She Wore Red Trainers (11 page)

‘OK, darling, I'll see you then.'

20

I couldn't stop fidgeting after I saw the police car pull up outside Ali's house. My mind was buzzing with questions: why were the police there? What had Ali's brother done?

I didn't have to wait for long to find out. Zayd went over there and found out that the middle boy, Umar, had been in a fight with some boys from the estate nearby.

‘He really doesn't know who he's messing with,' was Zayd's comment. ‘The boys round here don't like strangers. If you come on to their turf, they can get really crazy.'

‘Doesn't he
know
that he needs to watch his back around here?' I couldn't believe it. The boy looked about 14, too old to be that naive.

‘Well, they're not from the city, innit. Things are different out in the countryside. He's going to have to adjust fast…'

I shuddered to think of the police turning up at our doorstep but then again, it was hardly likely, was it? Zayd had been on the straight and narrow for as long as I could remember. He had never been one of those boys out on the road, even while all his friends were getting into trouble for postcode-related beef and petty crime. They were mosque boys, too, brought up coming to
jum'ah
in
thobes
and
kufis
, hanging with the brothers from age seven. But that hadn't
been enough to keep them out of trouble, not with the mean streets of South London all around them. So, one by one, they fell away, coming to the
masjid
less and less. They started changing: their dress, the way they spoke, what they spoke about. I know it hurt Zayd to see his childhood friends turn gangster on him. He had never been into all that.

‘Keep your head down and stick to your
deen
,' Uncle Faisal, Abdullah's dad, had told him. And Zayd had listened. He had done well at school and set his sights on uni. When the offer to study in Saudi Arabia came up, he was ready.

I was proud of him. He was one of the few good examples for the younger boys coming up in the community. Aside from the fact that he was a bit over-the-top when it came to certain things, I knew that I wouldn't exchange him for any of the other boys his age. My Haram Police Officer was here to stay.

By now, Taymeeyah, Abdullah and Malik were clamouring to be taken to the park.

‘Come on, sis,' Zayd said, pulling at my arm. ‘Let's take them to the park, just like old times.'

How could I say no?

***

What a blessing to have a gorgeous park literally minutes from your door! As I watched the rugrats take over the pavement with their bikes and scooters, I smiled and took a deep breath.

I watched Zayd as he ran ahead to help Malik get his scooter straightened up. Poor kid was always getting it twisted up and ending up hanging off the kerb. Zayd waited for me to catch up with him.

I grabbed his arm and squeezed it. He laughed, clearly a little embarrassed at my public display of affection.

‘Hey, what's up, Ams?' he chuckled, trying to untangle himself.

‘Nothing,' I smiled up at him. ‘I'm just really proud of you, that's all.'

‘Aww, sis, what's this all about? You going soft on me or what?' He punched me lightly on my shoulder and I returned the favour.

‘Nah, not soft. I'm just glad that you're my brother, that's all. I'm glad that Abdullah and Malik have you as a role model…'

If I didn't know better, I would have said that Zayd was blushing. But, of course, he got all serious on me and said, ‘Mum and the kids need me to be strong for them. Even you do. I know Allah will question me about you guys so I have to up my game, you know that.'

‘Yeah, I know…'

‘That reminds me – I wanted to chat to you about something.'

‘Yeah? What's that?'

He coughed then and looked ahead of us, to where the kids were turning into the small iron gateway of the park. ‘Well, you know my friend from Saudi, Hassan? The one I studied with?'

‘Umm, yeah, I think so…' Zayd had actually mentioned him a lot while he was in Saudi. He had spent some time in the UK, but his family were in Madinah. Apparently, they had become really close and Zayd had been accepted by Hassan's father as part of the family, staying over at weekends and having barbeques with them in the desert. ‘What about him?'

‘Well, I spoke to him the other day on Skype; he graduated, mashallah.'

I felt a twinge of guilt when Zayd said that. I was the reason he had had to abandon his studies. I always wondered whether he resented me for that, whether he held it against me. Of course, he put it down to destiny and never mentioned his feelings about his studies to me. But now that his best friend had graduated he
had
to have been feeling
something
.

