I Am Thunder

by Muhammad Khan

  I pictured Arif with a beard-free version of myself, lying together under the oak, holding hands.

  Dream on, Muzna . . .

  ‘Hullo, Muzna! Have a seat, my dear,’ called Dr Agyemang enthusiastically.

  Having made an appointment online, I’d sneaked over to the surgery after school. I was snap, crackle and popping with nervous excitement. Somewhere inside me lurked the same hopeful girl who’d fantasized about Hermione lending her a hairus goneus charm. But what with living in the muggle world, I’d just have to hope the NHS could get me sorted instead.

  ‘So, what can I help you with?’ my GP asked, interlacing her fingers. She was rocking banana cornrows, which spiralled round her scalp in burgundy and black ripples.

  ‘Well, it’s super-embarrassing.’ I giggled. God knows why.

  ‘You know I’m here for you,’ she said, dimpling.

  Cautiously, I began dropping hints and clues, like we were playing a game. Guess my condition – win a prize! But before long, the details came tumbling out. I even ended up telling her about Tallulah’s bitchery (and that she sang soprano in chamber choir – though I’m not sure why). Dr Agyemang listened to all of it, nodding at all the right moments, nudging a tissue box closer the weepier I got.

  ‘So I hear there’s a pill, maybe, that I could take?’ I ventured, sniffing into a tissue.

  ‘Indeed there is. Good ol’ internet, I suppose?’ she queried.

  Actually it was my bestie’s bearded aunt, I thought. But a simple nod made up for wasting her time earlier with Twenty Questions: The Medical Edition.

  ‘We’ll have to run some blood tests first. Make sure the problem is hormonal in nature. Probably need to check for polycystic ovary syndrome too . . .’

  ‘What’s that?’ I asked, going rigid.

  ‘Nothing to get het up about,’ she promised. ‘PCOS is a treatable condition many women suffer from. There may be fertility issues, of course. Are your periods regular?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said quickly. ‘I mean, mostly. It varies . . .’

  ‘Hmm. Let me run off a blood test request. You can get it done here today. Results should be back with me by early next week, and I’ll give you a bell. Sound good?’ She smiled reassuringly.

  ‘As for the anti-androgens,’ she continued, ‘think of them as little sponges that soak up excess male hormones. Don’t look so worried! Every human being has a balance of both male and female hormones. Sometimes these can go off-kilter. It usually sorts itself out as you get older. But I think you’d like better skin sooner rather than later?’

  I nodded, desperate to be like every other girl, but worried about what Ami would say.

  Dr Agyemang was as good as her word. The following week, her news gave me life. I didn’t have PCOS, but I did have excess testosterone. The simple fix was Diane-35. Pills that would make my periods regular and take care of my ‘hirsutism’ and acne.

  A life without spots or hairiness? Bring it on!

  CHAPTER 14

  Three weeks later, Dr Agyemang’s pills had become my new best friends. The war on spots and bearded-lady syndrome had finally been won. I was as feminine on the outside as I was on the inside. I binned the crème bleach product I’d used faithfully since I was thirteen. This was the beginning of my totally awesome new life.

  The changes didn’t go unnoticed at home. Ami’s hyperactive imagination went into overdrive. She demanded to be told what I’d done to my facial hair, and more importantly, whose benefit it was for.

  ‘Relax, Ami,’ I said. ‘Dr Agyemang gave me some medicine for it. I’m better now. See? No more pimples.’

  ‘Bevakoof!’ she cried. ‘Don’t you know this sort of medicine can damage a girl’s womb? Who’s going to marry you if you can’t have children?’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Look, Muzna – you are my only daughter, and I love you very much. But this world is cruel and you are not beautiful.’ Her eyes filled with tears. ‘Your only chance for a husband, beyta, is if you become a doctor.’

  Every instinct told me to storm off. My cheeks burned with shame, and a powerful sob ballooned in my throat, but I forced myself to stay put. Ami’s eyes widened as if she too had been expecting this lame reaction. Enough was enough.

  ‘I know I’m not as pretty as you were,’ I began, struggling to find the right words in Punjabi to make her understand. ‘But you should be encouraging me to get educated for myself. Not for some imaginary husband. With one breath you tell me boys are evil, and with the other you try to sell me off to one. Who tells their own daughter she’s ugly? You’re a rubbish mum and I hate you!’

