Narrator’s Name: Jameel Shatima
XVIII. That Smile
Day: Twenty-three days after Umar’s return.
Umar texted me and Abubakar informing us that umma had come back with Saleem, Aisha and Hafsa. Abubakar picked me up at my apartment to go welcome those beautiful human beings. We stopped at a supermarket in Zango to buy some stuff Umma would like – a gift to a mother from her two kids. And one special gift for Hafsa.
“What do you think he wants with him? Why do you think he’s doing it?” Abubakar asked me as we drove to Umar’s. He stretched out his right hand and paused what had been playing on the car mp3 – it was a lecture by an American scholar known as Omar Suleiman. What Abubakar was asking me about is the things that have been happening to Umar; about the infamous R.
“Why, you ask? Answer: Passion,” I said, and I’m sure you’d agree with me on that. “R is a unique creature. R does what R wants because he can. Now that’s a man I can relate with.” I told my cousin as I’m telling you now. “And the only thing Umar can do about it is get angry.”
“Anything anger touches, it destroys it,” Abubakar said and I looked at him. It was then that I noticed how dazzling he looked in his brown thawb. As I told you, Abubakar has a thawb for each day and each occasion. That day he was wearing his favorite.
“Absolutely. It either destroys you or builds you,” I said with my two thumbs up – appraising his thawb.
Let me tell you a little more about me. I don’t get sad; I get angry. Getting sad is wasted emotion on wasted energy and time. Sadness means you can’t do something about it. Anger, however, is calibrated warmth that means you care. You care about you and certain definitions you believe must be preserved. And so you’re angry because those definitions are broken and something must be done about it. Getting angry gives you purpose; getting sad gets you nowhere.
So yes, I believed Umar needed to get angry. That is the best option he has.
***
Seeing umma made my day. A kind heart in this unkind world. She was happy about the gift we gave to her but was happier to see us.
Saleem was home and we chatted for a while. The last time I spoke with Saleem was when he sent me a text message in Dihaara telling Abubakar and me to get Umar out of the palace. No, I don’t think that counts as talking since we didn’t talk, we just texted. The last time we spoke was when he called and told me Umar was returning home after Umar’s ten months absence.
Saleem sat opposite me with a cup of tea in his hand. What a cliché right? – A writer drinking tea and in the afternoon for that matter. But then, I like clichés given that I’m somewhat one as well. In the end, all a man can do is be the human in him and human the being in him.
We talked for a while; all four of us in the living room. Umma, Saleem, Abubakar, and I. I hadn’t had an amazing conversation like the one I had that afternoon. Umma was the one with plenty stories to tell. And Saleem the writer kept getting hit (playfully, of course) by umma whenever he twisted umma's story suggesting he was also in it and that he played a heroic role in it. And my cousin was the one to hold you with his eyes when you speak as if to say ‘I have absolutely nothing else I’d like to be doing right now than to be here with you’; and he knew just what to say. I guess that is why I like being with him. But mostly, it is because he tolerates my shenanigans.
And I was the comedian; the kind who laughed at his own jokes while his audience laughed at the sound of his laughter. Somehow, both Abubakar and I had forgotten to ask about Umar. About an hour or so into the conversation, Aisha brought us lunch and we exchanged pleasantries.
“Where’s Hafsa?” Abubakar asked.
“She’s in her room with her Uncle Umar,” Aisha said.
Before we served ourselves, Abubakar and I excused ourselves to go see Hafsa in her room. Hafsa and Umar were seated on the floor playing with one of Hafsa’s toys – a doll. Umar was holding the doll while Hafsa braided the doll’s hair. They were immersed in their little world. When we entered, Hafsa ran to Abubakar and hugged him, and then she hugged me. No, I wasn’t jealous she hugged me last and Abubakar first. Okay, maybe a little bit. But I let it slide. See? I can behave.
“Uncle Abubakar, Uncle Jameel where have you been?” there was no mistake she looked a lot like her late mother, Safiyya. Hafsa held our hands and she pulled us up with all her strength and we allowed her to think her effort measured up in successfully pulling us up. She wanted us to seat close to her Uncle Umar. And that was when the best conversation I had, in a long time, had a sequel; with words building castles, with time eased in tomorrows, with laughter poking the dimension of the present, and with Hafsa, we had the best of times.
We gave her the gift we brought her and she thanked us and showed it to Umar. The gift is a Digital Quran. Umar held us with a thankful gaze and a brilliant smile. His eyes were filled with tears of joy. Umma entered the room with the food that was served to us earlier.
“I know my little darling won’t let you come back to the living room anytime soon, so I thought I should bring your food here. Is that not right, Hafsa?” umma said.
