Narrator’s Name: Jameel Shatima
XIV. How They Met.
Day: Sixteen days after Umar’s return.
I had one long drag of cigarette then threw the cigarette butt. I left the rooftop and made my way back into the library. On the second floor, I saw Umar going through a book or two. He must have been searching for “her words”. I thought about approaching him but decided against it. I know you also think I had something to do with what happened to him.
Maybe – what are friends if they don’t try to kill you every once in a while; or maybe not. It doesn’t matter.
I left the library and walked to a garden in the Faculty of Pharmacy and sat down. Abubakar was to meet me in an hour or less. That meant I had an hour or less to prove to a fella who sat opposite me just how good I am in the game of chess.
“So where are you from?” I asked him as I advanced my knight to get his king.
“I’m not from around here,” he said in response. About twenty minutes ago, I met him sitting in one of the resting areas on the campus known as PANS Garden. His backpack was between his legs and a chessboard was on his lap so I asked him if he plays. He smiled and gestured at me to sit opposite him. “Actually this is my first time in Zaria. I have a sister who studies pharmacy here in ABU Zaria. I was hoping to meet her but it seems I won’t be able to until after magrib prayer. They are having a test or something.”
“A traveller with a sister,” I said. I wanted to ask him what his sister’s name is but that would be going too far even for a player like me. A repented player, if I may add. “I have to apologize that your first afternoon in Zaria would forever be remembered like this: getting a beating in the game of chess by a dweller of Zaria,” I said as I checkmated him.
He looked me in the eye intently, smiled, and said. “I don’t mind. It’s actually a pleasure. I’d argue that I’m not that good in the game and the chessboard is actually not mine but my sister’s. However, that won’t change the fact that you beat me fair and square. At least give me your name so that I can tell this shameful tale to my people at home.”
“Jameel Shatima. You?”
“Would you look at that?” He said astonished as he proffered his firm hand to me. “We kind of have the same name. My name is Jamaal. Jamaal Muhammad.”
For the rest of the time, we kept on discovering things we had in common. His father died not long ago and I saw that he could veil his sadness far better than I can. Seriously, I used to think nobody can do that better than me until I met Jamaal. He could veil it so well and yet he chose not to. He told me the pain. Not in a sympathetic way, but in a way that seemed he was in a safe space and it wouldn’t have mattered anyway if the space wasn’t safe.
“One moment my father was full of life and the next…” Jamaal said. “He said he would see me later and when later came I met a broken promise… and now all I have is my sister and my mother.”
“I understand,” I said but I didn’t tell him how deeply I understood it. We both lost someone we love. Loved. “Hey, my cousin is here. Why don’t you come with me and let me show you around? What do you say? It’s better than just sitting here since I know it’d take a few hours before your sister is finished with whatever it is you said she’s wrapped up in.”
“That’s a nice offer. You sure I’m not intruding?”
“My friend, that’s all what I do with my time: Intrude. I’d like it if you join me.”
He kindly declined but gave me his number instead. I saved it and he said, “So you intrude on your free time?”
“Oh yeah, a lot. You’ll see.”
“I’ll see?”
“Maybe. Maybe not. It’s up to you, Jamaal… Muhammad,” then I turned and left him there. As I walked to Abubakar’s car, I could see him seated, his eyes fixed to his phone, smiling at it while listening to and following Khalil Al-Husary’s recitation of the Quran. He must be chatting with Yusra, I bet that is why he’s smiling, I thought. Their love was infinitely young. I craned my neck and peeped at his phone without being noticed. He had just sent her a Whatsapp message:
So guess what? I checked the transcript of our story: ‘I love you’ wasn't in one take. It wasn't in two. It was reserved for the whole story. You and me. Me and you. With eternal love tucked between us. Don't you see?
Close your eyes, open your heart, and read the transcript, Yaa Habibtii.
“Is that so?” I said laughing. “And isn’t it ‘you and I’ instead of ‘you and me’?”
“Hey, that’s rude. That’s very rude. How can you just look at people’s private messages with their wives?”
