I met her 8 years ago, and even back then I knew there was something distinct about her, but I just couldn’t put my finger on it. It could have been her eyes that spoke with greater intensity than her voice ever did, or it could have been her gait, which was not one of a person who thought highly of their self, nor of one who was subdued; it was one of a person who knew they are from clay, just as everyone else is.

There was a magnificent magnet that drew me to her, and I love basking in her company whether she speaks a lot or says absolutely nothing at all. And the beautiful irony is that her name translates to mean hope, a feeling that transpires from her whenever I think my tests are overwhelming.

It’s just love for the sake of our Creator that bonded me to her, and causes me to return to her company when I’ve drifted away… again, and again.

Life. The word alone when uttered seems calm and collected, but mine hasn’t always been so. I’ve always been on the go, busying myself with one activity or the other, worrying about what to do next. And to be able to breathe the word ‘life‘ is such a luxury.

The fast-paced setting that so many of us reside in leaves very little room for us to sit down and reflect. The abilities of shiny gadgets wow us, and all things fast catch our eyes, but when lights are dimmed and voices are hushed, sunsets still stir even the busiest of us to tears.

What is it about nature that has this profound effect on humankind? One could conjure several conclusions, but for me, the most succinct is that it’s our body’s way to draw our attention to a greater force present in our lives.

Being an urban girl, I saw very little grass as a child; granted, there were trees and laid lawns, but vast expanses of grass, marshes or meadows just wasn’t present. You can only imagine the first time I saw a grass field on a trip out of London in my adolescent years. Amazing doesn’t even come close to describe the beauty displayed in the immense crisp green space that stretched as far as the horizon allowed. I’d never seen anything like it before, and the way my heart beat still remains unexplainable. I caught myself breathing slower, and placed a hand over my chest and thought, “He did this”. Could it have been anyone but Him?

Nature has always been something that amazed me since then: How flowers bloomed like clockwork each and every year, how trees flowered before they fruited and even the human body continues to astonish me. A splinter reminded me of just how weak I am – when I removed the sliver of wood from my finger tip I could not help laughing at just how helpless I was moments before. But what truly sends shivers down my spine is the heart.

As humans we have control over several aspects of our lives and what we choose to ingest, yet the heart is an organ that is the very centre of our being that we have absolute no domination over. Who commands it to beat, and once a person’s time on earth has reached its limit, who commands it to stop? When we hear of deaths we expect to hear of a murder, a stabbing or a road accident, but more often than not it’s the body’s organ’s hastening to the command of its Fashioner to simply stop.

To discount the presence of a Creator and Fashioner who made it normal for us to have pairs of body parts rather than more is akin to discounting one’s own existence.

When you see a sunset that strikes a chord in your heart, or you witness a moonrise that draws involuntary tears from your eyes, it’s your body’s reaction to the creation of its Creator, and what’s left is for you to align your natural inclinations with your mind and heart.

How unrestrained can glances be? Does the flutter of an eyelid make the mark? Or does slipping a peek from the corner of my eye qualify? With a heart failing to keep up with the racing thoughts in my head just at the mention of his name, how am I meant to restrain the wish that can be read through my eyes?

If I were in my giggly teen years, the rose mosaic scattered on my cheeks would be more befitting. But alas, he is not the hunk I once used to dream of, and I am not the young girl I once used to be.

Questions make me feel smaller than I am. They tower over me, and grow still when I am unable to find an answer. Looking up at them piled so high leaves me dizzy with delight, as I anticipate his visit to our family home for dinner tonight.

© Umm Junayd, February 2009

They say bite the bullet
I say fight the bullet
be a man
don’t pull it.
That trigger
that you think’ll make you happy
just one moment
take a look at the map,
see?
That’s your journey
the courtroom and attorney
inside and out
you ain’t free.
I don’t want a fight, B,
but to me
you’re less than a man…
You’re just angry?
Let it settle internally
‘cos externally
we’re battling the true fight.
Now just bite.

© Umm Junayd, September 2009.

