Footsteps

by Umm Zakiyyah

  “I converted three years ago.”

  Justin gathered his dark eyebrows in surprise. “But your name is Islamic.”

  Abdur-Rahman placed the cage on the empty seat next to him. “Real name’s Theodore. But my family and friends call me Teddy.”

  “Why’d you convert?”

  “Because it’s true.”

  Justin’s eyes narrowed in confusion. “What’s true?”

  “The religion.”

  He shrugged and sighed of boredom. “All of ‘em are.”

  Abdur-Rahman folded his arms across his chest and chuckled, apparently enjoying a private joke. It made Justin uncomfortable. “Not possible.”

  “Son, people believe what they want. You’ll realize that sooner or later.” There was an edge of bitterness in his voice, and Justin could tell Abdur-Rahman caught it.

  “Not always.”

  Justin laughed as if he didn’t have the energy for youthful naïveté. “Don’t know any exceptions myself.”

  “You included?”

  He regarded the boy closely, not caring if his scorn was manifested. He was disturbed by the know-it-all smirk the boy wore, the way he crossed his arms with his hands tucked under his armpits, and his different color eyes, each of them seeming to hold a separate view but shared judgment of Justin.

  “Life doesn’t give you much choice,” Justin said finally. He readjusted his wristwatch and exhaled, his nose flaring slightly.

  “Life is choice.”

  “To the dreamer.”

  Abdur-Rahman continued to smirk, the dusty bottoms of his patent leather shoe facing the chair between them as he rested his ankle on a knee.

  “Justin,” Sulayman said, reaching out to shake his uncle’s hand. Neither he nor Aminah could bring themselves to put the formal Aunt or Uncle before his or Kate’s names. They suspected it would be more offensive than polite given the distance their aunt and uncle wished to keep from Sarah since she accepted Islam. Sulayman couldn’t deny it would be a bit awkward in any case. They were more like neighbors compelled to live next to one another than family.

  Justin stood, and Sulayman felt the choreographed politeness in his uncle’s firm shake and broad smile that was unable to simulate either cordiality or pleasure in being here tonight. But Sulayman was grateful, nonetheless, that Justin had come. It must have been a huge sacrifice for a busy lawyer like him.

  “You’re related?” Amusement lit Abdur-Rahman’s eyes and he nodded as if he had just then understood the punch line to a joke told an hour before.

  “Justin, this is Abdur-Rahman. Abdur-Rahman, my uncle Justin.”

  “We met,” Justin said as he smoothed the lapels of his suit jacket upon sitting back down.

  “Your uncle was just telling me his philosophy of life.”

  Sulayman raised his eyebrows in pleasure as he sat down across from them, but he noticed Justin’s irritation despite effort to appear polite. “What’s that?”

  “The only absolute truth is that there is no absolute truth,” Abdur-Rahman said, nodding in apparent pleasure with his observation.

  Though obviously still a bit agitated, Justin seemed to calm at the response, as if he were expecting Abdur-Rahman to say something terse, if not wholly inappropriate. Perhaps the eloquence of Abdur-Rahman’s words made Justin see his philosophy as more academic than cynical.

  “Philosophy one-oh-one,” Sulayman said with a smile of recognition. “The classic paradox of modern thought.”

  Justin nodded, his expression more curious than disconcerted. “You studied philosophy in school?”

  “I double majored in chemistry and biology in undergrad,” Sulayman said. “But I took some courses.”

  “You doing graduate work now?”

  “I’m in medical school.”

  Justin’s brows rose in surprise. “Where? Here in Atlanta?”

  “Emory.”

  He nodded, unable to conceal his admiration. “A lot of Muslims at the school?”

  “Quite a few, actually.”

  “American?”

  “Mostly from Pakistan.”

  “And your sister?”

  “She studied chemistry, but she took a year off after undergrad.”

  “Where’d she study?”

  “Streamsdale.”

  The flutter of bird wings filled the silence, and Abdur-Rahman picked up the cage and checked on the birds before putting it back on the chair.

  “She wear that, uh, cloth on her head while she’s there?”

  Sulayman nodded. “She’s worn it ever since middle school.”

