To lock up
and create a seal
is to lie to oneself
and conceal
the sadness that ensue from one’s heart.

But the reign
of success
will ultimately reign,
so refrain from uttering words of distress.

© Umm Junayd, February 2010

I can still recall his expression, and from the moment Saleem disappeared from sight I continually hit my forehead as I listed the you should haves. ‘You should have pulled over’, ‘You should have at least waved’, ‘You should have texted him’. I hate those moments - those when recalled, you know you would never have done. A concoction of excitement and anxiety with a dash of nervousness was the mixture in my throat at the time, and staring was all that I could muster.

I thought he’d drop me an email that day to say that he had seen me. But could that squint really have been one of confusion? As though he knew me despite me being a stranger?

I know that you want to know what the deal is with Saleem and I, and it will take much more than one entry to quench your curiosity because we go further back than the eye can see, and further still than the heart can contain. My bundle of memories that was wrapped with guilt is threatening to resurface in order to tell this tale. It is one filled with days of belly-aching laughter and stinging streaks of tears; one of undeniable days of hope and many long phone conversations and emails; it is brimming with not only unhealed heart wounds, but also desperate need for reconciliation. I’m human, and I have slipped more times than can be counted for eternity - and so I write our story. I do not promise it to display an ounce of perfection, for I have merely been fashioned by One who is Perfect, and I am far less than that. It is a story that will display emotions borne by all humanity, especially that of love.

***

I was a regular girl back then, doing pretty well at school and with selected, yet close friends. In Maths I used to sit next to a girl named Irene — Irene Ink. She was pretty a blond-headed girl, with a deep dimple planted in her left cheek. It was semi-permanent as a faint dip was evident even when she wasn’t smiling, a sign that she smiled excessively. It was common knowledge that Irene was the person to go to for Maths advice, but being the 15 year olds we were, we didn’t go to Irene for advice, just solutions for our assignments. We were the perfect contrast, Irene and I: the mantra opposites attract was certainly true for us, and our differences brought us closer than any other girls in our year.

I often blocked out the guys in school - my mother had always warned me that boys equal bad things, and I constantly reminded myself of that. It was often hard to decipher the difference between something being caught in a guy’s eye  and a wink, so I decided that ignoring them entirely was the best thing for both parties lest I embarrassed myself. While girls like Charlene, Liz and Roxanne were drooling over the latest triceps and biceps that hit their bulge radar, I walked on by while linked arms with Irene as we discussed what we would eat for lunch.

And it could have been a normal day, as had been every other day in that school year. We were starting our GCSEs and I was determined to get a good grade in Maths and English, at least. I was thrown off my pedestal of focus by a note that was slipped beneath my pencil case in a Religious Education class. I barely noticed the pair of grey trousers that rushed past as the yellow post-it note was expertly slide on the table. The conversation Latoya and I were having about Islam was getting hot - I was trying to explain that I was not a member of the Nation of Islam when I caught a glimpse of a dark hand contrasted by bright yellow to my left; I stopped mid-sentence and almost choked on my words. Latoya attempted to divert the conversation just as her eyes diverted to the sea of grey trouser-wearing guys in the corner of the room. A smile crept into the corners of her bright pink lips until a full grin displayed her wonderful set of crooked teeth.

“You’ve got a note, Maymunah,” she cooed.

“State the obvious, Toya,” I said, rolling my eyes twice and then a third time for good measure.

She knew who left the note, but the grin on her face, coupled with the dancing light in her eyes told me that she wasn’t going to divulge the information that easily.

I slid the folded yellow sheet from beneath my purple polka dot pencil case, and swayed between the decision of unfolding it or not.

“Open it, then!”

I shot my deadly slitted eyes and furrowed eyebrows look at her, a sure sign that it was time for her to remain quiet. She firmly placed an index finger over her lips and the large saucers in her eyes told me she was sorry.

Carefully, I unfolded that paper to reveal a bubbled scrawl. The way the ink was rolled across the paper displayed an urgency that I had never seen before.

Call me. Saleem.

His phone number was written beneath his name, but with careful consideration of each digit. Each was placed with almost perfect spacing and alignment on an invisible straight line. The urgency had waned, and seriousness was clearly displayed. He really wanted me to call him. Saleem.

© Umm Junayd, December 2009.

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.

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.

***

© Umm Junayd, April 2009.

This is an excerpt of my story published in an anthology this year. Read the rest in this book –> Many Voices, One Faith II - Islamic Fiction Stories

I’m known to be able to procrastinate a lot because I’m not in the mood or right frame of mind, and at such times my mother’s famous words ring in my head: “I can’t be bothered is a disease!”

Granted, she says it more to my brother than me - in fact, I can’t ever recall her saying it to me at all - but I’ve heard it so many times that it’s been programmed into my subconscious. And it’s true: not being bothered to do something can fester, and lead to procrastination of even the most important obligations; it can stem to your prayers, homework, fasting etc. if not kept in check. I guess it stems from how important you view that thing: if it means nothing to you (or not very much), you’re more likely to push it right to the back of your mind. You may even forget about it all together.