Back by demand – part one of a story I’m not sure I’ll ever finish. Enjoy!

I knew you were laying in wait for me again that day, watching from a distance, analysing my every move. I can only imagine your glee as I drove past him – you were probably excited at the prospect of me being knocked to my knees again, slipping as I naïvely slithered towards the invisibly marked danger zone.

You knew that day was like the others as I drove the 30-minute journey to Grandma’s home. I slowed down at the narrow junction that branched onto a one-way street, proceeding cautiously over the speed bumps. It was a 20-miles-per-hour driving zone, but I slowed further to 15. The orange bricked terraced houses that lined the streets boasted their vigour despite their age. Pristine evergreen foliage decorated the outskirts of each block, adding a hint of spring even during the harshest winter months. I made a mental note of the alleys that separated each five-house block. They were oddly placed, probably for the convenience of the architect, but at the peril of the residents who were left with no choice but to endure the sight of another block only a few metres from their front door.

‘Block one, block two,’ I muttered just above a whisper as I passed the blocks before Saleem’s, paying particular attention to the road ahead. I stole a rushed glance in the direction of his house, taking care to keep my head still – not the slightest indication of where my eyes strayed.

It would be unacceptable to be seen looking at him if he were to be watching out of his window the moment I drove by. His was the one at the very top of the three-floored house, the one facing the street. The lace curtains that skirted the windows were those his mother had picked from Clapham’s bustling market. Laced flowers danced in an elegant pattern, with a fine stitch of leaves above. I’d skimmed my fingers over the edges once, intertwining them between my fingers in a smooth drawn out motion. Then, I wondered what had made his mother choose such an elaborate design for someone she knew would pay no attention to it. Saleem had no care for such, but she had bought it all the same.

When I had passed his house there were no obvious signs of him. I continued to scan the almost deserted street in the hope that he would be strolling along it lazily, so that I may catch a glimpse of him. Every tall man with even a hint of his airbrushed brown skin caused my heart to thump. My hands would develop pinpricked beads of sweat as I gripped the steering wheel tighter, pretending not to look.

***

Grandma is such a sweet lady, ladled with jokes that could lift the spirits of the most depressed. I visited her once a fortnight to keep her company and renew her supply of groceries. I had always insisted that I visit her once a week – you suggested that idea – but Grandma refused, lamenting about how bad she feels for dragging me out each week.

“You don’t drag me out, Ma,” I said, sat on a low wooden stool. I preferred the stool to her spongy cream sofa, I liked to look up into her eyes. I stroked the back of her hand with my right hand while she clasped onto my other. Each row of aged skin on her honey-basked hand told a different story of her seventy years previous. “I enjoy the time I spend with you.”

“Ah, my child. You are so good to me.”

“How is that, Ma? Is it not my duty to the mother who bore my mother? I love coming to see you.”

I had to keep seeing her.

“Maymuno, you are a precious gift wrapped in your scarf. Look at you.” There were no mirrors in her spacious living room, but she guided her hand along my face in soft wispy strokes as if to illustrate her thoughts.

“I remember when your Mama was to deliver you. I told her to stay at home, that I could deliver you myself as I delivered your cousins Tawfiq and Abbas. She bluntly refused. ‘I want my child to be safe, Mama, I’ve waited too long to have her. I can’t now lose her in this Nigerian heat.’ See, you were precious before you were even born, Maymuno.”

I blushed silently, and my heart thanked the One who Created me with a mellow brown complexion.

“Thank you, Ma, your words are too kind. I wish to live up to the way you think of me.”

“Yes, Maymuno, stay precious. Do not allow any man to peck at your heart. Keep it whole and devoted to Allah. When a man pecks away at you, he’ll not return the pieces he stole, so let him earn it in a noble way.”

She reached down and held my chin, lifting it slightly to examine my face; it was as if she was searching for any blemishes that may ruin my value.

“Yes, Ma,” I whispered. I felt exposed, faint with anxiety. It was as though she had cross examined my heart – like she knew of the secrets that I kept there, wrapped with guilt and bundled to the bottom. She had a way of reaching to the depths of my conscious although I worked hard to ensure my tongue and actions wore the perfect mask.

