by Umm Zakiyyah
The questions stampeded her mind with such force that she could not distinguish one from the other. They were simply coming too fast. What her husband was doing with Dee’s diary was perplexing, and she could conclude only that it was pure accident. Yes, an accident. He had somehow gotten hold of it when he and Omar were helping them move. Perhaps it had fallen from the moving truck once they reached home, and Sulayman had tossed it into his things, not realizing what it was.
But how would it make it here? Inside the box, the only box, he had told her he would unpack himself? Certainly, his own things had not been on, or near, the moving truck that night.
Accident. It was an accident. He simply didn’t know it was here, Tamika decided as she removed the diary and sat down to read a random entry. She knew, at least she hoped, Dee wouldn’t mind the intrusion, even if she were alive.
Dear Diary,
I’ve heard a lot of people say, “Knowledge is power”, and I never really thought about it much before. But now I think the opposite is true, at least for some people. For me, it’s my biggest weakness. You’d think ignorance would cause a person more trouble. But I’m starting to believe ignorance is indeed bliss. I actually envy people who aren’t plagued with the knowledge I have. Because they certainly won’t have to answer for everything I will when they die.
The other day a good friend of mine who’s agnostic was saying—
Tamika closed it. She couldn’t read anymore. Not then. She felt as if Dee were coming alive with each word, and it was unsettling.
She put the journal back into the box and stood, a thought coming to her so suddenly that it made her nervous. What if she left it on the bed, or the nightstand, and casually mentioned to Sulayman what she’d found?
No, that wouldn’t work. It would appear too suspicious, especially if nothing else was unpacked from the box.
She went to the kitchen, trying to push it out of her mind. She opened the refrigerator, her eyes tracing the Tupperware containers filled with last night’s dinner. She pulled a stack of two from a shelf and shut the door with her hip. She opened a cupboard and removed a glass plate before emptying leftover spaghetti noodles and thick meat sauce onto the plate.
As she listened to the hum of the microwave, she knew what she would do. If she didn’t do it, she feared she was being dishonest with her husband, and herself. The timer beeped and she opened the microwave door, wondering the best way to unpack and organize the box’s contents before her husband came home. By then, the tattered box would be crushed and in a trash bag along with the rest of the garbage, waiting for Sulayman’s attention when he came home. Like she would be.
Sarah sat in the kitchen drinking a cup of coffee, still wearing her bathrobe. She had slept until early afternoon and felt as if she hadn’t slept at all. While praying, she barely had the energy to stand. When she finished she decided to take a shower. She remained under the showerhead for almost forty minutes before the hot water grew lukewarm even on the highest setting.
Ismael had mown the lawn, Sarah noticed as she faced the patio from where she sat at the kitchen table, and the knowledge neither soothed nor upset her. He might as well have been from the lawn care company, she wouldn’t feel as if she knew him any better.
At the reminder of why he cancelled the company, her teeth clenched, and remained so, even as the hot, dark liquid met her lips. She wished she hadn’t broken down like she had the day before. He didn’t deserve the comfort he must have felt as he held her. She imagined it stoked his male ego to have her crying like a baby in his arms, as if she were begging him to stay when it should be the other way around. Whatever happened, she was determined that he never caught her off guard again. She would remain calm. She couldn’t let him imagine that what he was doing mattered that much to her.
But it did. It did matter that much. And more. She had wiped the white mist from the bathroom mirror only minutes before and stared blankly at her reflection. She saw the wrinkles around her eyes, the sag in her cheeks, and the freckles across the bridge of her nose, as if aged blotches on dying skin. Strands of gray hair grew from her temples and met a mass of aged blond hair. She had stared blankly, as if only seeing, not comprehending the tired face that stared back at her.
She had felt nothing standing before the mirror as the reality of yesterday settled over her in the steamed bathroom. Yet her eyes filled, and the tears slipped down her cheeks as if they held a grief separate from her own.
Sarah hadn’t eaten, she realized as her eyes fell upon the neatly tended garden to the left of the tool shed. But the thought of food made her nauseated, and she took another sip of coffee instead.
“Why is it like that though?”
It took a moment before Sarah registered that the question was not inside her head, just as the subtle pounding had not been the beginning of a migraine, but soft footfalls upon the steps. Aminah blocked most of Sarah’s view of the yard as she slid into the chair opposite her mother. She was carrying a half-eaten banana in her hand, its black spots surrounding darker streaks that were visible under the stringed peel lying limply over Aminah’s wrist.
Sarah breathed, unable to pretend that she wanted company. She took another sip from her mug, hoping Aminah had something better to do. She wasn’t in the mood for casual conversation.
“Why would it be so widespread?” Aminah asked before taking another bite of the banana, her cheeks bulging slightly as she chewed, evidently oblivious to her mother’s despondent mood.
“Sweetie,” Sarah said, as if the word took the last bit of energy from her, “what are you talking about?” Both Sarah’s elbows were on the table, though the thick towel-like fabric cushioned them as she cradled the mug with both hands, its steam rising beneath her nose.
“This color thing.”
