by Asen Djinah
Omar was incensed by Maymuna’s audacity to suggest such a thing. Never had he thought that he would ever end up with two families and now she was trying to convince him to take a third wife.
‘I once agreed to your calculating matchmaking and took a second wife. Now you want me to take a third, one who is much younger than me?’ he blurted out angrily.
‘My dear husband, you have to think beyond your own self. Will you not do anything to protect and save the empire? Have you not risked your own life many times in the past and led your men to defend our land against our invaders? This will simply be just another sacrifice,’ she argued cunningly.
Omar did not respond, knowing that he could not possibly win an argument with his wife once she set her mind to something. He turned on his side away from Maymuna and pretended that he was tired and wanted to sleep.
Over the next few weeks, Maymuna raised the subject again and again and every time Omar chose not to respond. However, deep down, he could see the logic in his wife’s argument. He realised that this was the only solution he could think of to avert a possible civil war. Lately he had received information that the opposition had become emboldened and were planning to hold a protest in front of the palace. Abdul-Alim’s brothers had been very successful in rallying a substantial section of the population to their cause. Meetings were held every night at various locations to further mobilise the public. It was a matter of time before the situation became explosive. Omar had no allies apart from Kateb and his group of scholars. Without saying a word to Maymuna, Omar called his grand vizier.
‘Can you send word to Abdul-Alim that I would like to have a private meeting with him? It is most urgent,’ he told Jaffar.
Surprised by the invitation, Abdul-Alim immediately informed his brothers about it and told them that he expected the subject to be most likely about the military contract. The three brothers were feeling pessimistic, anticipating that the caliph would revoke the agreement.
‘He must have learned that we are holding meetings and organising a protest in front of the palace,’ the middle brother ventured.
‘If he revokes the contract, we could use this to our advantage to sway the military to join our side. The army commanders will realise that the new caliph does not care about them. It will be easy for us to convince them,’ the eldest brother argued shrewdly.
When the two adversaries met the following morning, Abdul-Alim noticed straight away that Omar was affable and welcoming. The two men embraced each other three times, alternating sides, cheek against cheek. They had the customary tea and dried dates and inquired about the health of their respective families. Only then, they were ready to talk business. It was considered rude to begin any serious talk before sharing cups of tea and inquiring about the wellbeing of each other’s family.
‘Brother Abdul-Alim, I would like to discuss a matter of a very personal nature and I will be indebted to you if this remains between us whatever the outcome. Do I have your word on this?’ Omar began.
Abdul-Alim was surprised since he had been expecting the caliph to discuss the procurement contract and not a personal matter. But since it was personal and not business, he saw no objection to keeping it between them.
‘Yes, Caliph Omar, you have my word that whatever we discuss will remain between these four walls.’
Omar let out a deep sigh of relief. Although the two men had their differences, Omar knew that Abdul-Alim was an honourable man, a man of his word.
‘Abdul-Alim, I would like very much if our two families could be united as one. I have thought deeply about this and I hope that you will not be offended by my boldness. I would like to ask your daughter’s hand in marriage. My two wives have given me permission to do so,’ he said hesitatingly.
To say that Abdul-Alim was stunned by the caliph’s audacity would be an understatement. Flabbergasted, the poor father was left speechless. This was the last thing he had expected to hear. He was simply incredulous at the caliph’s proposal, but before he could think of a reply, Omar carried on.
‘Please don’t say anything now. Think about it and talk to your wife. I will respect whatever decision you come to.’
As there was no more to be said, Abdul-Alim stood up shakily and asked for permission to leave. He was livid that this man in his mid-forties, just a couple of years younger than himself, dared ask for the hand of his daughter who had barely turned eighteen. Alima should have already been married were it not for the fact that she had been overly fussy with her pick of suitors.
‘Had it been anyone else other than the caliph, I would have lost my temper,’ Abdul-Alim thought as he walked out.
He was still fuming when he reached his house.
Over the next few days, Abdul-Alim remained true to his word and did not confide to anyone including his wife. He could not help thinking about his only daughter and feeling angry at Omar. Whilst it was not uncommon for older men to take younger wives, it took some nerve from Omar to ask for her hand. After his initial anger had subsided, he realised that it was hardly surprising Omar had made such a bold move.
‘In a way, the caliph is trying to bribe me. If I refuse, over time he will most certainly open up the competition to other suppliers to reduce our current contract until eventually we will go completely out of business,’ Abdul-Alim thought.
He and his brothers would go back to the meagre days and would no longer be part of the circle of eminent families.
‘On the other hand, if I accept his proposal the family business will be secured once and for all and will even thrive. We will be able to expand in the areas we have identified.’ he deliberated with himself, ‘We will keep our luxurious lifestyle and will be in the caliph’s inner circle.’
Slowly his logical mind recognised the advantages of such a union, but his heart still refused to accept that his only daughter could be married to a man as old as himself.
Eventually the distraught father decided to confide to his wife and hear her view on this upsetting matter.
