

As soon as Abu Malik had stumbled out of the door, shouting abuse at Mum, calling her all sorts of names, both Zayd and I jumped up and hugged her hard, holding her trembling body between us.

Mum wiped the sweat from her forehead. ‘Good riddance,' she said huskily. ‘Alhamdulillah, we're free of him.'

Yes, Mum, that's right
, I thought.

***

I wanted to tell her. I wanted to get it off my chest, what I had been holding inside for so many months.

So, I made her a cup of herbal tea and sat her down. And I told her about Abu Malik: the teasing that became more persistent, closer to the red line. The fatherly affection that had become something darker, something that made me feel uncomfortable, that made me want to cover up in front of my own stepfather, to make sure I was never alone in a room with him. And then the time I woke up to find him in my bedroom, right by my bed, claiming to have lost his way in the dark before tip-toeing out.

By that time, Mum was sobbing, clutching my hands, saying sorry over and over again. I didn't say anything but felt a strange kind of peace wash over me: I felt like a huge weight had been lifted off my shoulders. I didn't have to carry my awful secret on my own anymore. Finally, I could start letting go and moving on.

‘He'll never set foot in this house again, Amirah,' Mum sniffed. ‘I swear.'

‘Mum, I didn't tell you to hurt you or to get back at him. I just want you to know who he really is. What he's capable of. And that you need to protect Taymeeyah, too.'

Mum nodded. ‘I know that, Amirah. May Allah bless you, girl. I don't know what I would do without you.'

I turned away then, afraid of looking into her face.

Mum spoke again, her voice firmer this time, turning my face towards hers. ‘You are beautiful, Ams, and a special young woman. And… I know I haven't told you this but… I'm proud of you. I am. You've come so far, mashallah. I know I used to go on at you and give you a hard time, and I know I haven't always been there for you, but I want you to know that
I am proud of you – in every way. You are so much stronger than me, mashallah, and I know that Allah sent you to me as my ease in this life, as my rock. I pray that He rewards you always for that.'

I was so surprised by her words that tears sprang to my eyes immediately. Her words were like the first drops of rain on my heart, a heart that felt dry and barren. I had sealed it off long ago, when it came to her. And now, here she was, telling me all the words I had been longing to hear for so many years: I'm proud of you. I'm sorry.

She put her hand on my shoulder and I grabbed hold of it and held on, as tight as I could, tears running down my face. And, as I looked at her in the mirror, I saw that she was crying, too.

And I knew then what I had to do.

47

My bags were packed. The house was empty. Dad, Jamal and Umar were in the car, waiting for me. Part of me couldn't wait to be on that plane, on my way to a new adventure, part of me wanted to stay here on Seville Close, waiting, waiting to see whether she would come and say goodbye. Whether she would change her mind.

But we were running late. Dad started beeping the horn and Jamal was pulling me by my hand into the car. I looked out of the window, hoping against hope.

But the door remained closed and the curtains shut.

It was time to say goodbye to Seville Close.

I just hoped I would get my heart back one day.

48

‘Come on, Rania,' I said, checking my watch for the fiftieth time. ‘We're not going to make it if you don't break a few speed limits!'

Rania gave me the side eye. ‘Actually, I've already broken more than a few.' She squinted at the speedometer. ‘And I will be forwarding the fines to your address, lady.'

‘Fine, fine,' I huffed. ‘Just step on it!'

In the back seat, Zayd chuckled. ‘You two are crazy.'

I turned to face him. ‘Zee, you know I owe you big time for this.' And then I turned to Rania. ‘And you.'

‘Well, Ams, this might just be the craziest thing you've ever done. But inshallah, none of us will live to regret it, eh?'

‘Inshallah,' Zayd mumbled. I knew how awkward he probably felt sitting in the back seat of Auntie Azra's car with Rania in the driver's seat, but he was doing a good job of holding it down. He was doing this for me.

***

‘Amirah, what you're trying to do is madness,' Zayd had told me. ‘Pure madness. And, as your
wali
, I'm responsible
for you; I can't allow it. Really, I have to put my foot on the brakes here.'

