The light of my life.
Fatima.
What would I do without her?
Of course, if it wasn’t for her, I wouldn’t be stuck in this mess.
But not one day do I regret it.
To have children is a blessing.
The man without children or a family is a poor man indeed.
Ya, Allah.
You have blessed me.
“Did you sleep well?”
I love the way she looks when she pouts her mouth as if to say leave me alone, I am still waking up.
So young and already got her mother’s morning moods.
She puts her fingers to my ears and pulls them softly.
She smiles wide and then looks at me.
“Salaam, Daddy.”
Her soft wake up voice.
Almost like she is whispering.
She rubs her eyes and then gets up from underneath the covers and lifts her arms up for me to pick her up.
She rests her head on my shoulder and seems to fall asleep again.
Her breathing seems to be normal and no fever today.
Alhamdulilah.
I kiss her head and make my way into the living room.
Breakfast was served.
Nothing special.
Eggs and bread.
Usually she’d add all sort of stuff to it, made it seem like the eggs were some sort of gourmet meal, but that was before Fatima was born.
Now it was just plain old egg and bread.
Don’t know about women.
Once they got you, then everything changes.
Or is this still because of what I have done?
Can someone really be so stuck in the past that they cannot see the damage that is caused by reminding the person of what they did every single day of their existence, only because she is sad and miserable with her own situation.
Why doesn’t she go?
No.
She is too scared and pathetic.
Lonely and miserable.
The time she spends in my personal space is evidence of this.
Why is she always in there and never with her friends that she can’t stop ranting on about?
If I should hear again about how great this one is and how she wished I was more like so and so’s husband.
I might.
Yes.
I might hit her.
I am at that point where I want to lift my fist to this woman that is supposed to be my wife, because she is unreasonable and looks for trouble.
She stirs up trouble.
Looks for ways to upset me.
Deliberately.
Almost like she gets some sick pleasure from it.
Allah, please bind my hands.
Let me not lift a finger.
Please, Allah.
You are the best of helpers.
Help me to endure this with sabr.
Patience.
InshaAllah.
But ya.
Alhamdulilah.
Fatima was fast asleep again.
Would have to get some food into her.
I am never sure if what I am doing is right, but inshaAllah.
Allah will surely make it easy for me.
I look at Zubaida as she starts eating.
“Don’t you Bismillah, anymore?”
Mistake.
“I made my niyyat in my heart. You Bismillah out loud if you want to. You need it.”
Wonder what she meant.
Perhaps she poisoned the food.
iii
“You better put the brat down before you go and mess on my couch.”
Old crow face.
Oh, Allah.
Please make it easy.
“She is enough of a burden. I do not need to take care of another baby.”
Huh uh.
Huh uh.
I shake my head and stand up.
Sure not to wake Fatima. I was still worried that she hadn’t eaten, but the doctor said it would be best to let her rest whenever she needs too. If she skips too many meals then we could perhaps explore other options.
I laid her down in her cot and covered her with her small pink blanket. Zubaida had chosen it. It had blue elephants on it. Then she was still sort of into the idea of being a mother. She chose the one with the blue elephants because she wanted a boy. She always said pink is just a colour and it doesn’t matter. I’m sure the Nabi said otherwise.
I went back into the kitchen. Scooped up more egg and sat down. I look over to Zubaida. She was staring at me.
“Haven’t you eaten enough already?”
Written all over her face.
Before I could start.
“You know what, Achmet?”
She stares me down with narrow eyes.
Her nostrils flare.
The tip of the beak shaped nose seemed to almost be ready to peck.
Viciously.
“I regret the day I ever laid my eyes on you.”
She was serious.
She didn’t shout or seemed to want to mock me.
No, this was Zubaida being honest.
“That was most certainly the worst day of my life.”
She stands up and goes and stands in the corner of the room.
The room was mostly empty. Just the two opposite couches and the table at the centre.
She stands under the picture she had bought. It was apparently the picture of the Prophet’s tomb. Sallallahu alayhi wasallam. I didn’t like that thing hanging in our house. Last I checked no one was allowed near there and no one has ever taken a picture of it. It was closed by the Sahaba till this day. But tell her that and she goes ballistic.
I prepared myself mentally.
Ya, Allah.
I know I made this decision.
I am not displeased with Your will.
I do ask that You please make it easy.
InshaAllah.
Ameen.
“You and your smooth mouth. I should have known you were trouble.”
She shakes her head and paces around. This with one hand on her hip and the other to her head. She seemed to be searching for words. I clenched my fists. I knew where this was going. I was in for it again. Another lecture. Another beating.
Alhamdulilah.
“I should have listened to Baba when he told me to lower my gaze.”
She seems to smile at remembering it. She smirks and then immediately growls.
“He was always telling me to stay away from boys. I rebelled as hard as I could. Deliberately stopped wearing my hijab and started wearing more fashionable clothes. Listened to rock music and even got the spiked bracelet to show it all off. I’m sure if I went for a more Goth look with my make-up, my mother would never leave the house.”
