So she accepted Islam and Uncle Faisal asked her to marry him, told her he would provide for her and her kids, honour her as his wife. That was more than anyone else had ever offered her. That was how we ended up together in a flat in Stockwell, a family at last. Those were happy years, mashallah. Zayd and I loved Uncle Faisal like a real dad and he treated us just like his own kids, Taymeeyah and Abdullah.
But that marriage had had its fair share of ups and downs, false starts and separations. Then, one day, Mum told us Uncle Faisal was gone and wouldn’t be coming back. That was the beginning of the end of my illusions about life and love. I had been Uncle Faisal’s princess. Then he was gone.
Mum had married two more times after that – no kids, polygamy each time – before she met Abu Malik. I think she’d hoped that Malik’s dad would be the one, the one who would stay, the one she would grow old with as his only wife, who would do the right thing and raise his boy. But even I could see that he wasn’t the type to stick around and take care of his responsibilities.
When he left that first time, taking his box of Sahih Muslim and smelly football boots with him, Mum couldn’t handle it. She had just seen what she thought was the failure of her fourth Islamic marriage and it was all too much for her.
That was the start of the dark days of her depression.
That was the day I decided that I would never put myself in that position, not for a million pounds.
9
It is a Sunday morning. I can tell by the uncanny density of my duvet, the warmth and light that floods the room, telling me that it is after eight o’clock. I can tell by the sound of Dad’s voice as he sings his version of opera in the shower – his own words, English mixed with snatches of French, Spanish and Patois. I can tell by the sound of Jamal’s voice, high and chirpy, as he takes Umar’s breakfast order.
And I can tell by the smell of pancakes coming from the kitchen. Mum is making her speciality: cinnamon pancakes with stewed apples and ice cream. And, if Jamal has his way, there will be chocolate sauce and toasted pecans, too.
I can hear her voice so clearly, ‘Boys, come and get it! First come, first served!’ And her favourite: ‘You snooze, you lose.’
Now it is time to throw off the covers, grab my dressing gown and head for the kitchen, beating Dad and Umar to the top spot. Mum will smile at me and shake her head.
‘When the meat is on the bone, you will see the people,’ she will say with a wry smile, like she always does. Then she will ruffle my hair and kiss my head and put the steaming plate of pancakes in front of me. Jamal and I will be the first to eat, almost finished our first helping by the time Umar rolls out of bed and Dad has finished singing his mash-up in the shower.
I will say to Mum, ‘What about you, Mum? Sit down, I’ll get yours.’
‘Jazakallah khayran, sweetie.’ And she will smile gratefully and sit down at the other end of the table, on Dad’s right hand side, unfastening her apron and putting her feet up in Dad’s lap. As I pass by her, she will hold out her arms and give me a hug.
Instead I find myself waking from a dream, crying in the dark and cold. The lights in the corridor off, the whole house silent. Mum wasn’t in the kitchen making pancakes because she wasn’t here anymore, she’d gone. Been buried far away and the only one who makes pancakes now is me.
And it’s time to pray fajr.
***
‘Umar, wake up, man,’ I reached over to shake my brother, whose head was buried under the bed clothes. I always wondered how he could breathe like that.
Umar moaned and turned on his side, moving out of my reach. ‘Leave me alone, man,’ he groaned, pulling the covers tighter around his head.
‘It’s time to pray, man,’ I insisted, pulling the covers a little harder. ‘The old man said to wake you up.’
No response.
I decided to change tack. ‘Just get up and make wudu – you’ll feel better, y’know…’ But the covers stayed firmly over Umar’s head.
I sighed and tried again, ‘Remember, prayer is better than sleep,’ I called out, just like the adhan of Fajr.
‘Yeah, right,’ was the response.
I gave up then. What was I supposed to do if Umar refused to wake up? I had my own salah to worry about.
At the other end of the hall, I knocked lightly on the door and pushed it open. ‘Jamal,’ I called out softly. ‘It’s time to pray…’
Immediately, a tousled head poked out from under the duvet. Jamal sat up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes.
‘Have you prayed yet, Ali?’ he asked.
‘No.’
‘Good.’ Jamal swung his legs over the side of the bed and stretched. ‘Don’t you pray without me, OK, Ali?’
‘Sure, Jay, we’ll wait for you, inshallah.’ I turned to go.
‘Oh, Ali?’
‘Yeah?’
‘D’you think you could make pancakes today? I had a lovely dream about them last night.’
I laughed. ‘No problem, Jay, I’ll make you pancakes today.’
‘With chocolate sauce and ice cream?’
I chuckled as I nodded my head. ‘Yup, with chocolate sauce and ice cream – if there’s any left!’ I shook my head again as I watched my nine-year-old brother scamper to the bathroom. That boy sure loved his food!
And Islam. When Dad and I started making changes to our lifestyle – prioritising our faith, the prayer in congregation, Jum’ah, and all that – Jamal was totally on board. It was as if this was what he had been waiting for. Not so Umar.
As I walked down the hallway, I saw Dad standing in the doorway to Umar’s room, a frown on his face and a hard edge to his voice.
‘Umar!’ he barked, his fist tight on the doorknob. ‘Get up!’
‘All right!’
I could hear Umar rising violently, no doubt throwing off his covers. In a moment, he had pushed past Dad, a scowl on his face, and the bathroom door was slammed behind him.
After the salah I sat making dhikr. Dad had said that Umar would soon calm down and fall into step with all of us but, from where I was standing, he seemed to be getting more and more rebellious, more resistant to us.
‘Oh, Allah,’ I prayed, ‘please guide him to the straight path. Don’t let him forget who he is, what Mum taught him.’
I was worried about Umar. After Mum’s death, he had withdrawn into himself. I was hurting so much myself, I didn’t have the emotional energy to try to break down his walls. So he barricaded himself behind hostility, resentment, and silence.
He resented everything: losing Mum, renting out the house, moving from Hertfordshire. And he resented our efforts to revive Islam in our lives. He wanted to ‘live free’, in his words, ‘find his own way’. And every time Dad told him to pray, or accompany us to the mosque, or take off his headphones, he bristled.
‘It’s my life!’ he would scream and then he was gone, out of the room, out of the house. There were times when I thought he would storm through that front door and just not come back again.
So, every time he did come home, no matter what state he was in, I breathed a sigh of relief.
Because Umar was Mum’s favourite, I had always known that. No matter how much she tried to hide it, I could tell that she had a soft spot for him. And she made me promise to always look out for him.
‘He