‘Zayd,' I said, my voice as calm as I felt. ‘I'm a big girl now. And I think it's time for you to respect my choices, my decisions. I agreed to meet Hassan out of my love and respect for you. I was even prepared to marry him, just to please you, even though I knew we weren't compatible. Now, I need the same love and respect from you.' I felt strong and confident: I had done all my research; I knew all about volunteering and visas and gap years and art therapy courses that could be deferred until the following year.

‘I understand that, Ams, but this doesn't make any sense! Where will you live? How will he provide for you? ‘

‘“If a man comes to you with good
deen
and character, marry him”. Sound familiar, Zee? And you know the brother. You know what he's worth. Now, I know that you had your heart set on me marrying Hassan or, at least, another brother like him, but, to be honest, that's not what I'm looking for. And I'm not a child anymore, Zayd, I grew up long ago. Maybe this brother can't offer me what others can but the point is this: what he has is what I want.'

‘And what would that be, dear sister of mine?' I could tell from his smile that I was winning him over.

I grinned at him. ‘Now, if you had asked me that in the first place, instead of making assumptions or trying to force me into a box, none of that stuff with Hassan would have happened.'

Zayd hung his head and I felt a stab of remorse. I didn't blame him for what happened, not really, but I wasn't prepared to allow myself to get guilt-tripped into turning into some kind of cookie cutter clone. ‘I want a companion in this life and the next. Someone who gets me. Who is into
me
. Not just the fact
that I wear hijab or come from a religious family or will be an obedient wife or just because I love kids. Someone who loves my sense of humour, who appreciates my art, who shares my passions. A true partner who will respect me, honour me and make me feel like a princess, all at the same time.' Zayd rolled his eyes but I just smiled at him. ‘Zee, one thing you need to realise is that good Muslim women come in all forms. There isn't one officially sanctioned version. Just look at the Mothers of the Believers: they were all different, with characters and personalities all of their own. The only thing they conformed to was the love of Allah and His Messenger,
sallallahu alayhi wa sallam
, and their commitment to Islam. So why are we made to feel that we need to conform to more than that?'

I could tell from his expression that he was listening, digesting what I was saying.

‘Zayd, you know me. Better than anyone else, you know where we've come from and what we've been through. You know that this life we have here isn't for me. I've always wanted something different, something more. Now I've got a chance to live a different life, to be true to myself
and
my Islam, to complete half my
deen
in a way that suits who
I
am. Please don't stand in the way of that.'

He didn't say anything for a long time. Then he nodded, got up and gave me a hug.

And I knew that he was in. Now, he had to start doing his research.

Auntie Azra was in, too. She had had tears in her eyes as she pressed the ticket into my hand.

‘My gift to you, Amirah,' she said, her voice hoarse. ‘May Allah bless it for you, my dear. Go, fly…' Then she'd turned away, wiping tears from her eyes. Mum had come up and
given her a hug.

‘These girls, eh?' she joked. ‘They'll be the death of us, I tell you.' She had come to terms with what I wanted to do and, now, she was calm. ‘What will be, will be, Amirah,' she had sighed. ‘Ultimately, Allah is the Best of Planners.'

Soon, the two friends reunited were laughing, their eyes full of tears. We left them at the house, going through Mum's things, getting ready to paint her bedroom walls, drinking tea and laughing about old times. Mum had wanted to come, along with all the kids, but I had put my foot down. This was going to be difficult enough already without the whole family tagging along.

‘Make sure you look after her, Zayd!' Mum had called out to us as we bundled ourselves into Auntie Azra's car. ‘Love you, baby!'

I'd hardly had time to tie the laces on my red trainers.

***

But now time was slipping and the roads were choked with rush hour traffic.

Rania banged on the steering wheel in frustration. ‘We'll never make it, Ams!' she cried, with a desperate look.

I chewed on my lip and made the same
du'a
as I had made before leaving the house:
Please, Allah, if it is good for me, decree it and, if it isn't, remove it from me and replace it with better.

Ever since I had made up my mind to do this,
Salatul-Istikhara
had become my best friend. The prayer with which we seek Allah's help and guidance. Indispensable.

Rania slipped out of the slow lane as the traffic eased. ‘Time to burn some rubber,' she muttered, bracing herself behind the steering wheel.

And while we sped along the motorway to Heathrow Airport, seconds turned into minutes and the minutes kept ticking, ticking, slipping away, while I prayed feverishly, my eyes closed.