Even beneath her own sullenness, it struck Sarah as odd that Aminah seemed almost cheerful today, a marked improvement in her mood over the last few weeks.
“How would I know?”
“I don’t know,” Aminah said. “But I figured you’d have a different perspective from Dad, because,” she paused, “you know.”
“Because what?” Sarah did know, but she met her daughter’s eyes as her voice grew stern, and accusing, as she demanded an answer. She was not going to continue to be treated like an outcast in her own family.
Aminah’s shocked expression made Sarah immediately regret her tone.
Sarah set her coffee cup on the table and sighed, knowing then that her sudden realization after Fajr of who the “other woman” was was making her edgy.
She should have known all along that it was Alika. But she had been a fool. A stupid, naïve fool. Just to think that after coming from Faith’s house she had gone on and on about Alika this and Alika that. She had even summarized Alika’s interview with Faith and said how she herself was thinking to call Alika in hopes of participating. No wonder Alika hadn’t asked Sarah’s input. How could she solicit input from the person whose family she sought to destroy? It was enraging to even think about. And Sarah had actually imagined that Aminah or Tamika had invited Alika to the walimah. Oh, she was a fool, a stupid, idiotic, old fool.
Ismael’s silence during the drive from Faith’s had struck her as odd, but she was too engrossed in her one-sided conversation to realize anything peculiar right then. She had even asked Ismael what he thought about her calling Alika in hopes of participating in the research, and he had only shrugged. After all she had said, after all she had shared about her excitement, he had shrugged, and said simply, “Whatever you think.”
Sarah had to practically sit on her hands to keep from calling Alika’s house after she heard the front door close this morning as her husband left for work. And to think, he hadn’t said a word. Not a word, all this time. No wonder Alika had appeared out of nowhere, suddenly Muslim. And Ismael had known all along. From the moment Alika recited the shahaadah on the microphone at the masjid, Ismael had known that this wasn’t the usual weekly shahaadah accepting
Islam after Jumu’ah that day.
Sarah could slap herself for trying to protect Alika from Kate’s inappropriate comments about polygamy at the walimah. At her son’s wedding party.
Alika actually had the nerve to attend Sarah and Ismael’s son’s walimah.
And just to think Sarah had run after the girl—the child her husband wanted to marry—like a fool, apologizing that her non-Muslim sister had implied that it was expected of Alika.
O Allah.
She needed to calm down.
“Not right now, Aminah,” Sarah said finally, shaking her head as she started to pick up her cup before massaging the space between her eyes. “Maybe later we can talk. But not right now.”
That evening Ismael exhaled as he walked up the steps leading to his bedroom, relieved to finally be home. It had been a long day, and he wanted nothing more than the comfort of his family. He opened the door to his room and entered, but Sarah was already asleep although it was not yet ‘Ishaa time. As he loosened his tie and pulled it from the collar of his shirt, he studied the way his wife’s hair fanned the pillow and her head rested on her right arm, which was outstretched as if reaching for something on the headboard. Her fingers were curled slightly, and the blond hairs on her arm glistened under the lamplight he had turned on. The covers were tucked under her left arm, which was bent slightly as her hand rested on the soft fabric, her gold wedding band shining from the ring finger. He sat down on the bed, and she moved slightly as he lifted her left hand and stroked it before brushing her knuckles with a kiss. His heart swelled in the love he felt for her right then, and his chest tightened as he imagined this was something she would neither understand nor believe.
He continued to hold her hand as he thought of the first time he saw her. She was so beautiful that night, and he had only wished to stand next to her, even if he could have nothing more. Years later, he knew it was Allah’s immeasurable mercy that inspired her heart to open like it did. There was no reason for her to talk to him, let alone agree to meet him after that. She had never spoken to a colored man before, she had told him the first time they met after the party. The stubbornness with which she crossed her arms and looked away from him as she said it underscored what she was trying to say. “You should count yourself lucky to be talking to me right now.” And he did. But it wasn’t because she was White. At least it was not only because she was White. How could he not feel flattered at that, given the smoking gun that the tumultuous sixties had left the South? Her family was wealthy although she considered them “middle class,” and a wealthy family friend had a son who was also studying to be a doctor, who had already talked to her father about marrying her. There really was no reason for her to talk to him at all, and he didn’t know how to react to the flattery except to be himself.
A lot of what they discussed then, he realized in retrospect, wasn’t among the wisest topics of conversation to have at the time. His sympathetic views toward the Nation of Islam and personalities like Malcolm X were probably offensive to her. But he was young and feeling philosophical, and safe in his Black-White skin, as if it gave him the license to see both sides of the issue, and voice them. He would cringe years later as he realized the boldness he had displayed in youth, but he was grateful that Allah had not taken Sarah away from him as a result.
From the moment he asked Sarah if she believed in God, he knew he had found someone different from all the other women he knew. She was not only astonishingly beautiful, but strong-minded and intelligent as well. When he asked if he could see her again, having had no conversation after his inquiry about God, it shocked him when she shrugged and said, “If you want.”