‘Mashallah,' I said, my voice small. ‘Good for him.'

‘Well, he actually got in touch to tell me that he's looking to get married…'

‘And?'

He stopped walking then and turned to face me. ‘I suggested you, Amirah.'

I will never forget his face when he said that: vulnerable, full of hope. If I had been able to pull myself together, I would have. Unfortunately, Zayd had just said the wrong thing to the wrong girl.

‘You did
what
?' I couldn't help the look of horror on my face. ‘What on earth did you go and do a thing like that for?'

‘Because I know he will make a really good husband, he's got knowledge, he's solid, hard-working…'

‘Whoa, hold up. Wait just one minute. What makes you think I'm interested in marriage at all?' I shuddered. Not interested was an understatement. Allergic would have been a better word.

Zayd shot me a look. ‘Well, you're not a kid any more, Amirah.' He had called me Amirah instead of Ams. He was definitely serious then. ‘You know as well as I do that, as a Muslim, it's better and safer to marry while you're still young…'

I started laughing then because I knew that if I didn't, I would end up crying. He wasn't going to do that religious blackmail stuff on me, not now. ‘Oh no, you don't, Zayd,' I said, holding up my hand. ‘Don't go quoting Qur'an and
Sunnah
to me on this. I've read the books, I know my rights. I'm not interested, not interested
at all
. I'm sure your friend is great and everything but marriage isn't part of my plans, certainly not now. I'm going to university, inshallah, then I'm up out of here. I don't want to marry your friend from Madinah. I don't want to marry anyone. And if you can't understand why I feel that way, you don't know the first thing about me!' I turned away from his shocked expression, his gentle words that were meant to soften me up, his reminders that were meant to bring me back into line.

Not this time, bro, not ever.

21

I didn't see Amirah again for what felt like forever. Her brother, Zayd, started bringing the kids to the Islamic Centre for summer school in the mornings, taking them home again afterwards. Usamah had recruited him, too, and so, three afternoons a week, he was volunteering to coach the boys and get them ready for a football festival at the end of the month.

***

One day, Amirah's brothers and sister were dropped off at the summer school by someone I hadn't seen before. They were with another brother, Abu Hassan, someone we had seen at the school a few times, dropping his kids off, picking them up.

I couldn't put my finger on it, but something about the man with Amirah's brothers and sister felt off. The rough way he spoke to the kids, the way he didn't make eye contact as he gave
salam
, the way he ignored Abdullah when speaking, all of it gave me a bad feeling.

Abu Hassan smiled as he shook my hand. ‘Mashallah, bro,' he said in his soft voice. ‘May Allah bless you guys for what you're doing for these boys. They really need it, y'know.
There's just too much madness out there…'

The other brother stepped forward, a look of concern on his face. ‘But akhi, I have to tell you, your
deen
programme is weak.'

I was taken aback. ‘What do you mean, brother?'

‘I mean all this stuff – sports and that – is great, but you need more
deen
in there. Why don't you have any classes for the boys, something that will really benefit them?

‘These kids are too
jahil
, man, too ignorant. If you see how they behave when they come in the
masjid
– no
adab
at all. The other day, I had to cuss two of them who were going on – I told them sit down and read some Qur'an or get out!'

I glanced at Usamah and I could see that he was feeling the same way I did about the brother. But he didn't say anything.

‘Yeah, akh, you're probably right,' Usamah said at last. ‘We're trying, y'know. That's all we can do.' Then his face lit up. ‘Hey, how about you come in and give classes to the boys. We sure could use some older brothers on board.'

The brother smiled and rubbed his beard again. ‘Yeah, well, I would, y'know, it's just that I've got a lot on, with family and that. But I'll see what I can do, yeah?' And he gave
salam
and left.