  One hundred years of matchmaking tradition bitch-slapped by a repressed fifteen-year-old. My big speech might even have meant something had I not immediately burst into tears and fled to my bedroom. The clichéd door-slam sealed the deal. Bog-standard teen tantrum: move along, folks – nothing to see here.

  Even as I lay on my bed crying my guts out, I knew Ami hadn’t meant to be cruel. She was stating facts in her own desi way because she knew how hard things would be for girls like me. Money might not be able to buy you happiness, but apparently it could buy you a husband, especially if you didn’t look like a supermodel.

  Frustrated, I glanced into the mirror. No acne, no beard. No beauty either. Ami was right. Beneath the superficial changes, I was still the same, slightly dumpy, two-shades-too-dark girl, with nothing going for her. And worst of all, I knew I was turning out to be just as boy-mad as Ami feared.

  I begged Allah to help me. I was crushing on Arif big time, but I didn’t want to go to Hell. Neither did I want to end up in a loveless marriage with a man who saw me as a cash cow instead of the person I was.

  CHAPTER 15

  I drifted down the corridor, humming to myself. It was a rainy Wednesday lunchtime, and Sarabi was at Manga Club. She’d invited me along, but I’d said no. All those huge eyes and spiky hairstyles gave me nightmares.

  At the end of the corridor, I doubled back. Glancing through the glass panel in the middle of a door, I spotted someone standing in the otherwise deserted classroom hugging himself. His height made me think he was a teacher, but then I spotted the Falstrum uniform. As I watched, his shoulders began to tremble. Was he crying?

  When he dropped to the floor – legs tucked under, hands on thighs – I twigged that he was praying. His head swept first one way, salaaming the angel on the right, then to the left. Now I could see the guy was Arif, but why were there tears on his cheeks?

  ‘Are you OK?’ I asked, popping my head round the door.

  ‘Shit! Don’t do that to me, man!’ he said, scrambling like a spooked cat. ‘Thought it were a teacher.’

  ‘Sorry . . .’ I said, cheeks burning. ‘I thought you were . . . upset.’

  ‘What, this?’ he asked, wiping his wet eyes. ‘Praying from the heart does it.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said slightly confused, but also impressed. Boys pretended that they didn’t cry, but Arif was owning it. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Me too, fam. Way I spoke to you just now? Out of order.’ He pulled a sock on. ‘Stupid kuffar got me on high alert, innit?’

  Kuffar. Disbelievers.

  ‘I feel like that sometimes,’ I admitted, lingering in the doorway. ‘But honestly, I doubt anyone would have a problem with you praying. It’s your right, isn’t it? And it’s super-noble and all.’

  He chuckled and patted the floor. ‘Have a seat, fam, and let Uncle Arif tell you summat about the world.’

  My body tingled. There was something seriously wrong about getting on the floor with a sexy boy in a darkened room. I knelt on the carpet tiles, my heart pounding so loud I was afraid he could hear it. His feet were massive . . .

  Know what that means, don’t you! leered a dirty voice in my head.

  I was definitely changing. When I used to hear girls lusting over the latest hottie, I found it a little pathetic. I had eyes, sure, and I knew what a ‘pretty boy’ was, but for the first time i
n my life Arif was awakening something. It was scary and thrilling at the same time.

  ‘They hate us, Muzna,’ Arif said, his eyes wide and intense. ‘Islam proper scares ’em. Teachers here, yeah, all nice to your face and that, but behind closed doors it’s a different story. Don’t believe me? Google “Prevent Duty”.’

  ‘Is that the anti-radicalization thing?’ I asked.

  ‘Anti-Islamic, more like!’ He rubbed his lips, furrowing his brow. ‘The government wants teachers to report students with “extreme views”. Like if some kid in Year Six says, “The West is always starting wars in Muslim countries,” teachers are supposed to snake ’em out to the feds. This half-pint, who’s pissing himself, gets dragged down to the police station for speaking truth!’

  My mouth fell open. Was that true?

  ‘Double standards,’ he said, shaking his head.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Insult the Prophet or burn a Qur’an, and it gets defended as “freedom of speech”,’ he said, pounding the floor with a fist. ‘But Prevent is all about gagging Muslims. Funny how they get to pick and choose what you can and can’t say.’