Procrastination is a disease, and one that can easily branch out into other areas if one doesn’t keep a watchful eye out.

You got to love mother’s sayings!

You see, there are times in life where you are so internally - and possibly externally - worn down that when you try to piece together a piece, not even a puff of air escapes. You may even call your own name… call your writing voice, because you’re sure that it must be there somewhere, but you hear no reply. And you sit there aghast: your writing voice has been lost!

*gasps*

Yes, that’s what I call it - voice unfound. When you lose something you try to find it, right? So when you are unable to write because your writing voice has gone on an unknown journey, you need to go out and find it. Well, that’s as far as I’ve come with my epiphany. Now I have to figure out just how I’m going to find it!

*thinks*…

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.

Imagine the 29th of Shawwal. Muslims around the world anticipate news of the coming of the blessed month. Radios are tuned, satellite channels are constantly flicked through and the telephone line is checked several times.

The advent of Ramadhan brings about a change in many, some temporary while others aim for a degree of permanence. And it was my wish last Ramadhan to move away from the mundane and opt to pack my spiritual bags on a journey that reached back into the depths of history, yet stretched to the time of eternity. The journey required discipline and diligence; organisation and austerity; focus and foresight; it was one that caused a synchronised flutter of my heart and hand as I mapped out the path I would take. Doubt often plagued me, the slight whisperings that told me that I could never make it. Although it was a path that had been trodden by several of Allah’s (SWT) slaves before me, it was to be my first excursion through the wondrous tales of the days of old, thus I wanted to have my resting points well charted in order to pace myself steadily through the days and nights of Ramadhan.

As the month drew nearer, the nights leading up to Ramadhan became more purposeful as I concluded the route of my journey. It was dotted with mystery, depth and insight and all the while I knew that every aspect would help shape me once the blessed month had left. The goal was envisaged, and I anxiously awaited the confirmed sighting of the moon in order to cross the start line.

It was upon the sight of the thin crescent that I proclaimed the praise of my Lord, the one who created all things and the King in front of whom I would stand. I firmly asked for His Guidance on the straight path, protection from the crooked ways of those who earn His Anger and His curse.

The directions on my map plunged me into pages that are deeper than the ocean Yunus (AS) was thrown in, and I scurried past the destruction of Thamud, ‘Aad and the treacherous people of Sodom. The emotions were overwhelming - I batted back tears as I marvelled at the unfaltering strength of Ya’qub (AS), the heartbreaking patience of Ayyub (AS) and the superb bravery of Dawud (AS). While I journeyed, pangs of longing of companionship with the wife of Fir’awn and the conviction of Maryam (RA) overcome me.

I stopped by to once again praise the Owner of the Dominion and pondered upon how He causes birds to fly with nothing to hold them up but He. I trembled when I tiptoed through images of the fire and the torment that awaits those who reject Him; my eyes glazed over as I prayed for my supplications to be responded to on the Night of Power, and quivered upon mention of the convulsion of the ground that I know to be firm and stable.

Thirst beheld me as I envisioned quenching it with the sweet drink of Al-Kauthar, until I whispered with hot tears tumbling down my face: “Who whispers into the breast of mankind, from jinn and mankind.”

My thirty-day odyssey through the Qur’an was a steep and steady one, a dream that was once thought to be shallow, despite the many footsteps I had to trace. The journey through the Qur’an thrusts deep within the soul of the one who wishes to reflect – the one who wishes to retrace the steps of the faithful, and for you too it can be a dream that is not far off, and it begins upon the sight of the thin crescent.

This article was published in the Summer 2009 edition of SISTERS magazine.

Kick your heels from the dust
and look to the marks you’ve made
Your cries don’t fall on the deaf
He Hears you
He Hears

Wallowing in sorrow does no good
Swim through the tears to new lands
Your cries don’t fall on the deaf
He Hears you
He Hears

Cracked lines on the mirror say nothing
Mistakes are there to be learned
Your cries don’t fall on the deaf
He Hears you
He Hears

Unlock the doors and let yourself in
Isolated companionship is destructive
Your Lord is certainly not deaf
He Hears you
He Hears

The enemy hasn’t the horned head
But it’s the negativity that you hold
Your Lord is certainly not deaf
He Hears you
He’s Heard

© Umm Junayd, July 2009.

Marriage Alters Your Taste Buds!

Marriage alters your taste buds
So does childbirth too
Please don’t look at me that way
What I say is true.

Marriage alters your taste buds
I soon found out one day
Just a handful of broccoli
Then back and forth I swayed.

Marriage alters your taste buds
And don’t think I complain
With so much choice available
New recipes are a pain!

© Umm Junayd, July 2007.