“Cozz, you’re not ‘people’. So how’s Noor and Ummu Noor (Noor’s mother),” I said as I sat in the front seat.
“She’s great.”
“And how are your students,” I said. Abubakar had a couple of students he was teaching some books such as Watheeqatul Ikhwan by Usman Fodi and Qaulul Mufeed by Ibn Uthaymeen on the weekends.
“Did you mend things with Umar?” Abubakar said ignoring my question.
“I haven’t. I’m letting him cool off first.”
“We are going to the library. You are mending things with him.”
I told him I wasn’t going. I didn’t want to go. Abubakar insisted. He even took me back to the library but I refused to leave the car. I refused to meet Umar. I love this part of Umar and, if ever this tension between us is ever going to end, I don’t want it to end too soon. Where was the fun in that?
I told Abubakar not to worry I had something prepared (that was a lie, obviously) and we drove off.
We were headed home when Jamaal Muhammad texted to inform me that he had met his sister, and was about to leave the city. Jamaal’s message made me remember how I first met Adam. Telling you about my first meeting with Adam would require me to tell you about Abubakar’s first meeting with Adam.
It was about seven years ago. Like his father, Abubakar was admitted to the Islamic University of Madina at an early age. It is one of those things with people, where sons want to resemble their fathers. It is lovely but in my case, I don’t subscribe to it for obvious reasons.
Abubakar’s parents and siblings were already in Madina waiting for him. He took his car and on the way to the airport, he had a flat tyre and didn’t have a spare. And Abubakar was already incredibly late for his flight. Don’t get the wrong idea about my cousin; he is a very punctual person. I made him late: I got into a fight with an idiot and was thrown in jail. When I was younger, I caused a lot of trouble. I still do but not as much as I used to.
So as I was saying, Abubakar was late because he was bailing me out. I remember he wore a white thawb that day. But then Abubakar always wears a thawb like an Arab. Sometimes I forget that he is an Arab. Half Arab.
So he bailed me out and as soon as he did, Alhaji Shatima appeared and made sure I was thrown back in jail. Alhaji couldn’t have that. I didn’t blame him; that was the third time I had caused trouble in just a month. To be more specific, that was the third time I had been in a fight with the same idiot.
Abubakar had to leave so that he won’t miss the last flight and on his way to the airport he had a flat tyre. So he parked the car at the side of the road. He couldn’t call me since I was still in jail so he called Alhaji Shatima to tell him where he was leaving the car and that he’d get a taxi that’ll take him to the airport. But he couldn’t get Alhaji on the phone either. He decided to call me anyway, but as he had guessed, I was nowhere close to my phone for I was in jail.
Do you know what he did next?
He texted me the location he was going to leave the car with the hope that I’d get the message when I got out of jail. After sending the text message, he got his luggage out of the boot and left his car key in the ignition then left. Can you believe that? – leaving the car key in the ignition. Dumb right?
Here’s the thing about Abubakar. I’ve never met a person that puts his trust in Allah the way Abubakar does. It almost always seemed foolish. But he’d say, “there’s nothing as difficult and useless as worrying. Why worry when you can trust your Maker? Just hold on to the right means and trust Him.”
So that day Abubakar stopped a taxi and after an hour's drive, the taxi driver got him to the airport. Abubakar paid the taxi driver. He was about to leave when he turned back and told the taxi driver, “Do you remember the place you picked me up?” – The taxi driver nodded. “Can you get my car home for me?” – the driver paused for a while then nodded. Abubakar gave him my address and told him this, “The key’s in the ignition.”
Do you see what I’m telling you? Stupid! Dumb! Foolish! He was telling a stranger he just met to take his car home for him. The stranger could quite easily steal the car and be gone with the wind. I could never understand why he was like that. I could never afford the luxury of that level of complacency – or any level of complacency. And that is what makes Abubakar different from me. But that was one of the main reasons I love him.