Ismael kissed his wife’s hand again before setting it softly back in place, at which she moaned slightly and pulled the covers over her shoulders, unaware that it was her husband disturbing her slumber. He stood and changed clothes before turning off the light. He left the room and closed the door quietly behind him before walking down the hall to Aminah’s room, where the door stood open. He could see her sitting Indian-style on her bed reading a book.
“As-salaamu’alaikum,” he said as he entered and took a seat at her desk, turning the chair to face her bed.
Her face lit up when she saw him and she replied with a smile.
“What are you reading?”
She held it up so he could see.
He sucked in his breath playfully. “Ouch.”
“What?” She started to grin, evidently unsure how to interpret his reaction.
“Slave Narratives? That’s reaching a bit, don’t you think?” The book reminded him of what he had to do. He had prayed on it, and he was fairly confident he had made the right decision. But he found himself wondering if his daughter would agree.
She shrugged, opening the book to her place, a smile still tugging at her mouth. “I was just curious.”
“I thought you and Sulayman read enough of that in high school.”
“I forgot the details.”
“Why are they important?” What he really meant to say was, “Why are they important now?”
She was looking at the page, as if reading, but Ismael knew she was not. “I guess they’re not,” she said. “But I just wanted to learn a little more.”
He studied his daughter momentarily, taking in the way she resembled Sarah as she feigned nonchalance when there was so much more behind her words. “What are you learning?”
She looked up from the book, her eyes brightening, a clear indication that she was seizing the opportunity to discuss this with someone. “Did you know the slaves saw their black skin as bad?”
Ismael was silent before he nodded. “That’s to be expected, don’t you think?”
She creased her forehead. “Why would you expect something like that?”
He lifted a shoulder in a shrug, his mind on what he wanted to talk about. “When something’s taught to you long enough, you accept it as fact.”
Aminah’s eyes narrowed as she considered his point. “I see what you’re saying. But I still think it’s strange.” She paused. “Don’t you?”
“I suppose it is a bit strange.”
“And with the picture of Jesus in church.” She shook her head. “I guess it was pretty hopeless.”
He chuckled. “I wouldn’t say hopeless.”
“Then what do you think?” She closed the book and met his eyes, anticipating his response. Ismael knew at that moment his talk would have to wait, at least for now.
“The human mind is a funny thing. You really can’t blame someone for what it does.” He sighed, thinking about the reality behind his words. “Even Allah, subhaanahu wata’alaa, doesn’t hold us accountable for all the things that go on inside of it.”
She was silent momentarily as she nodded. She bit her lip, her gaze falling on something to her left for a moment. “That’s what I was thinking,” she said. “About Zaid, I mean.”
Ismael creased his forehead at the mention of his name. “Zaid?” Perhaps, they would have the talk sooner than he thought.
“Yes,” Aminah said, looking at her father now. “I think I should marry him.”
“Why?” He didn’t mean to sound surprised, but it had come out that way. He had meant to have this talk earlier in the week, but he had been too distracted.
Ismael had come to realize that Sarah was right. He had not handled Zaid’s proposal as he should have. There was no reason for him to have allowed Zaid and Aminah to communicate without Sarah’s knowledge, and there was even less rationale in him not mentioning the proposal to his wife. It wasn’t fair to Sarah, or Aminah. It wasn’t even fair to himself. But he had been so overwhelmed by his desire to marry Alika that he was subconsciously relating everything to that. And even that, he had no idea if he was approaching correctly. Even if he were, there was no relation between Sarah knowing about a potential co-wife to her knowing about a brother’s proposal to her daughter.
Ismael had decided it was best to ascertain if he even wanted to pursue ma
rriage to Alika before broaching a sensitive subject like that with his wife. Why cause unnecessary stress if it would not amount to anything? He already knew Sarah would not understand. Polygamy was not something she had ever imagined as relating to her and Ismael. And, to some extent, Ismael felt the same. Polygamy was attempted by only a minority of Muslims, zealous Muslims, who were more excited about the prospect of multiple women than the responsibility it entailed. Not to mention the responsibility of marriage itself. Their financial incapability was a moot point next to their emotional, psychological, and even spiritual immaturity in approaching the matter. Although this was a valid point to some extent, Ismael didn’t imagine there could, or should, be any real exceptions to the rule. Subconsciously, he felt it was better if there weren’t any. He was like the Qur’anic translator who had inserted the phrase “But one is best for you, if you only knew” into the translation of Allah’s verse on polygamy although no such phrase existed in the Arabic, implied or stated. In fact, the verse, left on its own merit, seemed to convey the exact opposite.
“…Then marry of the women who please you, two, three or four. But if you fear that you will not be able to deal justly (between them), then only one…”
He had read the verse at least a dozen times in the last four and a half months, and each time he read it, he was struck by the chronology of Allah’s words. It was as if the Creator was saying it was actually best to marry more than one, and only if you had a genuine fear that you would do injustice, then, and only then, marry only one. If there was any preference being conveyed at all in the verse, it certainly wasn’t what the translator had inserted between parentheses.
