I Am Thunder

by Muhammad Khan

  ‘So what you wanna do first?’ he asked, handing me the brochure.

  I unfolded it and scanned the rides. When I’d been in Year 6, I hadn’t been allowed to go on the school trip to Thorpe Park. I chalked it up to my parents not being able to afford it or being afraid I’d get killed. Now I reckoned boys had been the reason. Yep, even ten-year-old boys had penises and therefore posed a serious threat to my safety.

  Dad had pulled out all the stops to segregate me. And now here I was, with my very own boyfriend, determined to have the time of my life.

  ‘I hear Swarm’s pretty good,’ I said with a shrug.

  ‘Yeah, Swarm’s wicked. Saw too. Last time I came, yeah, loads of people puked their guts out. Had to stop the ride a full ten minutes while they sent in cleaners to mop up the vomit.’

  Watching him talk was fun. Waving his hands, waggling his eyebrows, shifting from foot to foot, and sometimes even winking. He really didn’t give a crap what anybody else thought of him, and it made him about ten times sexier. Me? Hiding my feelings under a self-conscious act had passed from habit into DNA. Maybe being with Arif would help me become a normal person. I really wanted that.

  ‘. . . That’s what I wanna do,’ he finished, eyes sparkling.

  ‘What? Saw?’ I asked, having zoned out as I’d been studying him.

  ‘Nah, clean up people’s vomit.’ He bopped me on the head, ‘Course I mean Saw, dummy!’

  Saw it was. Strapped to our seats, submitting to the will of a maniacal killer puppet, the ride dragged us towards the sky. A horrible clicking sound ratcheted up the tension as we approached the top. The long pause at the highest point gave my stomach enough time to shrink to the size of a peanut. Then without warning, the train tipped over, falling into darkness. The near-vertical drop made me hysterical. Within seconds we were wrenched back into daylight, pupils constricting from shock, before plunging sickeningly towards the ground again.

  I screamed and screamed without shame. Arif whooped and cheered his way through the whole thing. Watching him, fearless and brave, made me love him even more. If we’re going to die, I thought, then at least we’ll be together. Heer Ranjha – that’s who we were. The classic Punjabi romantics Dad used to watch with a tear in his eye.

  Later, Arif came back from the cafe clutching a large bag of rainbow-coloured candyfloss, and immediately sensed something was wrong.

  ‘’Sup, Muz?’ he said, plonking himself down on the bench beside me. The ferns behind us whickered in the breeze.

  I shook my head. He waited me out.

  ‘Just imagining my dad turning up,’ I said, trying to bring my heart rate down. I was trying to enjoy the moment, but I just couldn’t help thinking about what would happen. ‘If he caught me, he’d . . .’ I shook my head. He’d lost it over Salma. This would be terminal.

  Arif chuckled. ‘Dad’d tear me a new one, innit?’ He put on an exaggerated Pakistani accent. ‘Vaat you doin’ vith my daarter? Badmaash! I yaar battam kick aall the vay to Lahore!’

  I smacked him. ‘My Dad does not talk like that!’

  ‘Made you laugh, though, eh?’ he retorted, ripping open the bag. He broke off a wisp of finely spun sugar and popped it in my mouth. It melted instantly, becoming strawberry syrup on my tongue.

  ‘Jamjamz is just the same,’ he admitted, pushing candyfloss into his mouth like he was stuffing a quilt. ‘Sometimes I think he finds everything haram.’

  ‘Halal’ and ‘Haram’: ‘The Allowed’ and ‘The Forbidden’. It was all supposed to be black and white. But really there was a valley of grey between the two. Me and Arif were somewhere in that valley right now.

  ‘Jameel seems OK,’ I lied, as a man in a zombie costume shambled into view. He paused to wriggle his fingers at me and mumble something about my brains.

  ‘Piss off, mate,’ Arif said.

  The zombie gnashed its teeth, made angry fists, then shuffled after a girl in a short skirt.

  ‘Gotta go bathroom,’ Arif announced, hopping off the bench. ‘Be right back.’

  ‘What if there’s a zombie apocalypse while you’re gone?’

  ‘Fam, there’s a zombie apocalypse every day. That’s what the kuffar are: cruel, mindless zombies.’

  He dusted off the back of his jeans. It was difficult not to ogle his bubble butt as he headed off to the gents. Was there any part of him that wasn’t utterly gorgeous?

