Читать книгу She Wore Red Trainers - Na'ima B. Robert - Страница 8

3

The drive into London took forever, mainly due to an accident on the motorway. We drove down with Dad on Thursday afternoon to make sure that the house was ready for the movers who were due over the weekend.

I must admit, even though Dad took great pains to explain the difference between a housing estate and a housing association, I was expecting the worst: grim estates decked out with rusting swings and dog mess on the scratchy lawns.

But our route took us through the bustle of Brixton, up tree-lined roads, past a beautiful park with a country house perched on a hill, to the gates of our new home. Looking around as we drove up the driveway, I could feel my heart rate start to slow down and the dread I had been unconsciously holding onto, easing away. The houses were neat, well looked after. Good cars stood in the private driveways and the close was flanked on one side by sky-high oak trees.

‘You sure this is it, Dad?’ I asked, suddenly anxious to check that this was the right place, that I hadn’t got my hopes up for nothing. ‘It doesn’t look that bad…’

Dad smiled, ‘Uncle Kareem wouldn’t invite us to stay in a dump, Ali.’

Umar kissed his teeth and scrunched down further in his seat, his eyes fixed on the phone he held in front of him.

‘I can’t wait to see what it looks like inside!’ Jamal was jumping up and down with excitement.

Dad chuckled and tossed him the keys. ‘Do the honours, son.’

And Jamal duly unlocked the door of our new home and let us in.

***

We went to pray the Friday prayers at the local mosque the next day and, as far as I was concerned, we stuck out like sore thumbs, even amongst other Muslims. We were obviously strangers, new to the community: we dressed differently, spoke differently, didn’t know anyone. But one of the brothers made his way over to us like it was the most natural thing in the world.

‘As-salamu ‘alaykum. My name’s Usamah.’ As tall as Dad, maybe even taller, dressed in a brown linen thobe with a crisp white turban tied around his head, he greeted us with such a smile, such easy confidence, that Dad was caught off guard. ‘Mashallah, fine set of boys you’ve got here, sir,’ he smiled, shaking us all by the hand, and giving Jamal a mock punch on the shoulder. ‘Y’all new to the masjid?’

‘Yes, we are,’ Dad answered him. ‘It’s our first time here as a family.’ Then he frowned. ‘Well, the boys’ mother – my late wife - and I visited a friend here a few times when we were newly married. But we moved out of London and didn’t come back here again…’

I stared at Dad. It wasn’t like him to speak so candidly – and to a stranger at that.

Usamah bowed his head slightly and said a brief prayer, then looked up at all of us. ‘May Allah make it easy for all of you,’ he said quietly. ‘Losing someone that close is never easy.’

I shifted on my feet then, feeling bare and exposed in the crowded prayer hall. How are you supposed to respond to a statement like that?

But Dad didn’t seem to be having any problems. He answered the brother’s questions about our family, where we were living, what we thought of the khutbah – totally unlike his usual reserved self.

Although I wasn’t at all comfortable with the upfront disclosure that was going on, I found myself warming to Usamah. He seemed laid-back but had a serious, focused look in his eyes; his manner was confident but humble, in that spiritual sort of way that you read about but seldom encounter. I decided to suspend judgement.

Somehow, we found ourselves talking about sports and, once he heard that I had been on the school rugby and basketball teams, he laughed. ‘No wonder you’re so pumped up, bro!’ And he invited me to play basketball with him and some other Muslim brothers the next morning.

‘I’ll introduce you to the brothers,’ he said, full of confidence. ‘It will make settling in easier.’

And then he was gone, off to greet the imam of the mosque and get himself some fried chicken from the food trailer parked outside the mosque.

‘Mashallah,’ said Dad, with a smile, ‘he seems like a nice brother…’

Umar scowled. ‘What’s with the wacky dress sense?’ he growled, then kissed his teeth and went to sit on the low wall outside the mosque, his hood over his head, his hands stuck deep in his pockets.

He stayed there, detached, not responding to anyone’s salam or attempts at conversation, until it was time to go.

‘He’ll come round,’ Dad had said.

‘Inshallah, Dad,’ had been my response.

***

By the time I reached the basketball courts on the other side of the park, the brothers were already there, messing about with the ball, shooting hoops, showing off to no one in particular. When I came the first time with Usamah, things were a little awkward but everyone relaxed once they saw that I could play. Now, it felt like I’d been playing with them forever.

I tossed my bag onto the nearest bleacher and called out, ‘Hey!’ My feet were itching to feel the heat of the court, my hands eager for the ball’s rough surface.