She laughs. Then snarls.
“Baba always gave me an earful of course. All I screamed that this was not the time of ignorance. We women are free. Baba almost had a heart attack when I got those super high stilettos and short mini dress for Eid. My hair had purple streaks.”
She comes to stand in front of me. This time both hands on her hips.
“Baba was absolutely right!”
She shouts.
“Look what it got me. It got me left with a fool like you.”
She shakes her head.
Those eyes.
Oh, Allah.
What must I do?
I clench my teeth. I tried to relax my body. But I was on edge. I put my hand to the couch and grab at it. I just needed to hold onto something.
“How could you do it, Achmet?! How could you be so stupid?! All that money! Just like that! How! Could! You!”
iv
“All on those drug deals of yours!”
How much more was she going to let loose? I was near erupting. I shifted uneasily on the couch.
“I told you to stop dealing! Get away from Davids and his gang! But no! You never listen!”
The words are all covered in small drops of spit as it leaves her m
outh. You could see that her mouth was starting to dry. But I don’t think that she was anywhere near stopping. This speech I have heard a thousand times before. A hundred times this month alone. It was the worst January in history.
Ya, Allah.
Please bless me with sabr.
I can’t take much more of this.
“You told me that you would get clean and start living honestly! But, arg!!”
She paces fast to the kitchen to get some water.
Alhamdulilah.
A bit of intermission.
What she said was true.
I did say that I would stop. But that deal seemed like a done thing. If it wasn’t for the tip off to the cops, we would have been rich. But I was a fool. That was true too. Allah warns us against these things, but I didn’t listen. Guess all of this is part of my dunya punishment. May He have mercy on me in the akhira.
After two glasses of water, Zubaida returns to the lounge. She undoes her hijab. Runs her fingers through her dark hair and ties it with her navy bun at the back. She folds her hijab neatly. Sure to get the triangle perfect. Yes, perfect corners, before she takes the longer of the straight edge and puts it on her head. She pins it and ties the back. She tugs at the pins again. Sure to have the pins symmetrical about her head and fully covering the cloth. Usually she takes only a few minutes to do this.
It was like second nature.
But today she took her time. It was all part of her scheme.
She enjoyed drawing her torture on and on.
I was not sure what to make of this behaviour by Zubaida. It was like she had a complex or something. She felt inferior I guess. Guess all the liberties she had while growing up, didn’t free her from her own demons. That is the ultimate test.
The self.
She was insecure and lacked self-esteem.
I was a means for her to be in control. Someone to manipulate. She knows my weaknesses and that’s how she succeeds to tare me down.
She wanted power.
And to be well off.
She wanted all those wonderful things she saw on TV. I told her many times to stop watching that tube that corrupts the mind, but she didn’t listen.
She thought I was going to be a successful businessman, that’s why she let me ask her dad to see her. Within a month we were married and we seemed to be happy.
But then my deal went south and so did all the love.
Was it ever even love?
She reminded me about my foolishness and stupidity from fajr to eshaai.
It was a nightmare.
A living nightmare.
If not for Allah, I don’t know what I would have done.
Huh uh.
This woman has some tricks.
Huh uh.
Then we got pregnant.
And then I was placed in hell.
v
“I was going to leave you, Achmet. But I gave you another chance. But, arg!”
I was starting to worry that she might pop a vein. They were like thick spaghetti all along her neck. A thick one down the top of her forehead. The eyes were the worst. They were absolutely dark. The mouth exposing the teeth like she was ready to bite me.
“I regret the day I got pregnant with your brat!”
She meant it.
She didn’t love Fatima. Perhaps in her own way she did. But she saw her only as the chain holding her down to me. Zubaida is a beautiful woman. Even now as she looks so vicious and cruel, her crow face suited her. She was like a beautiful bird. Her cute beak shaped nose. All these things I loved about her. I’m sure she could have anyone she wanted. But she chose to be with me.
I thought I was the luckiest man alive. Open-minded Muslim wife. I thought I had it all.
That deal would have been the cherry on top.
But ya.
Allah is the Seer of all.
That’s when I realised that she didn’t love me for me. She only loved the idea of me. She had this fantasy in her head all planned out. I tell you. It’s those fairy tales. When I lost all my money, her true colours started to show. She said in so many words that she only married me, thinking that I was going to be rich. She had vowed from what she learnt from her parents’ broken marriage that she would not be like that. She would be like Cinderalla that got her Prince. And her step sibs would be sorely upset that she got the doctor and they got the engineer.
Zubaida was a funny one.
When I lost it all, I was a wreck. I thought Zubaida would be there to support me, but she only broke me down. When she finally told me that she had forgiven me and that she was sorry, she knew how much the deal meant to me, I thought I had some hope. I would be able to get clean with her help. But then we got pregnant and Zubaida did a complete 360.