  A rippling breeze carried the sound of screaming as a rollercoaster corkscrewed high into the cloudless sky. I smiled, happily gobbling up the rest of the candyfloss, not thinking about my thunder thighs even once.

  A ringtone went off. I checked, but it wasn’t my phone. Arif’s iPhone buzzed across the wooden slats like a giant golden bumblebee. Must have slipped out of his pocket. As I tried to stop it from diving off the end, I saw a picture of a girl on the screen. Photographed in front of a school mural, I recognized the look in her eye. Love.

  ‘Massive queues everywhere today!’ Arif crashed on to the bench, sending shockwaves along the slats.

  ‘Who’s Hajra?’ I asked, brandishing his phone at him.

  He glanced at the image, and sucked in his cheeks. ‘Checking my messages now?’

  ‘N-no,’ I stammered, feeling ashamed, but not enough to back down. ‘You left your phone, and it kept going off. Who is she?’

  The guilt on his face was unmistakable. But something hovered just under it that was harder to read.

  ‘Look, Muzna,’ he said, scooting right along the bench till I could feel the warmth from his thigh against mine. ‘I weren’t always a good Muslim, yeah?’ He pointed at the phone. ‘Her-in-the-pic was my girlfriend for a bit. Only she kept pressuring me for sex. So I broke up with her.’

  ‘Then why’s she calling you now?’

  ‘Some people!’ He drew a circle in the air near his temple. ‘Girl went mad. Started stalking me online and everything. So I blocked her. Then, when she found a new boyfriend, I thought it were the end of it.’ He looked at his phone. ‘Guess I was wrong, eh?’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, trying to let that sink in. ‘I’m really sorry . . .’ I felt bad for having doubted him. My low self-esteem was messing things up AGAIN.

  ‘Oh yeah, you’re proper evil, Muz,’ he said, wrapping an arm around me. ‘How dare you care about me.’

  I beamed at him, wondering how I’d ever managed to end up with someone so wonderful. It had to be a blip in the universe. If boyfriends were haram, Arif was the exception. After all, he was helping me to become a better Muslim. I just hoped God saw it that way too.

  PART 4

  FALSTRUM ACADEMY: SUMMER TERM

  CHAPTER 30

  ‘Muzna! Is it true?’

  Amie clung to me in the corridor, staring excitedly into my eyes.

  ‘Why? What’ve you heard?’ I asked, amused and a little confused.

  ‘Only that you and Arif Malik are going out!’

  I blushed, then nodded.

  Amie drew me into a tight, girly hug. ‘You guys are so friggin’ cute. Invite me to the wedding, OK?’

  ‘What? That and Arif are dating?’ said a brawny girl, overhearing our conversation. ‘That’s like Beauty and the Beast in reverse!’

  My head started to spin. Everyone was going to think the same thing whenever they saw us together. DUFFs didn’t date studs. What had I let myself in for?

  ‘Piss off!’ snarled Amie. ‘Muzna’s got a lot more going for her than you have. Just cos you’ve shagged half the football team, don’t make you into some kind of beauty queen.’

  I’d heard those rumours too. But how could they be about this girl? I checked myself, realizing I was a hypocrite for judging her by her looks.

  The girl flipped us off.

  ‘Don’t worry about people like that,’ Amie said, adjusting my hijab as if I was her kid and she was preparing me for a school photo. ‘Not gonna lie: Arif’s hot. So they’re all gonna be well jel.’ She spotted one of her friends and waved. ‘Anyway, see you later!’
r />   I was still trying to get over the fact that jealousy would now be an issue, when Mr Dunthorpe came round the corner.

  ‘Hi, Muzna!’

  ‘Oh hi, Mr Dunthorpe!’ I said. ‘Cool tan. Go anywhere special?’

  ‘South of France, actually.’ He blushed through his newly bronzed skin, flustered by my quick observation. Then he made one of his own, as I caught him glancing at my hijab. I wondered if he was going to say something. In the end he only smiled and continued on towards our tutor base, saying he was pleased Dadi-ji had pulled through when I mentioned her illness.

  On entering the classroom, my eyes cut directly to the window seat. Empty. An irrational panic unfurled in my chest. I couldn’t cope without Arif. Not now that I’d gone all hijabi. Not now that people knew we were a thing. To make matters worse, Sarabi was also MIA.

  Sade spotted my hijab and executed an over-the-top double take. ‘There goes the school,’ she said, banging her head against the table.