***

I thought about the words of Grandma while I strapped myself into my car that warm evening, adjusting the mirrors before I set off home. The sun had yet to retreat behind the horizon, tucking itself away to make way for the moon. Grandma had said that I’m precious, no man should be allowed to peck at my heart. But what sort do I have left after years of allowing the thought of Saleem to occupy it? Each trip to Grandma’s caused me to grasp onto the hope of seeing him again.

I had envisioned the scene many times. Our eyes would meet and remain transfixed; a bulb of recognition would immediately be switched on in his head. I had become almost unrecognisable to those who once knew me without the head-covering, and the donning of the face veil further concealed my identity. But Saleem would know me.

I wouldn’t call out his name, nor would he call mine as he had once done. “Maymunah,” in the deep airy way I remembered his voice to be. No, he wouldn’t call me like that when he saw me, he would simply allow for his chocolate specked eyes to be immersed in mine without the need for words to flutter from our lips. What could be said anyway? What words could be uttered to express what we both wanted, but had placed a barrier between? Was it I who was too self-righteous, or he who was too laid-back?

You could have easily pulled me from the abyss of my dream, but you allowed me to inch closer, cling on evermore.

I had to grasp onto my chest as I reached the adjoining street to his. I had taken a different route from Grandma’s, and if I were the betting type I would have banked on the unlikelihood of crossing Saleem’s path. The sight of a man – tall, brown-skinned and broad-nosed – made my hands shed water in excess. I squinted, scolding myself for not wearing my contact lenses that afternoon in my rush to leave the house.

I exhaled when I realised it wasn’t him, the renewed oxygen that I inhaled sent a rush to my head, and I reminded myself to breathe. Is this what it will be like? I didn’t get to answer my own question as I was plummeted into the firing line before I could review my strategy.

There he was. Another squint and it was confirmed. I looked straight into his eyes, allowing my gaze to linger as he stopped abruptly in the middle of a loud laugh. I suppose the guy he was with had said something funny a few moments before my car emerged into sight. His hearty laugh was drowned out by that of the man’s on the radio. I should have turned the volume down. I should have wound my window lower so that I could hear Saleem’s laugh; hear if it was the same as when we used to joke together. You fuelled my ‘I should haves’.

I’m still unable to decipher the expression he displayed when our eyes locked. Was it a look of recognition that had emerged? Or was the slight squint an effort to gain recollection? My gaze was abandoned by my need to keep my eyes on the road, but you wasted no time in allowing arrows to be shot, piercing me deep once again. I shouldn’t have let down my guard; my eyes should have been battered down as I grew hot from shame. Is this how you should act Maymunah? Shame on you! I heard your reply loud and clear, justifying my actions as a way to fulfil my need for closure. And as I stared at him in my rear-view mirror – how he had stopped walking and was watching the tail lights of my Corsa disappear – I knew you wouldn’t allow him to want it to be closure. You’ll forever lay in wait for an opportunity to entice us into the danger zone, as unmarked yet clear as it is.

© Umm Junayd, April 2009.

I know, it’s looking rather empty, and in all honesty it reflects how I’m feeling right now. I needed a new start. 6 years worth of posts have been removed to start my blog writing journey over in ‘10. I haven’t got the faintest idea how it’s going to turn out, but I’ve decided to be true to myself, and be true to you – my readers – so what you see will be truly me.

Here’s a little something I can leave you with.

Mirrored Dreams

It was picturesque
perfectly painted dreams
where
clouds of happiness
hung afar and near
that reflection
that she saw
in the world of
her closed eyes
where
everything was just
perfect
her eyelids opened
they shattered
every ounce of
the frame
every shimmer
of brightness
that she’d seen
they shattered
and the pain
stemmed from
the impossibility
of collecting the shards
as the mirror of her
dreams
evaporated
never to be seen
again.

© Umm Junayd, March 2010.