  ‘You’ve thought about this a lot.’

  He nodded. ‘Pretty hard not to when it’s shoved in your face twenty-four seven. Jameel – my big brother, yeah – proper smart, he is. Knows bags more stuff than I do about the hypocrisy of the West. You should come over and meet him. Have you woke in no time—’

  The pips sounded.

  ‘Better get to class now, eh?’ he said, stepping into his trainers. ‘Later.’

  I watched him leave. A teacher snapped the light on, but the gloom stayed in my heart.

  ‘The way she keeps you guessing till the very end is pure genius!’ I babbled. ‘And she leaves this –’ I tried to recall what my word-of-the-day app had taught me only that morning – ‘surreptitious trail of clues.’ I paused, trying to gauge whether I’d impressed him with my big-wordiness. ‘It’s all there, but you don’t think it’s important. Then when you get to the end, you’re, like, “Yaass! Queen of Crime!”’

  Mr Dunthorpe nodded. ‘Christie’s a personal fav of mine.’ Stifling a yawn, he glanced at his watch. ‘Anyway, mustn’t keep you. Your parents must be wondering where you’ve got to.’

  Teacher code for I’m tired – please go.

  I nodded, not wanting to become a nuisance in his eyes. At the threshold, I spun round. ‘I love coming to book club, sir. And you’re the best teacher I’ve ever had.’

  His cheeks glowed, caught off guard by the compliment. ‘Well thank you. But it’s students like you who make it what it is.’

  Waving, I hurried off. My parents worried like crazy if I was late. Racist attacks, Boyfriends and Rape – an unholy trinity that gave them nightmares. I could understand the first and last. But having a boyfriend didn’t belong in there. At least, not the kind I wanted . . .

  I pulled out my phone to let Ami know I was on my way. I got an engaged tone. At least once a week, Ami telephoned the village to check in with her sister and get her gossip fix. For a conservative country, it seemed a lot of scandals went down there. Or maybe they were all made up?

  Putting my phone away, I jogged home.

  The next day, my form sleepwalked through another boring PSCHE lesson. Twenty minutes ago the school’s internet went down. That meant Mr Dunthorpe couldn’t show us the YouTube videos he’d found to pimp up the boring lesson on ‘Britishness’. Like, what did that even mean? The lesson was flopping.

  I forced myself to look at the worksheet in front of me.

  1. The Queen has German ancestry. Is she British?

  2. Do you think Britain is a cohesive society? Give examples to support your answer.

  3. Explain how important your national identity is to you.

  The only person who seemed all that bothered was Jadwiga. Maybe it had something to do with recently having emigrated from Poland. Dad was forever reminding me about my roots, like he was afraid Britain might swallow me up or something. Yet he’d also tell me with pride that 400,000 Muslims from the Indian subcontinent fought alongside British soldiers in World War Two.

  I glanced round the room, seeking inspiration. I had to admit, sometimes it got complicated trying to balance British values with Pakistani ones, especially when racists were always ready to throw words like ‘coconut’ and ‘oreo’ at any Asian or black person with a British accent. I guessed if the Queen wasn’t any less of a Brit because of her German roots, then neither was I. Feeling an essay coming on, I began writing.

  ‘Psst! Muzna!’

  Making sure Mr Dunthorpe wasn’t watching, I turned round. It was Malachy.

  ‘You done the maths homework?’ he asked, tugging at his topknot.

  ‘Tried it.’ I raised an eyebrow. ‘Why – didn’t you?’

  He grimaced, scratching behind an ear. ‘I could spin you some bullshit story about how it was my hamster’s funeral. But I’d never lie to my best bud, Muzna.’

  I smirked. Across the classroom, Jadwiga was interrogating Mr Dunthorpe.

  ‘Match was on last night,’ Malachy continued, braces gleaming in his crooked smile. ‘You catch it?’

  I shook my head. Playing sport was bad enough. Watching it was my idea of hell.

  ‘Went to penalties, yeah? Oh man, I almost shat myself, I’m telling ya! Then Lacazette put one straight in the back of the net.’

  I blinked at him. ‘That’s a good thing, right?’

  ‘Frickin’ awesome!’ he agreed, punching the air. ‘Thing is though, it’d already gone half eleven . . .’

