Midnight (37 page)

The soft light cloth of her garment suggested a beautiful figure but did not give it all away. Fawzi is fortunate, I thought. So far, his parents had not disappointed him.

The bride was facing both her mother and father. She dropped down and kissed their knees as an acknowledgment and show of respect. Also with her were her four younger sisters, and four brothers, all of whom had come to the U.S. for their first time and only for their sister’s wedding.

How powerful their father must feel, I thought to myself; to have brought forth nine children, to have raised his eldest seventeen-year-old daughter properly under his careful eye, to give her hand in such a grand gathering to such a successful man and family. The father had been a careful planner. Allah had given him a great sign of approval.

I believed every person was either reflecting on their own wedding, or dreaming of what was to come and hoping that it could be half as perfect for them also.

Right across from the huge tent was their newly built home, a sturdy American mansion made of bricks. Fawzi and his wife would be the first to have ever lived in the house, which Umma had wrapped in a three-foot-wide ribbon that was also twenty thousand feet long, culminating in a huge bow that was mounted on their front door.

Outside of their new home was a stone water fountain that continuously sprayed water into the air, caught it on one of its stone shelves, and let it flow down dribbling and gurgling like a stream.

Of course there was a huge black iron electric gate that secured his acres. But the gate was wide open to everyone for today. A Sudanese wedding welcomes the community to the happiest day in a man’s life outside of the birth of his daughter or son. Even curious neighbors would not have been turned away on the wedding day.

Fawzi and his bride sat on a king-sized mattress blanketed with a wickedly patterned red and gold crocheted cover, which Umma stitched. On top of the crocheting were pounds and pounds of rose petals. At the center of the tent they sat declaring their oaths to one another under the guide of their guardians and Imam. The word “
Qabul
” was spoken by Fawzi and his bride, then repeated by many in celebration, signaling the completion of the official aspect of the wedding.

Umma stood up front and off to the side watching everything with a critical eye. I thought it would be impossible for her to find one flaw. She had done a tremendous job of expressing a culture that she knew and lived so well. Wearing sky blue, she was behind both her
hijab
and
niqab
today, her identity shielded, just an incredible set of eyes, an artist, a supervisor, a worker, a woman who wanted to be left alone with her memories, feelings, and thoughts more than she wanted to be recognized and commended.

As the live band played, every comfort was made available to the huge crowd courtesy of Fawzi’s family finances and Umma Designs. There was an elaborate stretch of tables covered in fine cloths, which offered all Sudanese foods, catered by the North African Food Company. There was a spread of breads, cheeses and chutneys, sauces, soups, beans, lentils, olives, salads, vegetables, and stews. There were grilling stations offering chicken, beef, and lamb. There were dessert stations offering creams, custards, caramels, yogurts, finger cakes, and sorbets. There were fruit stations offering mangoes, guavas, dates, oranges, apples, hibiscus, and lemon. There were Sudanese drink stations offering Aradib, Maaza, Carcaday, Mirinda, and Stim. There was the tea lady and the coffee bean fryer. There were water and ice stations. People could become full on the aroma of this elaborate feast alone.

In business mode, I worked the crowd as the party jumped off. I introduced myself as part of the wedding planning team while handing out business cards to brothers, sons, uncles, cousins, and fathers. In some instances I collected their cards as well.

The bride performed an erotic celebration dance for her new husband, surrounded by a curtain of colorful cloths held up by her female friends, and I could hear their cheering.

As I continued my networking, I would whiz by people
speaking all kinds of different languages and dialects. Parts of conversations would capture my attention.

“Yes, he had the house built. It was one million dollars for the property and another million for the house.” “U.S. dollars?” They chuckled at the unimaginable sum for the average worker. Years ago, my father’s wealth was viewed with the same type of awe, when compared to the amounts earned by the average Sudanese family living in the Sudan.

“Back home, for that amount of money, he could have lived forever like a king, owning land stretching as far as he could see.”

“Look at the few acres such big numbers buys him here!”