As they walked away, Usamah kissed his teeth. ‘I can't stand brothers like that, man. All talk, no action. All they want to do is criticise but the minute you ask them to help out, they've got so many other things to do. Man, that makes me mad!' He was getting angrier now, I could see it. He turned to face me. ‘Man, that makes me
mad
! These kids don't need lectures! They don't need some brother getting up in their face! They need role models, people who care about them. People who'll give them
salam
, give them some time, even
when they're not doing what they should, even when they're slacking.
Especially
when they're slacking.'

He started to walk back inside, shaking his head. ‘All brothers like that do is chase people away from the religion, I swear. Don't let that brother near me again, OK? Coz I don't think I'll be able to hold back.'

Just then, Zayd appeared, carrying some shopping bags. The boys were going to be making lunch that day. ‘What's up, Usamah?' he asked.

‘It's that brother,' Usamah said and pointed at the man walking away. ‘He was just here, telling us how our programme is too weak, that there ain't enough
deen
. Then I ask him if he'll help out and he comes up with some tired line about having too much on with work and all that. That's just some weak rap, man.'

Zayd tried to diffuse the situation. ‘Maybe he does have a lot on his plate, bro. We've got to make excuses for each other, y'know…'

‘Excuses!' Usamah exploded. ‘How am I supposed to make excuses for a brother who won't help out but wants to lecture us about not having enough
deen
? I mean, what is that?'

Zayd backed up then, shocked by Usamah's outburst. I could see his jaw clench. ‘That's my mum's husband,' he said shortly. ‘And Malik's dad. At least he is dropping them off here.'

Then it was Usamah's turn to back up. He wiped his hand over his mouth and looked crushed. ‘Yo, I'm sorry, man,' he said in a low voice. ‘I didn't mean to disrespect your family. It's just that…'

Zayd held up his hand. ‘No need, bro. It is what it is.' He
clearly didn't want to go into any more detail.

***

Later on, after the
salah
, while everyone was eating their lunch, I asked Zayd about the summer scheme. It was being run by a bunch of brothers that were way too young to have kids of their own.

‘It just doesn't make sense to me,' I said, looking out over the field where the boys were spread out in clusters. ‘It doesn't make sense to me that their parents aren't more involved. These are their kids. Don't they feel a sense of responsibility towards them?'

Zayd looked out over the football field and sighed. ‘I don't know, bro. I really don't. It's been like this ever since we were kids. I've thought about it a lot over the years – maybe it's because of the way they grew up, maybe it's because they didn't have any good examples… But you know, after a while, you get tired of trying to understand it. It is what it is. I can't defend it; I've just got to do what I can to help my community, with or without their help.'

I looked at him with new respect. And I realised then that I barely knew anything about him, that he was still a mystery to me, in spite of everything.

‘Was your dad… ?'

He cut me straight away. ‘My dad wasn't Muslim. And he didn't stick around, anyway. In a way, I'm glad he didn't interfere. My mum raised us as Muslims, mashallah. If he'd wanted to be involved, it might have made things difficult…' He looked away and it was clear from his body language that he didn't want to say more on the subject.

I tried another tack. ‘I heard you studied Islam at university in Saudi, bro. What was that like?'

He took a deep breath and shook his head. Smiling, he turned to me and said, ‘Those were the best years of my life, bro, I'm not going to lie to you. Of course, I was raised a Muslim, y'know, and I knew things in theory: Qur'an,
Sunnah
, halal, haram. But studying it properly, studying it with the scholars, made me see it in a different light. We're blessed, bro, we are blessed with a beautiful
deen
, an amazing legacy.' Then his voice changed and he looked out at the boys again. ‘We just don't appreciate it.'

The sincerity in his voice touched me. I knew exactly what he was talking about. Hadn't I been one of those careless Muslims for a large part of my life? ‘You're right, bro. It's just so easy to take the blessing of
iman
for granted, especially when you didn't choose it; your parents did.'

‘That's what I'm saying, bro,' he answered. ‘That's why it's so important for us to connect with the
deen
for ourselves. We all just need to return to what really matters, innit?'