Orphan of Islam. Alexander Khan
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for the women to leave. With final hugs and kisses, plus pats on the head for us, the aunties went home and another chapter in the life of the Muslim community of Hawesmill was closed. Everything would return to normal once Dad had made his final journey to Pakistan. If only that could be true for me …
A worn-out looking Abida began to wash up all the cups and plates, assisted by Rabida. When the last cup was dried, she turned to us, her eyes puffy and cheeks blotched from crying. ‘Go to bed now,’ she said. ‘Today is a very sad day, but tomorrow will be better. Go on – upstairs.’
She kissed us all one by one and ushered us out of the kitchen. The younger ones clung to her, but she firmly but kindly brushed them off and sent them on their way. She probably wanted time alone to reflect. At 10, I had no concept of that and just wanted someone to hold.
‘I don’t want to go to bed,’ I said. ‘I’m frightened. Can I stay down for a bit?’
‘No, Moham,’ she said, ‘not now. It’s getting late. Tomorrow we will talk if you want.’
‘But Ami, I’m scared. Please.’
‘No!’ Rafiq glared at me. ‘Upstairs – now!’
I stood for a second or two, not knowing whether to stay or go. I could feel him staring at me, waiting for me to make a move. When I did turn towards the stairs it was with deliberately slow movements. I didn’t want to disobey him, but neither did I want him to tell me what to do.
I crawled into bed and pulled the covers over my face. Outside, people were still knocking on the door to offer their condolences. Rafiq’s deep voice boomed through the thin walls as he thanked people for their thoughts and advised them to come back tomorrow. I thought about the aunty and her ‘orphan’ reference. Dad wouldn’t want me to cry, but I couldn’t stop the tears from coming. To know that I wouldn’t see his face again was hard enough, but at least he hadn’t made the choice to leave us, it had just happened. What about Mum? Had she had a choice? And if she had, why hadn’t she chosen to keep us? The same questions went round and round until my mind was playing games with itself and my eyes began to droop …
I woke, or at least I thought I did. Dad was in a corner of the room, looking at me. He seemed to be smiling, reaching out his hand. I stared, blinked … Then he was gone.
I screamed, jumped out of bed and ran downstairs.
‘Dad’s in my room! Ami, Daddy’s in my room!’
Abida was sitting in the kitchen, nursing a cup of tea and talking to Rafiq.
‘Ami, please!’ I pulled at her sleeve, wanting her to come upstairs and take away the nightmare I’d just had.
Rafiq was having none of it. He grabbed me by the neck before Abida could stop him and hauled me up the purple-carpeted stairs.
‘I’ve told you once,’ he hissed, ‘and I won’t tell you again. Into bed, go to sleep – or else …’
He pushed me into the bedroom and slammed the door.
I really didn’t want to be back in there and immediately turned the light on. The others began to wake up, their tangled little heads rising up sleepily from warm pillows.
Rafiq flung open the door and pushed me hard up against the wall. ‘Get to sleep, you bastarrd,’ he snarled at me, the ‘r’ of the last word rolling off his tongue.
‘No way!’ I screamed. ‘I want to come downstairs. I’m scared. I want Abida. I want my dad and my mum. I want them!’
Rafiq let me drop to the floor, walked across the room and turned off the light. Then he came back towards me.
‘I warned you, you little bastarrrd,’ he said.
He pulled me up again and slapped me as hard as he could across my cheek. The blow knocked the breath right out of me and I slumped against my bed. Then he left the room.
His violence had worked – I was no longer screaming and crying. I was too shocked to react and I sat against my bed for what felt like hours as the force of the blow seeped into my whole body, filling me with fear, shame, embarrassment and anger. I couldn’t understand why he’d lashed out like that, but from that moment onwards I knew that nothing in my life would ever be the same again.
I slept under the bed that night, terrified that I might see Dad again and scream, making Rafiq come tearing up the stairs again.
Early in the morning I sneaked downstairs and into the kitchen for a glass of water, hoping not to wake anyone.
‘Hey, you … bastarrd,’ a deep, guttural voice called from the front room as I passed.
Rafiq had obviously slept on the settee. I said a quick prayer to God that I’d not woken him up.
‘In here,’ he said, beckoning me to the side of the settee with his index finger.
Terrified, I obeyed him.
‘What was all that howling for last night?’ he said. ‘You better start growing up, boy, and fast. Because I’m in charge now.’
I asked him what he meant.
He laughed. ‘Wait and see, boy,’ he said, ‘wait and see.’
I backed away from him, a nauseous feeling crawling through my stomach. He watched me like a snake watches a mouse. Then he pointed at me.
‘Be very careful, bastarrd,’ he said. ‘I’m waiting for you.’
By 9 a.m. everyone was up, but still dazed from the terrible events of the previous day. Far from being the centre of attention, Jasmine and I were now left to our own devices as more aunties came round to help and the men went to the mosque at the top of Hawesmill to wash Dad’s body, which had just been delivered there by the undertaker. This is an important ritual in Islam. The body must be purified before burial and the male relatives of the deceased will wash it before wrapping it in a shroud. I was told I wasn’t allowed to go with them, because I was too young. I wasn’t sorry; I imagined the men lifting Dad up to wash him at a sink, his head flopping forward and his legs buckling under him as they applied a flannel to his face. The thought horrified me.
Abida spent most of the day in the kitchen, attended by female visitors, while Fatima bustled about, cooking samosas and making tea. Like many Muslim families, we didn’t have an electric kettle. The preferred method was to set a large pan of water to boil on the stove, into which were placed tea bags, plenty of sugar and milk. Once this was ready, it would be transferred to a teapot.
We were sent out to play in the alley behind the house. Jasmine was very subdued and kept going back inside to hang around with the women. I stayed outside, kicking a saggy football against a nearby back gate until the owner of the house came out and gave me a bollocking. When he realized who I was, he stopped shouting and blessed me instead. Then he told me to bugger off.
For hours I wandered around the dusty pothole-riddled backstreets around Hamilton Terrace, trying to picture all the people who’d lived around here before me. We’d done a bit about it in school. Our teacher had showed us old photos of white kids without shoes, their faces all dirty. The men and the women all looked the same: same clothes, same flat caps, same headscarves. They looked tired and fed up. They looked like the people living around Hawesmill now, except a different colour. Nothing nice ever seemed to happen around here. No parties, games, music, fun, laughter. The evening shadows were lengthening across the slated roofs. I couldn’t put off the dreaded moment any longer and lifted the rusty latch that led into the backyard of number 44.
Through the kitchen window I could see Abida and Fatima. The door was slightly open and as I walked up I could hear them talking.
‘Oh, Fatima,’ Abida wailed, ‘what’s to be done? Ahmed had no money, nothing put by for a rainy day. And all these children around. What will I feed them with? I don’t know where to begin, I really don’t.’
I moved closer to the door and saw Fatima touch Abida’s arm.
‘Then