—Naw, naw boss.
—You wanna do bizniz le’s do biznis. But you alredy giving me greef my frend.
—Izzy, Izzy, this is me.
All da Followers on road sheer across to th next man wiv his clownish hair—who lifts his arm n points at da windows, and thir shields point at da windows...
And next man sqweezes his gat...
Read!
And Hamza n Alif shear across da creture an wrap dere Powers around him.
Yr creture thawt a rock blew out da window, blew past Yor creture’s ears. And a million splinters ar suspended in one world.
Den more shattering, and bare heads screeming. Everyone drops as s__t got bruck up.
He thot his man got cut. Allahu Akbar.
A sine wave singing in his ear. And peple bob or run out da door.
He saw that creture Izzat crease, in his hand dat envelop wiv da dosh—dat envelope belonged to him!
Yor slave looks around and reeched...
Thru da plateglass an its spider webs, dat servant Zack calls:
—Nassa, let’s go!
The Followers pick up Yor creatur as th street rolls under his crepes; past all da Followers spinning silat moves, laying waste da Hi Street.…
(Maghrib: 1757 GMT)
By da manifold Angels in da whip, watching over Your screeming slaves; we floor da clapping motor.
And Mikael of da wind an rack spred a hand across da sky dat expands and moves.
And th belevers hurry, hurry, to brake thir fast. In da blessed month.
This is the niht fortold in wich th worlds sing out; & for love of him th skyes ar turning.
Soon a deluge of angels brings down th Preservd Tablet to th relm a creaturs, and wiv them da soles of th beleving dead called down by du’as.
And Maalik, keeper of th gates of Hell, & his nineteen guards of da Fire. And seventy thozand Angels ech on seventy thozand ropes hawling da gates of Hell.
They rain down like da moving shelf of a waterfall and shear the atmosfere.
And th screeming cretures in da car; and Yor slave thinking, They’ll think I got him shot. And Sonia banging da wheel swearing down hes unbelevable, & the dum one seying, Slow down, slow down.
Somware up the road they mite crash, & the pickny inherit a kilo of smack. And th Noble Scribe must stay his entry, for this creture may yet repent & pray.
And the Followers throw thir shield around. As if they could deflect his corse an atoms bredth.
Yah! Hawl to, Protectors! Lets speed him to his doom! Ya Seen! Ya Seen!
Thez drop Yor slave at th flat, and he sez, Wait a minite, the dumm one sez, Maybe we shud get the car off rode.
By the manifold Protecting Angels in Aleesha’s flat, watching over th screeming cretures;
Dat slave tryin a sneek the other half a kilo of smack. Wile she’s screwing about da car.
And dat mother coms with claws.
Hamza & Alif throwing tiger forms to protect him:
Dat wifey is gon!
(Da Noble Scribe watches and shapes his Pen to the arcaic hand. But Atid must stay his entry, for dis creatur may yet repent or pray. For repentans erazes what happened befor.)
And da babby howling in th doorway.
In which the Angels bring down the Preserved Tablet; and the creature flees his fate; and reaches a station on his road; and he makes a mi’raj and sees a day of bliss; and is abandoned.
§
(Esha: 1944 GMT)
Da man runs out wiv a holdall.
And in dat niht as th souls desend, a lite blazed wirling from da house; dey rain down on wet tarmac.
And a deluj of angels brings down th Prezervd Tablit to th North Circuler.
And seventy thozand Angels ech on seventy thozand ropes hawling da gates of Hell to Birmingham.
And Angels of da morning Watch vibrate wid no delay.
Dey shape th Pen cut to shikeste style. To tell his story in finewebbd cursivs sweeping in tidal rinkles across da Book. Or in its airier form, suggesting mountins wiv bird n cliff flower vowels.
We copy da Book alredy writ, and write again. And therin no dout.
Da man runs out of da flat wiv a holdall. And his frends still waiting.
Dey fly th weeping gosts of Wembley.
And Yor servant Sonia banging da weel, and Yor creatur sayin, Son, we can go to Dadi-Ma’s, and Zak saying, Less just get dere.
Somewar up da motaway they mite crash, and da pickny inherit a kilo of smack.
(Taraweeh: 2104 GMT)
By the last juz of Taraweeh.
By th faint muzak an the motaway as th door opens. By th schilds of th Followers and da silens of th Scribes.
And custumers in vacant corners, and Casheer at his counter.
And the intersecting Wings riffling other spectra.
Dere are Jinn in evry servise station.
Your creture tosses Rizlas n draw on da table and stares. And his mobile beeps another text from Aleesha.
That dumm one lookt down, his shaking leg. And Sonia grim. The Casheer looking on, the Caretaker of a qwiet life.
Yor creatur croking:
—Dont ask, man. I dunno. I jus turn up. Don’t ask...Motherffff...
And Sonia:
—Its not yor falt? It’s not yor falt!
Hes thinking, They think I did it. Theyr gonna com looking for me. I am f___d.
And when shes gon to th lobby he sez:
—Wot you bring her for, man?
And dat creture Zak mumbling she was helping.
—I didnt see Snow Wite bustin a gut for us befor. Gotta help ourselvz now. Gotta stick together.
Zack shaking his hed.
—Wot? Wot...! Trust me. I’m a better mate than some...Whas she doing?
There in th corner at da public fones—
—Wat she doing? We gotta go. Sort it out, geezer. Wat da hell you bring her for?
Dat servant clocks th dried scratches across Naseebs face, who fiddles wiv da sports bag, till she com back.
—Hey... Who were you calling?
And Sonia to Zak:
—You must be the only mug he can rope in any mor. Its like Im always trying to keep you strait.
And Naseeb gets in:
—Ain up to you, is it?
—No. Yore riht. Ain up to me... Its just I thot you were doing somthing with yorself, Zak.
And Naseeb gets in:
—Wot’s it got to do with anything anyways?