The following day the improbable happened: the driver brought Abubakar’s car home. Alhaji had bailed me out that morning and brought me home. I was taking a nap when I was awakened by the honk of the car. When I opened my window I saw Abubakar’s car with a stranger in it –the taxi driver. That taxi driver was Adam. Adam Talha – one of my best friends. And that was how I met Adam. Amazing, right? And ever since that year all four of us – Abubakar, Umar, Adam, and I – have been friends.
About seven years ago, a week after I met Adam, I became friends with a couple more people. Among them is Umar. Here’s how: I met Umar in the restaurant that iss below the apartment where I now live. He was the idiot I fought when I was thrown in jail. He was the idiot I fought three times in a month. I never expected it but he proffered his hand and asked if we could become friends. I was surprised but I remember acknowledging his boldness and confidence.
That was the Umar I saw earlier today, keen on finding Safiyya’s word in the library. That was the Umar who threw punches at me the other day and accused me of trying to kill him. And I like that Umar way better than the coward who ran away for ten months to only-Allah-knows-where after his sister died. I loved him more than the version of him that ran away from the potential responsibility of being king.
That is why I am not mending things with him… yet.
So I texted Jamaal Muhammad back wishing him a safe journey home. He could as well become my best friend.
Abubakar had been driving for quite a while now. It was Friday and we had left the library. Abubakar would drop me at Alhaji Shatima’s house after we stop at theirs to spend the evening. On our way there, I told Abubakar I needed to take Adam’s manuscript in my apartment before we go home. To get to my apartment I had to use the stairs from the restaurant downstairs.
When I entered, the restaurant wanted my help and I told them I couldn’t. The restaurant usually asked for my help when they needed more hands on deck. As you already know I am an excellent cook. So I walked upstairs to my apartment and got Adam’s manuscript.
When I arrived at Alhaji Shatima’s house, he wasn’t home – Alhamdulillah! Inna was home and we talked for a while. She was quite delighted to see me. We made spaghetti together, I ate, told her goodnight, and headed to my room.
I sat on my chair and stared at my computer. Before I got on my computer, I opened Adam’s manuscript, Anecdotes of Zaria. As I read, I remembered how he started this. I remember him saying a day with him is a day spent on transit as they picked up people and stories. I envied him for that – for having a father who was there for him. I envy and I love him for that. I love him for being an excellent writer.
It’s funny how his mind weaves ideas, painting the world with the little he possessed.
Adam came from a poor family from Katsina State and his father was a taxi driver. Sometimes he took the taxi while his father rested. That was how he managed to complete his tertiary education studying mass communication. One of the things that fascinated Adam Talha was Human-interest story. He wanted people to see the world from different angles and with different pairs of eyes. So whenever he drove, he listened to different stories from the people he picked up. He wanted the world to see the kind of world he grew up in. And his scope was Zaria – a city he loved with all his heart.
The manuscript was between my hands as I read. So I moved my keyboard away and placed the Anecdotes of Zaria. I opened the next entry and continued reading.
Entry: 216
Name: Anonymous
Location: A stone unturned in the city of Zaria.
“I could tell you that it’s easy but it isn’t. When I told them what I had done, that was the day time stopped. And probably being a woman with a one-year-old girl made it all the more difficult. The news I broke to them, that almost broke me, was that I had become a Muslim. They couldn’t accept that. My husband and I had long been talking about that. Then he died before we became Muslims. And so I had to live with my relations in our family house.
When I told them what I did, they told me they couldn’t have that. It is seven a.m. in the morning and the sky is bright. Or at least it should be but it isn’t because my relations have sent me out of the house and stripped me of all I have. All that’s left of what I have now is my faith and my little daughter in this big bright world. Sometimes, I wished my parent were alive. But I’m not so sure it would have been any different. I have no friends in this city, no work that can pay and distract me, and no aid has come. In a few minutes, after I have finished adding these words to the things I’m leaving behind; I’d get on a bus and befriend the endless road. But I have no worries for I have my little daughter’s hand in mine and my lord in my heart. I have no worries though because no soul is burdened with more than it can take. With Fatima’s hand in mine and mentions of my lord on my lips, I can take on the world, don’t you think?”