  Justin toyed with his glass, but he seemed to be reflecting on what his nephew said. “What’s the point of it? I mean, all the clothes?”

  “As-salaamu’alaikum, man!”

  Sulayman turned to find Omar standing behind him. Coming to his feet, Sulayman laughed and shook the brother’s hand then pulled him in a stiff hug that was more a mutual smack on the back. The strength in Omar’s arm left Sulayman’s back stinging for several seconds. Even in the long-sleeved white thobe that extended to the middle of Omar’s calves, his muscular arms bulged, hinting to the days he played football before a case of bad company landed him in jail, where he found Islam. His coffee brown face was still stingy, giving him only a stubble of facial hair despite Omar’s efforts to grow a beard.

  “Wa’alaiku-mus-salaam wa rahmatullaahi wa barakaatuh.”

  “Congratulations, ak,” Omar said, abbreviating the Arabic term that meant my brother, as was customary among African-American Muslims. “You one lucky man.”

  “Justin, Abdur-Rahman, this is Omar.” Omar reached over the table and shook their hands, greeting them with the standard Muslim greeting. But only Abdur-Rahman replied.

  “Omar, this is my uncle Justin,” Sulayman said, gesturing toward him. “And Abdur-Rahman.”

  Omar took a seat next to Sulayman. “Woe, what’s this?” One side of his mouth turned up in a grin as he saw the birds fluttering about in the cage. He chuckled, looking to his right to see if this was a joke of Sulayman’s.

  “Omar, meet Freddie and Freda.” Abdur-Rahman lifted the cage and nodded to the new guest. “Freddie, Freda, meet Omar.” The birds actually seemed to nod too, and Omar burst out laughing. He hit a hand on the table, causing it to shake slightly, then gripped Sulayman’s shoulder with a nod of approval.

  “Man, I always knew you were whack. I’d never think to invite birds to my walimah.”

  Sulayman chuckled and shook his head. “They’re not my guests. They’re Abdur-Rahman’s pets.”

  “No, sh—,” Omar stopped himself. “No kidding?” He scratched at the beard hair on his face and opened his mouth slightly in amusement.

  “I take them wherever I can. They get lonely when I’m not there.”

  Omar exploded in laughter, rocking back and forth in his chair, his hand covering his mouth. His laugh culminated into a coughing spell, and he placed one hand on the table to compose himself. When he finally got himself under control, he wore a grin and shook his head. “I like you, man. You cool.” He nodded, placing both hands on the table to smooth out the tablecloth that he had unintentionally tousled during his laughter. “Where you from?”

  “I live here in Georgia.”

  Justin wore an uncomfortable smile that tugged at one side of his mouth, unsure how to take the sudden disruption that had cut him off in the middle of an inquiry. He glanced around the room, but Sulayman could tell the motion was more to mask his apparent embarrassment at being slighted by this animated character of a person.

  “The clothes are worn as an act of obedience to God,” Sulayman said.

  It took a moment for Justin to realize Sulayman was talking to him. Justin nodded, appearing a bit more relaxed though his discomfort in the increased company was noticeable.

  “So, uh,” Justin said, “why all the security tonight?”

  “Security?”

  “Preventing me from seeing my sister.”

  S
ulayman chuckled. “At functions like these, the men and women are separated so the women can feel comfortable and dress as they like.”

  “Why can’t they dress as they like all the time?”

  There was a brief silence at the table, and Omar chuckled, a smug grin on his face as he studied Justin.

  “They can,” Abdur-Rahman cut in, smiling. “But for those who like to cover themselves in front of men, the separation is for them.”

  “All your wedding parties are like this? Bride and groom in different rooms?”

  “No,” Sulayman said. “It depends on the bride and groom.”

  “Some Muslims have typical American weddings,” Abdur-Rahman said.

  Justin nodded, and Sulayman could tell he was relaxing a little more although Sulayman imagined Justin couldn’t help feeling outnumbered at the table.

  “What’s the difference?” Justin said.

  “Between the weddings?” Sulayman asked.

  “No, your marriages.”

  “Nothing, I imagine,” he said. “Once you’re married, you pretty much live like any normal couple.”

  “Naw, man,” Omar interrupted, shaking his head, still wearing that grin that seemed a part of him now. “That ain’t true.”

