‘I suppose we should have been listening,’ said Junayd.
‘What? To Abdullah? He’s not my teacher.’
‘He probably could be! He knows a lot more than I do anyway,’ observed Junayd.
There was a short pause.
‘I hate this,’ said Ibrahim.
‘What?’
‘Madrasa. What’s the point of it?’
‘The Imam said it’s to learn our religion … ’ began Junayd.
‘That’s what my Dad says,’ interrupted Ibrahim, ‘but I never see him doing the things we get told to do?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, I bet he doesn’t know half of the stuff we get shoved down our throats every week. The only time he comes to the mosque is to drop me off for this stupid thing.’
‘What about jum‘ah prayers on Fridays?’ asked Junayd.
‘He prays it sometimes, but he’s not bothered. He says you only have to go to one in three. I think he’s got an alarm set on his phone so he doesn’t miss three in a row.’
Junayd wasn’t sure what to say. He decided to change the subject.
‘You know what,’ he said, ‘it’d be good if we could play football in this break time.’
‘Ha!’ laughed Ibrahim. ‘The Imam would never go along with that! He hates football! I heard him say it was one of the evils of modern society!’
‘It turns brothers against brothers!’ declared an exaggerated Libyan accent. It was Khalid. ‘Isn’t that what he said?’
‘Yeah Khalid, he did say that,’ said Ibrahim. ‘But actually, think about it. The Imam never comes outside in the break. If we could get a football out here, he’d never know we were playing.’
‘He’d hear all the noise,’ warned Junayd.
‘Not if we’re quiet,’ replied Ibrahim. ‘Anyway, this was your idea!’
‘It wasn’t my idea to do it! I just said it would be good if we could!’
‘Don’t be a chicken,’ scolded Khalid. ‘I’ll bring a ball next week and smuggle it out here before madrasa. Everyone stays calm – no danger. Got it?’
2. Silent Celebrations
The following week a nod and a smile from Khalid at madrasa was enough to tell Ibrahim and Junayd that the ball was in place outside. The eye contact around the classroom suggested that most of the boys knew of the plan for break time. There was an air of excitement and unexpected focus that morning.
Imam Munieb noticed the difference too. The children seemed happier and more hands went up for questions. Many of the answers were wrong but at least they had tried. Alhamdulillah, Imam Munieb thought: with every hardship comes ease.
As it drew near to break time, the Imam began to feel far more optimistic about helping these boys to know their religion.
Imam Munieb dismissed the class without a hint of his usual frustration and withdrew contentedly to the kitchen to make a cup of tea.
Once clear of the corridor, the boys raced down the steps to the yard. The delight of seeing Khalid’s football against an outer wall drew squeals of joy from many of them!
‘Football! Football!’ chanted the more excited among them.
‘Sssssshhhh!!’ implored Khalid, thrusting a finger to his lips. ‘Do you want the Imam to hear you? Think there’ll be much “Football! Football!” if he finds out?’
Everyone was immediately quiet, but the smiles did not leave their faces.
‘Right,’ ordered Khalid, ‘Ibrahim and I will pick the teams. No complaining, no noise. If you score, celebrate in silence. Anyone who makes too much noise will be booked, and then sent off.’
‘Who’s the referee?’ ventured Abdullah, who was uncomfortable with doing something he knew Imam Munieb would disapprove of.
‘I am,’ said Khalid, defiantly.
‘Why you? I thought you were playing?’ Abdullah persisted. He was secretly hoping he could take on the role himself to avoid kicking the ball.
‘Because it’s my ball. Right, on my team, I’ll have …’
To everyone’s glee and amazement, the game was a success. The two teams played out a three-all draw. All six goals were scored between the two sets of brick-stack posts that the boys had hastily assembled before kick-off from a pile of rubble in the corner of the yard.
Each goal had been celebrated with little more than a silent fist-pumping by the scorer – with the exception of the last two: Khalid’s team mobbed little Faris when he poked in to make the score 3–2 with barely a minute left; and Ibrahim’s last-second equaliser (or thereabouts) inspired him to pull off his jumper and swing it around his head as he raced around the yard in mute celebration. That was enough to draw laughter from all of the boys – even on Khalid’s team.
Khalid was careful to end the match on time just in case the Imam heard the suspicious merriment. He took the ball and placed it in a circle of stones at the far end of the mosque wall, hidden.
‘OK, sit down,’ began Imam Munieb, and 30 tired boys collapsed into their seats. The Imam saw that their faces were shining with sweat and that quite a few among them were struggling to slow their breathing.
He was puzzled, though not suspicious.
‘I think perhaps some of you worked too hard at break time,’ he said. ‘You are meant to work hard in madrasa, not in break time!’
It was meant to be a joke. But instead the boys were stirred into action, wiping their faces and sitting up straight as quickly as they could. Junayd began to wonder if he looked guilty and decided it was better to look at his feet. Then he remembered that looking at his feet was what he did when he was guilty. Not knowing where to look, he stared at Abdullah.
Abdullah was looking extremely guilty. Junayd wondered for a moment if Abdullah might confess the game to Imam Munieb. In the end he didn’t say anything, so their secret was safe, at least until the following week.
***
Over the next couple of months the boys played football in their madrasa break. They showed remarkable self-restraint in their football sessions, largelybecause of Khalid’s cautionary pre-match team talks, which were always delivered quickly (to maximise playing time) and with urgency (‘If we get caught, we can never play again!’)
***
‘You know, Fatimah,’ Imam Munieb told his daughter one Sunday lunch after madrasa, ‘I think those boys are really starting to learn something useful.’
‘Alhamdulillah, Baba,’ Fatimah replied.
Her sister Ruqayyah nodded her congratulations as she munched her cereal.
‘Mashallah,’ agreed their mother, Salamah. ‘You don’t just mean Abdullah then?’
Imam Munieb smiled.
‘No, although he is still top of the class, mashallah!