“
Inshallah
he will survive this purchase. What he’ll pay each year in property taxes alone will be more than I pay to rent my entire apartment for the year.”

I was listening carefully. Now I realized that the house and the property could cost two separate large sums. Even after you officially buy and own the land, you still have to pay the U.S. government a large property tax. It didn’t sound fair, yet it sounded true.

“No worries. The bank gave him a huge loan. When he pays the mortgage, the price of the loan repayment, the interest on the loan, house insurance, and property tax costs are all included.”

“That’s not free money. You make it sound so easy.”

“Well, he’s got thirty years to pay it back.”

I felt myself sinking into the lawn under the weight of these words. I could feel that they were not exaggerated. They were the details that men discuss between themselves. These were the burdens that men must carry quietly.

“He’s a big man, son of a bigger man, from a good family! He will do fine,” one of the men speaking said, gesturing wildly like he was speaking to the deaf.

It was the eldest man of eighty years or more who made
the startling prediction, “When he adds up the price of a Sudanese bride, clothes, jewels, the honeymoon, and the six kids that will come out in the first six years or less, he’ll go crazy and die of an American heart attack at age thirty-four.”

“Allah forbid!” the others said all at once.

“He has a Ph.D. in Chemical Engineering. He will be more wealthy than he is right now in no time. America will pay him handsomely to make bombs for them to drop all over the world!”

“Even on the Sudan?!” the elder asked. Everyone grew quiet.

Sudana snuck up on me. “I saw you from across the room. You looked thirsty,” she said offering me a glass of guava juice.

“Thank you. You seem to always be seeing me.”

“Can I prepare a plate of food for you?” she asked.

“No, thank you,” I told her. She looked disappointed. She paused then regrouped. Standing beside me, but with her body turned away as though she and I were not actually conversing, she said, “She’s pretty and she’s probably smart too, must be. But, is she Sudanese?” she asked.

I smiled, knowing she was speaking about Akemi. I didn’t answer. I knew where she was heading with it. Every Sudanese will tell the other, “Marry Sudanese and no one else! Only a Sudanese woman will share your beliefs, language, traditions, and know what is expected of her. Only a Sudanese woman would know, most importantly, what not to do.”

“Is she even Muslim?” Sudana said softly.

“She doesn’t have to be. You know a Muslim man can marry a non-Muslim woman, because she will follow his lead. But you can never marry a non-Muslim man because he will surely mislead you,” I said, smiling.

“So clever,” she responded and walked away into the crowd.

Not as clever as you, I thought to myself. I wasn’t mad at Sudana. But I wouldn’t play with her either. Sudanese women receive our highest respect. She is also the daughter of the man with whom I was doing the biggest business our company has ever done. Why should I lie to her when my whole everything was caught up and locked into Akemi so tight?

Sudana couldn’t possibly know, I didn’t pick Akemi because she was not Muslim or not Sudanese. Akemi just happened to me like how a day radiant with sunshine converts into a downpour of rain in seconds. Now I was drenched and I liked it. Akemi felt good and true and right for me in every way.

As I walked, I spotted the imam head on. I also saw Sudana place herself right beside Akemi on the other side of the tent. They stood together like two gazelles.

“
A-Salaam Alaikum
, Imam Musa, I have a question please,” I asked respectfully.

“
Alaikum Salaam
, young brother.” He nodded me on.

“What age does a male have to be to marry?” I asked. He smiled.

“The wedding has inspired you?” he asked.

“I was inspired before the wedding. I heard your
khutba
last night. I want to do what is right, before I do what is wrong. Do you follow my words?” I asked him.

“Of course,” he said solemnly.

“Your Holy Quran does not give an age for marriage. It is only that you are required to be of the age of puberty,” he said, watching for my reaction.

“Then it is legal?” I asked. “Can a fourteen-year-old take a wife?” I asked again.

“There is a difference between Allah’s law and the law of this United States,” he said. “Allah requires that you marry a female before engaging in sexual intercourse. Sex with any woman who is not your wife is
harom
, forbidden.

“The United States does not require marriage for sexual intercourse. It simply requires that an adult not have sex with a child.