  Justin looked at Omar, as did everyone else, surprised by his words.

  “I know you ain’t been out there like a lot of us,” Omar said to Sulayman. “But it ain’t nothing like a Muslim woman. I had mad girlfriends in the dunya, man, and not one of ‘em compare to a Muslim wife.”

  “What do you mean?” Justin said, creasing his forehead and leaning forward until his elbows rested on the table.

  “Man, you know how it is,” Omar said, shaking his head in apparent recollection of more than the conversation gave him opportunity to share. His grin was now replaced by a reflective hint of a smile. “You takin’ your woman out and she puts on this bangin’ dress. And you thinkin’ how good she look, and you know every dog up in that joint see what you see. And then she get to talkin’ and laughin’ wit’ ‘em, and you like, damn baby, chill. And she like, it’s all good, we just talkin’.” He shook his head again. “Naw, it ain’t like that with a Muslim.”

  “I know what you mean,” Abdur-Rahman agreed. “I was with my ex-girlfriend for seven years, and we lived together for the last two. She said I was overprotective and sexist. She’d go out with her male friends or talk on the phone to them for hours.” He laughed then shook his head. “Sometimes, when she was going out, I’d ask her where she was going, and she wouldn’t tell me, saying I didn’t trust her. Or if I asked her not to go, she’d say she was going anyway. I felt like her roommate.”

  “In Islam, man,” Omar said, “you got everything laid out. You know your job, and she knows hers. Cuts out a lot o’ madness, man. No joke.”

  “A lot of non-Islamic marriages have the same thing,” Justin said. “You just have to find someone with shared values.”

  “I feel you,” Omar said. “But problems always come up, man. In Islam, you have something to back you up.” He chuckled. “Or set you straight.” After a moment’s pause, he said, “And it ain’t always about the woman. You can’t be buggin’ and havin’ all these females all up in your joint, talkin’ about they just friends. In Islam, men and women got the same rules when it comes to that.”

  “Are you married?” Justin asked.

  “Yeah, man.”

  “For how long?”

  “One and a half years.”

  “You?” Justin glanced toward Abdur-Rahman.

  Abdur-Rahman smiled and shook his head. “Not yet.”

  “You plan to marry a Muslim?”

  “For sure, inshaAllaah. God-willing,” he added, realizing he had used the Arabic expression with Justin.

  “You have to?”

  “No, but I don’t want anything else.”

  “You converted too?” Justin looked at Omar.

  “Yeah.”

  “Why?”

  A grin formed on one side of Omar’s mouth and his eyes grew reflective. “Man, when Islam come at you, you only got two choices. Submit or run.”

  “Was it an easy transition?”

  “Naw, man, I ain’t even gonna lie. But it gets easier.”

  Abdur-Rahman nodded in agreement. “For me, the hardest thing was getting over what the world would think. Because once you study it, you know it’s true. You just don’t want the burden of telling the world that.” He smiled. “But I was lucky. My father came home from a trip to Syria and said he had something to talk to me about, and I told him the same. Turns out we had the same confession.”

  Justin’s eyes revealed surprise and he chuckled. Inside Sulayman smiled, realizing it was his uncle’s first sincere expression of pleasure that night.

  Aminah stood before the mirror in the dressing room attached to the ballroom as Nusaybah teased Aminah’s ash brown hair that was now a rust color from the styling gel that created deep waves surrounding her thin face. Her green eyes were accented in a light application of eyeliner, but there wasn’t much Nusaybah could do to give Aminah’s pale skin the color Aminah wanted. But the artist had applied a thin layer of foundation to give Aminah’s white skin a hint of brown to offer the illusion of a natural tan. Nusaybah had chosen a frosted lip-gloss that would accent the pink of Aminah’s lips because a heavy lipstick might offset the desired effect of the foundation.