“Umma, Uncle Abubakar said the name of his newborn is the same as mom’s... I think I’ll just call her mom, right?” Hafsa said with her sweet little voice. “And – and he said I can follow him home to go and be with them for a while – maybe I can spend like a week or more. Umma, can I follow him? Please – please?”
“Sure you can, sweetheart.”
We had lunch. This, to me, was a luxury: Eating together in a group as a family. I rarely had that. At Alhaji’s house, I ate alone. Sometimes, when Inna was done with the house chores we ate together. At my apartment, I ate alone. So yes, this was like Eid celebration to me. Being ordinary and doing ordinary things like this is just extraordinary.
After we were done eating, Umar asked his niece whether he could excuse himself for a while and she agreed. “I’ll be right back, guys. Take care of my precious one for me.”
Later when I left Hafsa’s room to take the dirty plates to the kitchen I saw umma and Umar talking in the kitchen so I took a few steps back and listened to their conversation without being noticed.
A mother’s conversation with her son: if you asked me I’d tell you that’s one of the most beautiful things in the world. It is a great thing that I have two mothers; because I get to enjoy it in two folds.
“So guess what?” Umma said closing the fridge and facing Umar. “I finally persuaded your brother to move back here. He agreed. Isn’t that wonderful? Having all of you here. Zaria will be a great environment for Hafsa.”
“Of course, umma. I get to see her smile and hear her laughter every day. Honestly, if her smile was a drink, I'll take it with every breathe I take. I'll take it eternally and after.”
“She’s just fantastic, you know. Safiyya, may Allah have mercy on her soul, would have loved to see how her little girl has grown up.”
“She would have loved that,” and the place was quiet. It was as if they both spaced out at the same time, thinking of Safiyya. It made me uncomfortable where I stood. I couldn’t help but think of Safiyya too. Safiyya was an amazing person. She had a kindness that was always overflowing in her. She was a great counselor to me. She touched people’s hearts in an inexplicable way. When she died, her best friend, Sarah, who is Abubakar’s elder sister, couldn’t bear it. Sarah left Nigeria for Saudi and since then hasn’t returned. I don’t think she’d ever return.
“I wish Abba was here,” Umar said.
“Me too,” umma said.
“So tell me about my daughter-in-law to be,” umma said changing the subject.
Umar was always free with umma. He told her about Maryam. I knew he was in love with Maryam but I never knew he loved her to a great degree until I heard what he said about her to Umma.
“Umma, she’s smart. And I’ve never seen a person who joins being bold and being shy the way she does. She’s always in hijab, she’s always covered up, and umma you know what? There’s nothing as beautiful and as intoxicating as her laugh. It’s not for this world. This world is yet to learn to pull the signs and sighs of a language that surrounds it. Therefore it’s no closer to being graced by a beautiful creation that is her laughter. Notwithstanding, this beautiful creation should be mine, umma. I have no justification. Because here I am a new believer in all that’s beautiful. A defender of dues for all that is due. I have taken a drink of it –just one – but I’m ever-thirsty-ever-contented.”
See this kid talking about love! The kid is all grown up. I was happy for him though. I listened to what umma had to say. She complimented Maryam. Umma prayed for Maryam and for them both. Apparently, Umar had brought Maryam earlier that day. The last time I saw Maryam was when I escorted Umar to Prof. Siraj’s house and this happened:
“I have one quick question. Are doctors ever sick?” I told Maryam when she came to meet us in their living room.
“Jameel, please,” Umar said, implying I should leave.
“No, I’m serious. I mean just think about it. Have you ever seen a doctor or a nurse get sick?”
“Jameel!” Umar said.
“Okay. Okay, you want me out? I’m out.” I left but hid behind a wall to eavesdrop on their conversation. I know what you thinking; let’s just say I love eavesdropping. I love intruding.
“So?” Umar said in form of a question. I could barely hear his voice from where I hid.
“Yes?” Maryam said, “don’t tell me you have the same thoughts as well?”
“Come on, you have to admit one has to be a little bit curious. Do doctors fall sick?”
“Well…” Maryam said, hesitant to complete her sentence. “We are going to spend the rest of our lives together. You’ll get to find out eventually, won’t you?”
“Hmm! What a nice thought! What a nice proposal!”
That was about two days ago. Eavesdropping on mother and son was two days later. It was now.
“Khalifa,” umma called out to her son. “When will you tell me what happened to your face. It’s as if someone hit you on your face,” when she said that I took two steps backward then I turned with the dirty plates still on my hands and left. I was sure Umar wasn’t going to tell her an intruder broke into the house and hit him hard on his face with a gun. I was sure he was going to lie to her. Lying is kind of my thing, and trust me, I enjoy it but I didn’t want to watch Umar lie to his mother. Not to umma. But that’s exactly what I’d do.