  ‘Welcome back, everyone!’ Mr Dunthorpe said to a chorus of groans. ‘Let’s help one another make this our best term yet.’

  At break-time, I got a text from Sarabi: The sad emoji with a thermometer in its mouth. That explained where she was, at least. I tried Arif a few times, but his phone kept going straight to voicemail. I didn’t leave a message.

  Without Arif or Sarabi, I was incredibly lonely. I was so irrelevant, that even wearing a hijab for the first time in school failed to draw any attention, other than Sade’s bitchy comment. I took refuge in the refectory, nursing a Radnor Fizz and a triple-chocolate muffin I’d picked up at Greggs. It was comfort food of the worst kind: fattening and expensive. Staring at it made me want to burst into tears.

  Another loud reunion – this one right behind me – made me start. Friends squealed like banshees, telling each other how ‘totally insane’ their holidays had been. For one moment, I wished I had their life. Then I recalled Arif’s comment about people being like zombies, guided by evil.

  The refectory was noisier than usual. Every window displayed why. Rain poured out of a fractured sky, falling in sheets. Grabbing my muffin, I got up, deciding that standing in a downpour was better than being ignored in a crowd. Just then, a girl slid on to the bench opposite.

  ‘Hey, Muzna!’ she said. ‘Can I join you?’

  It was Latifah. The brains behind the Black History Month assembly that had won rave reviews and a thick slice of the controversy-pie.

  ‘Sure,’ I said, honoured that she even knew my name. Like Tallulah, she moved in popular circles. But unlike Tallulah, no one had a bad word to say against her.

  ‘I really like your hijab, by the way,’ Latifah said, rubbing the fabric between her fingers. ‘Quality! You get it from Dubai?’

  I grinned, about to tell her the name of the little Islamic store on the high street, when Sade interrupted.

  ‘Run for your life,’ she told Latifah. ‘Else you’ll be blowing yourself up in the name of Allah.’

  ‘Do you have any idea how ignorant that sounds?’ Latifah said, cutting Sade some major side-eye.

  Sade blinked. Not the reaction she’d been expecting.

  ‘Easy,’ Sade said. ‘Just looking out for a sistah, yeah? Don’t wanna end up all Muslim, do you?’

  ‘I’m black, Muslim, and proud,’ Latifah said, her smile daring Sade to criticize her.

  Sade gawped like her systems were crashing. ‘I got to you too late!’ she spluttered dramatically, then walked off, shaking her head.

  I chuckled. ‘Should’ve filmed that. “Latifah shuts down Islamophobe!” Would’ve broken the internet.’

  She slapped the air. ‘Girl’s just ignorant. I kinda get it.’

  ‘You’re kidding, right?’

  ‘You don’t know, do you?’ Her eyes narrowed as she leaned forward.

  ‘Nope. Completely bafs,’ I admitted.

  She dropped her voice, forcing me to draw closer till our heads almost touched. ‘Sade’s dad fought in Iraq. Twice. A year later, her dad comes home with PTSD. Takes to sleeping with a kitchen knife under his pillow. Keeps mistaking his family for “the enemy”. Imagine what that’s like.’

  I swallowed, picturing Sade waking up her father only to have him pull a knife on her.

  ‘Happened one too many times, so he hung himself,’ she added, sombrely. ‘Guess who found the body.’

  ‘Oh no!’ I said, covering my mouth with both hands. ‘That’s why Sade hates us?’

  Latifah nodded. ‘Blames Muslims for her father’s death. Now her mum’s working two jobs just to make ends meet. That leaves Sade to raise her little brother.’

  ‘But British Muslims had nothing to do with what went down in Iraq!’ I protested.

  ‘Like I said, Sade’s ignorant and hurting. Girl needs someone to blame. So the media points the finger, and off she goes.’

  ‘Yeah, well, Iraq and Syria are a hot mess now,’ I said. ‘Everybody lost.’

  Latifah sighed. ‘Adults screw things up. Let’s hope Generation Z finds a better way.’ She looked hungrily at my muffin, so I broke off a piece for her. ‘Thanks. Anyway, I’ve gotta help Ms Simcox with her assembly.’

  ‘Bet you’ve had them queuing up ever since you slayed with bee-aitch-em,’ I said, smiling.

  Latifah grimaced. ‘Don’t believe everything you read in the papers. Certain people got a little salty about some of my rhymes.’