  Aminah’s gaze fell to her hands, where she held the note cards she hoped she wouldn’t need for this part of the event. Her heart beat faster until it became a pounding that stubbornly reminded her that she didn’t want to do this. The role had fallen to her by default, or perhaps necessity. Who else could give the speech preceding the presentation of Tamika’s plaque for being the first in her family to graduate from college? Aminah knew her best, having lived with her for nearly three semesters of the school year. She saw Tamika’s quiet determination to push herself through school despite her heart being set elsewhere. Aminah herself was inspired by the remarkable acumen and sagacity of the woman whose heart was too big to be confined to the stringent boundaries of a university that harbored too much pride in itself. Tamika had little patience for the trivial, and it was this idiosyncrasy that would taint her college record, albeit unjustly, and land her in a campus apartment with Aminah and Aminah’s childhood best friend Durrah.

  No, Aminah didn’t want this burden. There was far too much to say, and too little that she actually could. How would she stop herself when her words no longer came from a rehearsed tongue but a full heart? This award was not about Tamika’s family history. It was about theirs. And they were linked by a history too pronounced to silence and too silenced to pronounce. They were, as it were, sisters long before the infamous in-law would be added to it. But she couldn’t say that tonight. Tamika’s family expected this to be about them. Then again, they, like Tamika, knew nothing of this particular part of the night. They knew, of course, like everyone else, that the celebration was dual, but they didn’t know that Aminah and her mother had decided to make the general accolade a tangible one.

  “We’re ready,” Kate said in an audible whisper, peering in the door and disappearing a second later.

  Nusaybah smiled at Aminah, and Aminah felt the corners of her mouth turn up in a smile. She stepped out into the brightly lit ball room and rested the low-heeled shoe of her right foot on the first step leading to the podium, and she thought, heart heavy with sadness, Durrah should be the one doing this.

  A microphone affixed to a platform awaited Aminah at the top of the portable steps. She stopped and stood before it about five feet from where Tamika sat with her mother and aunt. Apparently, someone had announced that there would be a speech of some sort because the guests were waiting with hushed expectancy as Aminah adjusted the height of the microphone and glanced momentarily at the note cards she’d set beneath it. She skimmed the cards for what she had rehearsed and felt her heart in her throat, conscious of the 11” by 17” oak wood wall plaque
that bore the engraving of Tamika’s name and distinction and sat behind a table in the dressing room. Aminah felt her sister-in-law’s patient gaze as Tamika expected a general thank you to the crowd in celebration of the occasion.

  “Bismillaah, walhamdulillaah, wa salaatu wa salaamu ‘alaa rasoolillaah,” she said, glancing out at the guests for the first time since her ascension to the podium. The room was massive. There was a sea of round tables distributed about the room, each decorated with a white and lavender floral centerpiece atop lilac tablecloths. She felt dizzy and held onto the sides of the platform to compose herself. She whispered a silent prayer to Allah to make this ten-minute speech an ease and comfort for her. O Allah, there is no ease except in that which you have made easy, and you make the difficult, if you wish, easy. “I begin with the name of God, who alone deserves praise and credit for the good we enjoy and give in this world. And I ask Him to send peace and blessings upon His Messenger, Muhammad, who is last in a long line of messengers before him, including Noah, Abraham, Moses, and Jesus. May peace and blessings be upon them all.”

  Aminah inhaled deeply and heard the release of her breath in the microphone. She couldn’t think of her nervousness, and she forced herself to imagine the people before her as part of the room itself and not as individuals, waiting with expectance, hanging on to her every word. She thought of Tamika, and Durrah. And it was only then that she felt the nervousness subside. She was filled with a singleness of purpose, an assignment only she could fulfill.

  “Tonight is a special night,” she began, “a night of celebration, a night to thank Allah, thank God for His blessings that are far too infinite to number. On June eighth of last year, my family was blessed with a gift that only God could give. Selfishly, I can say, I was given a sister, the sister I had wanted for so long. For my brother Sulayman, she was, in his words, a blessing, a completion of himself.” She smiled. “And I can attest to that, because, believe me, before she finally said yes, he was not himself.” There was some laughter in the crowd. “Of course, we are speaking of Tamika, Tamika Douglass, who sits before us now, next to her mother Thelma and her aunt Jacqueline. And to you both,” Aminah turned her head slightly to face them, “on behalf of my mother, myself, and, of course, my brother, I thank you. Thank you for sharing her with us. Thank you for sharing a part of you. Without you, there would be no Tamika, and without Tamika there would be no celebration tonight. And we praise and thank Allah for this.”