“In this State of New York, legally you may marry at age fifteen with your parents’ permission, and the permission of the parents of the bride if she is also young. At fourteen, however, you cannot marry legally in the State of New York.

“What is the rush?” he asked. I didn’t answer, just looked into his eyes solemnly. As a man, more than an imam, I was sure he knew what the rush was about.

“Self-restraint can be achieved through fasting,” he suggested. “If you fast, Allah will reduce your desires so that you might control yourself. In my view, the opportunity to have sexual intercourse freely should not be the only reason you take a wife.”

He waited for me to say something in response. But I was racing into my own thoughts. In July, on the twenty-seventh, I would turn fifteen years old. This was only three months away. Yet I didn’t know when Akemi’s birthdate was. And then of course the permission of both of our parents was the problem. I could barely get an audience with her uncles, and the fact that her father was overseas was a huge dilemma. How could I win his confidence that I am his daughter’s match?

“Take a look around, son. Fawzi’s father has been working, planning, and saving for this great occasion since his son’s birth, for more than two decades. Even the groom has done his part. He studied diligently and worked very hard. It takes patience and determination to attain certain things and levels in life,” the imam said.

“But a poor man may take a wife and marry and love her. If he is a good man, she will follow him even into a mud hut?” I asked, borrowing Fawzi’s lines.

“A good woman will marry a good man and follow him
wherever he may lead. This is true,” the imam offered. “Two male witnesses or one male and two female witnesses and to recite the
Nikah
and gift the
Mahr
is all that Allah requires.”

“And if a poor man who has reached puberty chooses a wife, he can still work hard and achieve wealth and the blessings of Allah, can’t he? Choosing a wife does not make him poor, right?”

“A good wife makes the poorest of men wealthy. You are right,” the imam agreed.

“
Shukran
, Imam Musa,” I said, thanking him. He gave me his card.

Saachi dashed by. Naja chased her. Some woman must have fallen in love with Saachi and draped a
hijab
over her head. Now Saachi’s hair was covered just as Naja’s was.

By the night’s end, the guests were filled to the brim. The children were exhausted from running, clapping, singing, playing jump rope, double dutch, and double orange. The males were checking their watches and easing their families away in preparation for Monday morning. The beautiful ribbon was cut, the bow busted open. Fawzi escorted his wife into their new house for her first time.

“In his new house, Fawzi will remove her shoes and wash her feet,” Umma said, standing beside me, seeming to reminisce.

Mr. Ghazzali appeared, resting his hand on my shoulder, smiling and sighing with great approval. “It is time to settle our accounts, young man. I have to travel back to the Bronx with my family. There is work and school tomorrow. For you too.” He checked his Timex. “It’s already the next day, really,” he said with a tired smile.

After I counted and recounted the final payment of five thousand dollars cash in his presence, I pulled out his receipt, which I had already written up. Our business card was stapled on top.

“Thank you for choosing Umma Designs,” I said. “We are forever grateful for your business. If you are satisfied with our work, please do not hesitate to recommend our services to a friend or coworker.” We shook hands.

“Your work will recommend itself. Everyone has personally witnessed what your company has done. You will have an abundance of business in the near future, I’m sure.”

He leaned in with a laugh and said, “Maybe I should fire my sons and hire you.”

“The cleaning company will arrive in the morning, and the canopy company, the commode company, and the North African Food Company representatives will come to collect their supplies. Would you like me to meet you here in the morning?” I asked.

“Wah! You have the money in your hands and you are still offering your services? Join me!” he said with a new burst of energy and a slap to my back.

“Thank you for the offer. But I’m good working for Umma. You know, family comes first,” I told him. We were both speaking in Arabic. He leaned in again as though he was about to share a big secret with me.

“The driver of the town car number nineteen, out front, will chauffeur you and your family back to The Palace Hotel, courtesy of Mr. Ghazzali. Get a good night’s rest. Check out at noon tomorrow. Your duties have been completed,
Allah Hafiz
, son,” he said, meaning may Allah keep you well.