  I watched her vanish into the crowd, leaving me to think about Sade’s dad. She’d been a complete cow to me and mine for the longest time. But she’d had her reasons. It was an explanation, not an excuse.

  CHAPTER 31

  ‘Why were you wearing a silly hijab when you came home from school?’ demanded my mum for the second time at the dinner table.

  I sighed. I’d been wearing my hijab at school for the past three weeks, always careful to remove it before I got home. Today it had just slipped my mind. Dayyum.

  ‘I told you,’ I said, trying to be patient with her. ‘It’s part of Islam, and I want to do it.’ Arif may have got me into it, but wearing my hijab was between me and God and nobody else.

  ‘It’s not part of our Islam,’ Dad said, flashing his eyes. ‘The veil is metaphorical. God doesn’t want us staring at each other like pieces of meat. Only extremist idiots take verses from the Qur’an literally!’

  Dad’s attitude stank. In his own way, he was just as extreme with his ‘moderate views’. I was old enough to find my own path to God.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ I protested. ‘How does me wearing a hijab even affect you?’

  ‘It affects our whole family,’ he spluttered, his face turning aubergine. ‘Thugs will follow you here and burn down the bloody restaurant!’

  Overreacting, as usual. When it suited him, he’d complain about being treated unfairly. Then he’d turn around and do the exact same thing to Muslims with stricter beliefs. This had to end now.

  ‘Look, it’s my choice, and I’m going to cover my hair whether you like it or not!’ I yelled. ‘I’ve let you two run my life for the past fifteen years. You won’t even let me choose my own career! I don’t want to be a bloody doctor!’

  The air was shot through with an electric charge. You could almost hear the crackle. A resounding slap from Ami brought me down to earth with a bump.

  ‘Don’t you raise your voice in your father’s presence!’ she boomed.

  My eye watered; my cheek buzzed. So much needed to be said.

  I quietly got up and locked myself in my room. With trembling hands I fumbled for my phone. Arif answered on the second ring.

  ‘’Sup, Muz? You all right?’ he said.

  I was shaking so hard, I could barely speak.

  ‘Hello? Hello?’ he said, before I burst into gut-wrenching sobs. ‘Aw, Muzna. Don’t cry, babe. Come on, tell us what happened.’

  I told him everything in jerky, incoherent sentences. He sighed. I could imagine his long nostrils flaring.

  ‘Jameel once told me that when a pe
rson wants to bring themselves closer to Allah, Satan puts obstacles in their path,’ he said softly.

  ‘They’re my parents, Arif!’ I cried. ‘They aren’t “obstacles”, and they’ve got nothing to do with Satan.’

  ‘Look, Muz, all I’m saying is Satan poisons people’s hearts so they disobey God. With your parents beating on you for trying to please Allah, whose side do you think they fall on?’

  CHAPTER 32

  I tipped my head to Jameel. Arif had convinced me his brother was very well informed when it came to sharia law. For every problem that existed, Allah also created the solution. Only the law of God could set me free.

  ‘Her parents don’t want her wearing hijab,’ Arif told Jameel. ‘Mum slapped her; Dad threatened her. We wanna know what Allah would want her to do.’

  ‘Would you like a piece of baklava?’ Jameel asked, as if I’d come to join him for tea.

  I passed.

  ‘Hmm,’ he said, folding his hands, thoughtfully tapping his lips with the V of his index fingers. ‘I advise you to make prayer to Allah that He open their hearts and guide them to His way.’

  ‘That’s not going to work!’ I almost shouted. ‘All my life they’ve made choices for me. But now they’re banning me from the five daily prayers and wearing my hijab.’

  ‘Does your father pray?’ Jameel asked.

  ‘No. I told you at the wedding. Remember?’ But clearly he didn’t.

  ‘Well then,’ he said, interlacing his fingers like swords. ‘He is not a Muslim, and therefore you do not have to follow him.’ His verdict stunned me. ‘I suggest you keep a low profile for a while. Hide your religious convictions from your parents until Allah provides you with a way out of your misery.’

  ‘What way?’ I asked. How could a girl restrict herself to prayer alone and expect God to do all the heavy lifting? Surely He gave us a brain and a body for a reason.

  ‘One way would be marriage,’ he said, pensively combing his beard.

  ‘Bro, she’s only fifteen,’ Arif said quickly.