  Watching him grovel and squirm was strangely entertaining. But I didn’t want to be That Girl, so I chucked my maths book at him. ‘I want it back by the end of lunch,’ I said, as he hungrily flicked through the pages. ‘And now I own your soul.’

  He looked up in alarm, then grinned. ‘Gotta fight Satan for it first.’

  I smiled back. Then I caught Sade watching me through narrowed eyes, and my confidence slipped. Like Cinderella at midnight, I transformed back into Doormat Muzna: afraid to crack jokes or speak until spoken to.

  ‘Mr Dunthorpe?’ Sade said.

  She was going to snitch on me. I just knew it.

  ‘Yes, Sade?’ he said, knees popping like corks from having squatted for the last ten minutes. The sad thing was, for all the time he’d spent with Jadwiga, she still didn’t look satisfied.

  ‘I was just wondering,’ Sade continued, in a disturbingly silky voice. ‘Do we have to learn about Britishness cos of all the Muslim people in our class?’

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ Mr Dunthorpe said, the warning clear in his tone.

  The room fell silent.

  ‘Cos if that’s it, well, can’t the Muslims be sent off to learn about it elsewhere? I mean the rest of us would never even think about bombing Britain.’

  There were gasps. Not one single person was impressed.

  Me? I was so furious, I blasted Sade with the full force of my voice box. ‘Oh shut up, Sade! We all know you hate Muslims, but we’re as British as fish and chips. Deal with it!’

  ‘Yeah, Sade,’ Malachy said, nominating himself as my wingman. ‘Lessons like this are to teach people like you to stop the hate.’

  But Malachy could have sworn at Sade for all it would’ve mattered. She’d switched to tunnel vision. Too late I realized I’d walked straight into a trap.

  ‘Want beef, baby girl?’ Sade asked, tossing aside the Tippex brush she’d been busy painting her nails with. ‘Fine. Come get some.’ She rocked to her feet, summoning me WWE-style.

  My heart dropped. A forgotten memory of my father resurfaced.

  ‘These people think we are their obedient servants!’ Dad had once ranted, after watching an interview with a right-wing MP. ‘Nearly seventy years after the British Raj fell, and the stereotype lives on. You show them you are a Pakistani lioness, Muzna!’

  Egged on by an imaginary dad, I answered the call, brushing aside Sarabi, who clung t
o my sleeve. Fear was gone. I was fricking titanium.

  Suddenly Arif’s broad back materialized before me, close enough to feel the warmth of his skin on my lips. A human shield – protecting me from being whupassed into the afterlife.

  Mr Dunthorpe seized control of the situation in a flash.

  ‘Muzna’s right,’ he said, freezing everyone in place with the deadly power of his voice. ‘No place for bigotry in my classroom. Kindly take yourself off to Ms Moon’s office, Sade.’

  ‘You what?’ Sade asked, as if dealing with a person with learning difficulties. ‘It’s called “banter”, man. Besides I’m half Nigerian, innit? How can I be racist?’

  The class erupted with outrage. Stirring the pot was Sade’s speciality, and she was on point. In the ensuing madness, Mr Dunthorpe calmly flung open the classroom door.

  ‘Out.’ He pointed in case she’d forgotten the way.

  Sade marked me with a baleful glare, then disappeared.

  A few minutes later the pips sounded, and people flew out of the door.

  ‘Can I have a volunteer to collect the worksheets, please?’ Mr Dunthorpe said while typing on his computer. Probably recording the Sade-incident on SIMs. I hoped she got excluded.

  ‘I’ll do it,’ said Arif.

  ‘Come on, you!’ said Sarabi, helping me pack my things away. ‘Let’s get out of here before you start any more fights.’

  ‘Yo!’ Arif called, as he collected our worksheets for Mr Dunthorpe.

  I looked up.

  ‘You did good, fam.’ He made a fist. ‘I got you.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, then fled the room, dragging Sarabi behind me.

  CHAPTER 16

  ‘Got the hots for him, haven’t you?’ said Sarabi, as she ate her packed lunch of dahi phulki – an Asian potato salad thing.

  ‘No Ami,’ I said, in an accent that rivalled Uncle Tanveer’s. ‘I don’t like boys. I’m a good lesbian child.’