‘What? Our only daughter to marry this old man?’ was his wife’s immediate reaction.
But once Abdul-Alim explained to her that they would eventually have to give up their current lifestyle if they were to refuse, she did not take long to declare that the offer should be accepted.
‘After all,’ she said, ‘Caliph Omar is known to be a gentle and humble man. He will treat our Alima with respect and care, not to mention the status our daughter will have, being the caliph’s wife.’
‘Furthermore our family will be in the innermost circle of power,’ she added.
Pressured by his wife, Abdul-Alim was left with no choice but to inform their daughter of the caliph’s proposal. He had already requested his brothers to put on hold their planned demonstration at the palace, as well as the clandestine meetings, until further notice. His brothers did not question his instructions, having long come to trust their younger sibling’s judgement and believed that he had an alternate plan.
Alima was livid just as her father had expected.
‘Over my dead body,’ she said and stormed into her room, slamming the door behind her.
When she finally decided to come out to partake in the family meals again a few days later, she still refused to address her parents. She would sit in silence during mealtimes before retiring back to her room. After a few days, at meal times her father would monologue about his poor background and how they built up the family business from scratch. He emphasised how fortunate they were to have climbed up the social ladder. Without mentioning Omar directly, Abdul-Alim kept reminding his wife, for Alima to hear, that if the family business were to collapse it would be increasingly difficult to find a suitable husband from a well-off family for their daughter.
‘Why should I be the one to bear the burden of ensuring the future of the family,’ poor Alima would think angrily at times.
‘Am I being selfish to think about myself and my happiness,’ she would ask herself at other times, feelin
g guilty.
The poor girl was caught between two minds. At one moment she was determined to go against the wishes of her parents, but at other times she stoically resigned herself to surrender to their will for the family’s sake. With such conflicting emotions, she became sullen and realised that she had matured into an adult overnight. Whatever decision she would eventually make, she would never again be the carefree, happy, frivolous young girl she was.
One evening, a few weeks later, the family was eating in silence with Abdul-Alim having long stopped his monologues about his past struggles. When they were nearly finished, Alima broke the silence. She had barely spoken to her parents since that dreadful day, the day that had changed her life forever.
‘Abbi, I would like you to inform Caliph Omar that I accept his proposal. I would like the matter to be concluded as quickly as possible.’
She didn’t want to stay any longer than necessary in this house. Her mother was relieved; she had been dreading the future and worrying about losing face if she were no longer in a position to entertain her circle of affluent friends in the future.
‘Oh my sweet Alima, are you sure? Is that what you really want?’ Abdul-Alim said with tears in his eyes.
He felt like he had put a millstone round her daughter’s neck and pushed her into a river.
‘Just let him know, Abbi. Don’t worry, I won’t go back on my decision,’ she replied as she stood up and looked at each of her parents in turn.
‘Please God, help me to forgive them,’ she prayed as she turned around and walked out of the room.
Poor Alima knew very well that not only would she be married to an older man, but she would be the third wife in the caliph’s household. She had accepted what she believed was her destiny.
Chapter 14
When Azraf overtook Bourkan in the final yards of the first race, Alima was jumping up and down, screaming her head off. Her servant had to grab hold of her firmly as she was the only woman in the group displaying her excitement.
‘It’s not appropriate for a woman to behave in such a way in public,’ she scolded her.
And when Azraf crossed the finishing line, winning the race, Alima could no longer contain herself and made a move to cross over and share the moment with her husband. Reading her mind, her servant caught her just in time and clung onto her tightly, preventing her from crossing the track.
‘Alima, please control yourself. You cannot go over to the men’s tent and embarrass Caliph Omar,’ she tried to calm her mistress down.
Although she was still feeling euphoric, Alima finally realised that had she gone over she would have caused great embarrassment to Omar, especially being in her drab clothes.
‘Wait until I tell him that I was at the race and witnessed Azraf’s win,’ she consoled herself.
However, upon reflection she decided that it might not be such a good idea after all, as Omar would certainly be angry at her defiance to attend the race without a male chaperon. Alima resigned herself to watch the remaining races from the public area. Soon afterwards, the announcer called for the start of the second race, which was over two miles. Halima knew very well that this race would not be exciting, since Omar did not have a good contender for that distance.
‘Our horse for this race is Filaki and he is not a great horse. He has not won anything in his career. Our real chance of a win is in the last race,’ Alima told her servant, who did not have the slightest interest in horses.
Omar’s entry for that race was indeed Filaki, a four-year old grey gelding who had never won a race and had not even managed a second place. With the special diet, Filaki’s performance had improved, but not enough to challenge the reigning champion Baraf, or even the other contenders on that distance.