The three of them – Usamah, Zayd and Mahmoud – all turned and returned the salam, ‘As-salamu ‘alaykum, bro.’

Usamah’s face broke into a smile.

‘About time, akh!’ he laughed. ‘We thought you had bailed out on us!’ And he did a little jump and flipped the ball into the net with a flick of his wrist. ‘Ready to get your behind whupped?’

I grinned back at him. ‘I’m going for 50 hoops today,’ I laughed, buoyed by the bravado that came from hanging with ‘the brothers’. That was how they rolled. So that was how I was going to roll, too.

‘Nah, man,’ jeered Mahmoud, ‘never!’

‘Watch me!’

‘I’m watching, akh,’ called Usamah, ‘and I don’t see nothin’ but talk. Don’t aim too high, you might fall hard!’

‘That’s right, my man!’ called Mahmoud, getting ready to throw the ball to Zayd. But, just then, something caught his eye and he turned towards the bleachers.

Two girls sauntered across the bleachers and paused, posing, preening, looking out on to the court.

Mahmoud let out a low whistle from between his teeth and nudged me, a crooked smile on his face.

‘Hey,’ he said softly, ‘have a look at that. Now that is hotness…’

In spite of myself, I glanced over at the girls and caught a glimpse of skin, glossy hair and flashing eyes. Fitnah. Straight up.

‘Now, wouldn’t you like a taste of that?’ Mahmoud was still staring, a slow fire burning in his eyes.

‘No, not me,’ I mumbled, studying the ball in my hands. ‘I’m not into all that.’

Mahmoud looked at me, curious. ‘Hey, a man’s got needs, right?’

I swallowed hard. ‘Yeah, that’s right…’ I avoided Mahmoud’s gaze and looked up at the net. ‘But that’s why I fast… and play ball.’ I needed to ease the tension, to stop all this talk about girls and needs, all the stuff that made life complicated and left you frustrated. I took a run up to the net and slam dunked the ball, sweet as anything.

‘That’s one!’

The game was on.

***

Well, after that my mind emptied, the intensity of the game sweeping all other thoughts aside. I didn’t stop for a moment: running, reaching, twisting, springing, leaping, thrusting, driving the ball into the net again and again and again.

The others were like shadows on either side of me, a blur, merging with one another. But I was aware of everything else: the hard slap of my trainers on the ground, the grainy texture of the ball, slick with nervous sweat, the strain in my calf muscles, the tension in my forearms, the sweat soaking my scalp, trickling down my back.

I lost myself in the game and left the others floundering, panting, struggling to keep up, to slow my flow.

But none of them could match my focus.

Not today.

Then came the moment of truth: I held the ball in my hands, my fingers splayed, my palms burning. The others hovered around, breathless, their shoulders heaving. I got ready to shoot my fiftieth round. Victory was within reach.

Then – ‘Zayd!’

A clear voice rang out across the court, a girl’s voice, cutting the air like a knife, a cool wave over the hot tarmac, and I felt the tiny hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Stupidly, I turned to look. And the world stood still.

It was a girl, but not like any I had ever seen. Her black hijab and abaya were stark against the sun-drenched colours of the bleachers. A fresh breeze came and whipped her long hijab up and it swirled around her like a cloud, like a dream, like a spell.

She brought her hand up to move the fabric away from her face and, in that moment, I froze as if a bucket of ice had been poured over me. My breath caught in my throat.

I noticed everything: the tiny hands, the pale fingernails, the cleft in her chin, its defiant tilt, the nose ring, the piercing eyes, the long eyelashes. I noticed it all in the space of about 3.5 seconds, the time it takes to have one look, and in that moment I smiled without meaning to, an involuntary smile, the kind you get when your heart leaps for no reason, when it skips a beat. Then I looked down. And I saw her trainers. Red Converse trainers, just like mine.

Woah

My breath came back to me and the world began to move again.

I didn’t realise I had dropped the ball until I caught sight of Mahmoud, on the other end of the court, jumping high to land the ball into the net. The ball banged against the backboard and spun around twice before dropping through the hoop and bouncing off the court. Mahmoud and Usamah cheered, exultant.

‘You almost had it, man,’ Mahmoud panted, his wild eyes dancing.

‘What did I tell you?’ laughed Usamah. ‘Too much talk! Now, watch and learn from the experts, boy!’ And he ran down the court and did his favourite move, sailing through the air, arms and legs outstretched, swinging from the net as the ball fell through it.

I laughed as I watched him, panting. My mind was on other things.

But when I looked back to the bleachers again, the girl was gone.