I understood then.
She was only willing to stick around to see what happens. I am sure those trips to the Golden Acre, was to check out possible fish she could catch. But getting pregnant meant she could not just up and leave.
Zubaida first considered an abortion. She did this behind my back. Thank Allah that she had a conscience. She came and discussed it with me. I told her that it was our child and that I was against termination. The thought alone, made me think otherwise of Zubaida. It sort of gave me a different perception of who she was.
Didn’t she believe in Allah?
I didn’t understand her. She would want all these fancy framed pictures of Mecca and Medina, but that was all just for show.
No.
More like it was tradition or culture. Instead of that it was a way of life.
She only saw the Qur’an as a guide and that is it. A reference place amongst many other reference places. Not as I saw it. As the only true guidance. A living guidance. Alive today, as it was when it was revealed so many years ago.
But Ya, Allah.
The pregnancy was tough on Zubaida and hence it was tough on me.
“I’m sorry Achmet, but I can’t take this anymore. I want out.”
She paces around in circles. Biting her nails.
I didn’t say anything. I got up and went to the backroom. My personal space. The space she invaded.
I locked the door behind me and went to the canvas. I always loved drawing and painting. When I was little I would use the crayons to paint with. Melt them and do abstract art with it. I found it therapeutic. I felt it expressed a void I felt for not having a father. I never knew my dad, since he was murdered by some gang members when I was a baby. Things were tough on my mother, but Allah sustained us. I got involved with drugs and started dealing. Then I met up with Davids and have been indebted to him ever since. If only I could break free from him. Then I could really be clean. Get my life straight.
For Fatima.
Purely for Allah’s sake.
I would be a fool to carry on like this. Have I not seen the light? Know I not that it is only Allah that can help me?
I walk closer to the piece I was working on.
It was done in pencil.
I preferred a pencil.
I used paintbrushes in my teens.
As I grew older I started using a pencil. I picked up the HB and pressed it down hard on the drawing and dragged it all the way across. I dragged it over the image repeatedly then ripped it off. Tore it to pieces and threw it all in the dustbin.
I kicked the canvas to the ground. The one leg broke as it hit the wall and crashed to the floor.
I didn’t think it would feel like this.
I got my wish.
But it didn’t mean that it didn’t hurt.
That she gave up on me.
She doesn’t believe in me anymore.
I had some hope.
That was indeed the inspiration for my drawing. I drew it for her. It was a portrait of her and Fatima. It was a good day then. We had all gone to the beach, Milnerton. She had fun. She even played with Fatima. Built sandcastles and had ice cream. Zubaida let Fatima bury her in the sand. We took a picture. She sure managed t
o make me laugh.
Old crow face.
But that was an illusion. She didn’t love me. And that is the saddest truth.
I got up and left the room. Checked on Fatima quick. She was sound asleep.
I passed the witch and left the house. It was now or never.
I will have to do this now.
Then I can give it all up.
Start fresh and new.
Just Fatima and me.
InshaAllah.
vi
Tuesday, 22 January 1991.
“Seize this business, Achmet.”
Abdullah sure could be an annoyance sometimes.
“This is against Allah’s will. You can’t be going around killing people.”
“I’m not the one doing the killing. I’m just helping them to get the weapons they need.”
“Still. Can’t you see what they are going to do?”
Abdullah looked at me with his small, brown eyes. His green topi covered with a white cloth today. I always admired how white and clean his clothes were. Mine always looked dull. Zubaida washed them. Abdullah did his own laundry. He must have learnt the hard way too.
“If these people don’t want to listen, then they must be taught a lesson. Allah’s will must be done.”
“Yes, but killing people is not the way to go about it.”
Abdullah was pleading.
“I am not the one who will be pulling the trigger.”
I was adamant. I didn’t want Abdullah to force me to do otherwise. I needed the money. Davids had what I needed. He back-stabbed me before and has me indebted because of it. I’ll do the same to him.
Only thing was Jamiel.
He was not one to easily trust anyone. His loyalty towards Davids has also worn thin. He would go with it. But how do I then get rid of him. He would want half and I needed everything. Fatima’s doctor said that she might need to be taken care of for the rest of her life.
I needed all of the money.
“Think of all those innocent people that will suffer because of this.”
Abdullah grabbed me by my arm.
“That is not Islam. Let them rather take your weapons and then you can truly die as martyrs.” He was never one to back down. Got to admire that about Abdullah. He always insisted on keeping the peace. He always said it is better to stay alive and take care of your mother, than to go off and die in some war. A war that was won ages ago. He always insisted that we endure the suffering and continue to do good deeds for Allah’s sake. Allah did indeed warn us of the bad times that would come. But he also believed in Allah’s aid if the suffering was endured with sabr.
I agreed.
But I thought I had been patient enough. Fatima was now nearly five years old and still no improvement in her condition. I trusted in Allah, but I also believed one should try to help yourself, then Allah will do the rest.