The starting line for the two-mile race was right in front of the podium, since the horses had to run twice along the one-mile track. Both Omar and Numan were disinterested in the race, but Aydin and Khalil were hanging to the hope that Filaki would put up a good show. When the starter finally gave the call, Omar was not surprised to see that the grey gelding was slow to start. He was right at the back of the surging pack, with the champion Baraf already in the lead. As the horses ran the first mile to the outer post, there was no change in the order, with the leader three lengths ahead of the rest and Filaki closing the rear. Being the first at the mile post, Baraf took the turn easily. But as the second horse turned, his back leg was clipped by the horse behind him and he tumbled to the ground. With the rest of the pack right behind, a number of horses trampled over the fallen horse and joined the pile on the ground.
‘Look, there is a pile-up. I can’t see very well. Is Filaki among the horses on the ground?’ Aydin asked his cousin.
Fortunately, being right at the back, Rohab managed to steer Filaki clear of the collapsed heap.
‘No, he is through,’ Khalil replied to Aydin’s relief.
Filaki took the turn cleanly and chased after Baraf, who was ten lengths ahead in the home straight. With half a mile to go, the champion maintained its lead with Filaki in second position. Most of the horses that fell had re-joined the race and were about ten lengths behind Filaki. With a quarter of a mile to the finishing line, Baraf increased his pace under the whip of its rider and his lead on Filaki increased. Everyone in the crowd was in no doubt about the victory of the champion who had been invincible on that distance. Baraf eased up and passed the finishing line a good fifteen lengths ahead of Filaki, who finished second.
‘Who would have thought that Filaki would come second in that race? It is not even his distance,’ Omar said to Numan with an amused look on his face.
Slowly the other horses crossed the finishing line. The owner of Baraf and his entourage were cheering while the locals in the crowd remained silent. There was no hope for Omar’s stable to win two races on the day as rumours had it that he did not have a sprinter for the final race. Little did they know about Saika, Omar’s secret filly.
In fact, Omar and Numan had been waiting for the second race to be over even before it had started. Their focus was on the upcoming last race, a one-mile sprint. Both brothers were nervous, hoping their meticulous planning over the last four years would pay off. When the announcer called for the final race, the owner of Ghazale – the undefeated champion over that distance – was rubbing his hands, already savouring the win to come.
‘And the first horse coming on the track is the famous Ghazale,’ the announcer called out, as the crowd erupted in an enormous cheer.
The champion’s reputation had spread far and wide across the entire country. Songs and poems had been written about her and her races were recounted around campfires. Such was her fame that those who had seen her race in person would boast the fact to an envious audience. Even the people of Qadday gave her a big cheer to salute a worthy champion. As Ghazale walked proudly out onto the track, the seven-year old black mare looked relaxed and confident.
When it was Saika’s turn to be announced, everyone including the horse owners looked at each other, for no one had heard of her before. However, when her trainer Bilal led her onto the track, there was a huge cheer since the filly was showing off, dancing on her legs.
‘Look at her flaunting herself to the crowd,’ Aydin said with a grin.
Her light chestnut coat was gleaming in the afternoon sun, with her much paler mane and tail in sharp contrast. She looked lean compared to Ghazale, who had a broader barrel. And for a horse on her maiden outing, Saika looked relaxed, resting on three legs with the front fourth hoof drawn up as she stopped and posed. Omar and Numan were bundles of nerves whilst Aydin and Khalil were more composed. The two boys seemed to have greater faith in the filly.
‘Don’t worry, Abbi. Saika looks great and she is going to win,’ Aydin reassured his father.
Finally all sixteen horses were under the starter’s order at the outer post. Saika still looked relaxed, swinging her head from side to side. As instructed by Bilal, Rohab made sure to place the filly next to the
black champion Ghazale on the starting line. When the horses were finally off, as usual Ghazale made a strong start to take the lead. She typically ran the first half of her race as hard as she could, building as much lead as possible on the other contenders and then would fight valiantly towards the end when the others sprinted to try and catch her. Her strong pace at the end had held off the comeback of many courageous sprinters in the past.
Once again, Ghazale pushed hard ahead into the lead with Saika settling in second position, three lengths behind in her smooth flowing stride. As the black mare worked hard, her lead increasing with each stride, everyone in the crowd including Omar and Numan thought that Saika faced an impossible task. When the horses reached the halfway point toward the podium, everyone could clearly see the five lengths gap between Ghazale and Saika.
‘A gap of five lengths is too much for Saika to make up in half a mile against Ghazale,’ Omar was thinking, feeling disheartened.
The young filly could see the black mare ahead and was eager to start catching up on her, but remembering her training, she patiently waited for the signal from her rider. By the time the two horses were a quarter of a mile to the finishing line, the black champion had increased her lead to six lengths. The crowd was resigned to witness yet another win of the champion and another loss for Omar’s stable.
‘Why is Rohab not using his whip?’ Omar muttered under his breath.
It was as if Rohab had heard Omar; at that very moment, he cracked his whip. Saika had been patiently waiting for it and the filly made her move. She lengthened her stride and looking at the black horse ahead, she pushed herself as she had done so many times before in training. Slowly but surely Saika started to make up the ground. The crowd started jumping and screaming as they saw the gap between the two horses closing.
