Umar became more like his late sister, maybe even better. He became the final message of his brother and even more. Carrying out the first part of his last message became as easy as breathing.
He helped Adam settle in Zaria for good. Adam, on multiple occasions, had told his three friends that he wanted to get his parents out of the village and bring them to Zaria. So Umar got umma to design the building Adam’s parents were going to live in and Umar helped him build it. Umar also helped Adam to publish his book, Anecdotes of Zaria, using his late brother, Saleem’s connections. He helped him have all two-thousand-and-eighteen anecdotes of Zaria see the light of day.
“Add one more story, Adam. Add one more before we publish it,” Umar told Adam. “But this time, let it be your story and not someone else’s. After all, you are indeed a man of many homes. And Zaria is one of them.”
“You’re right. Which anecdote should I tell the world?” Adam said.
“Tell them about where you came from. Tell them about us. About the four friends: You, me, Jameel, and Abubakar. Tell them about how we met.” And how beautiful was the story of how they met!
Umar came through with his deal with Abubakar. He bought Abubakar four new car tyres. “You of all people should know I was joking when I told you to do that,” Abubakar said.
“I knew you’d probably say that. And, well, for my poor sense of judgment of what you want and don’t want, accept this as compensation,” Umar said handing Abubakar something in a big polythene leather. “I bought Noor some clothes. I hope they’d fit her,” Umar said. Abubakar just smiled and thanked his friend. “How is she? She’s three months old now right?” – Abubakar nodded. Noor – meaning light. It is a blessing having Noor in my life. A light, and a sister who has my mother’s name. It’s amazing watching her grow!
It took some doing, but Umar found a way to pull his parents out of the sea of sadness they had been drowning in as a result of losing their two children – Safiyya and Saleem. Abba and umma took it very hard. Most nights, umma cried profusely and Abba spent the rest of the night comforting her. When no one was looking, Abba cried too. It got easier with time. Eventually, it got easier with time. Everything gets easier with time.
Umma doted a lot more on Hafsa (me). Aisha was pregnant when Saleem died and it wasn’t long before she gave birth to a boy. He was named after his father, Saleem and nicknamed Mujahid. It means the one who strives.
A few weeks after Umar got Saleem’s letter, Umar called Jameel one beautiful morning and told him, “Remember when Adam told you to have the power to keep it all in?”
“No, I don’t. Why would I remember something as lame as that?” Jameel said. Joker, Umar thought. Of course, he knew what his friend was talking about. “Or are you talking about emptying Alhaji's bottles of wine? Washing it with water and jubilation and filling it up with sand?”
“No, idiot. Maybe we’ll do that some other day. I’m talking about Mr. Raj.”
“Oh Mr. Raj!? Now, you have my attention.”
“The restaurant is yours.”
Jameel was surprised. Umar could hear it in his voice. “What do you mean?”
“You heard me,” Umar said. “The restaurant is all yours. No more Mr. Raj. Well, you can keep him in your employ if you want.”
“Alhaji’s doing?”
“No, not his doing. Where are you now?”
“I’m in my apartment.”
“Jameel Shatima Mukhtar, come downstairs. We are in the restaurant.”
“We? Did you say we?”
When Jameel came downstairs, he couldn’t believe his eyes. His mother was standing in front of him. In all the time he imagined meeting his mom he never thought it’d be anything like that.
“Son,” Jameel’s mother said, her hands on her face – astonished, trying hard not to cry.
“It’s your mother, Jameel,” Umar said smiling. “Jameel, it’s your mother, man,”
“Son, I know I have a lot of explanation to do. I know whatever my reasons were for not coming back… they can never be reason enough. I just hope…” before she could finish her sentence Jameel hugged her. And in all the time he imagined meeting his mom he thought he’d let her have it – show her how pissed he was that she left him – but all he let himself do was melt for her. He couldn’t help it. He hugged the woman he had sent hundreds of emails to, telling her all about his day.
“I’m just glad you’re here,” Jameel said. “Plus you bought me a restaurant and gave me the means to fire Mr. Raj. Of course, all is forgotten.”
“I’m so sorry! I’m so sorry, son!”
“Mom, please.”
“Your friend brought me all the way from Bauchi. He also told me you are a good cook like your mom. So I bought it hoping we’d work together.”
“You and I?”
“Yes, son. You and I.”
“And us too.” It was Jamaal and Jameela that spoke. They had just entered the restaurant.
“Yes and your siblings, if that’s okay with you?”
“Naaah!! I don’t like sharing stuff with people. They would have to pay first,” Jameel said. “Mom, what about the emails I sent you? Have you read them?”
“What do you mean? Did you send me emails? Really? I didn't get any emails. Can I see them?”
He was about to say yes when he remembered the boldness of some of the letters. But I think boldness is an understatement, don’t you agree? “No don’t worry I’ll tell you better, sweeter versions of all what the emails contained,” Jameel said, delighted she didn’t read them.
“What he means by that is he’ll tell you the abridged and filtered version of the emails,” his brother Jamaal said. That was when Jameel gave Jamaal a cold look as if to say ‘shush bro, or I’d kill you.’
“What are you boys talking about?” Jameel’s mother said.
When Umar saw that his work there was done he left the restaurant. He had entered his Honda and was about to leave when Jameel came out running, “You’re just going to leave just like that?”
Jameel opened the door for Umar to get out of the car, “Yeah, wanted to give you some privacy. Would check on you later, man. Don’t worry I’ll come back later.”
Jameel stared at his friend. He didn’t know how to thank him. He couldn’t believe Umar made a ten hours trip just to bring his mother to him. It was almost like the two-hundredth entry in Adam’s Anecdotes of Zaria – the one about Salihu’s graduation day and how Salihu’s friend brought Salihu’s family all the way from Lagos to see their son. Umar brought Jameel’s estranged mother to Jameel. I must say, Umar had come a long way and Jameel was grateful for that. It all worked out for them.
But no one was happier about that fact than Umar. “Maybe next time we will empty Alhaji’s bottles of Alcohol,” Umar said.
Jameel smiled and said, “Definitely.”
“But you need go back home for that to happen, Jameel. You really need to go back home and mend things with your old man,”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“And please stop smoking. That stuff kills. And I kind of want you to stick around longer. You are a good man, Jameel. You are my best friend,” Umar said. Jameel didn’t say a word. He smiled and waved his best friend goodbye.
The love between Umar and Maryam was still as young as always. He never forgot the devotion she had shown to him in his worst of times. And every morning when he woke up and looked at her, he saw his whole world. His thoughts had become tethered to her and being grateful shadowed all his breath. He fell further and further in love with his wife. And that was the same case with her.
This is not the end. For as much as time flies, it files. And this is just one file out of many. This is Umar carrying out the first part of Saleem’s final message: To try a little kindness, and a little more, and a little more and then some boldness. Because to sign one’s death warrant one needs to sign one’s life one.
Umar did the same thing with the second part of Saleem’s final message. If not for him, I don’t think I’d be here. With you reading my words and letting my voice speak to your silence. Because even if time is a fictitious lie, we would still be tasked to collect the varied pieces it had been known to be or is until we do something beautiful with it. With words, and hands, and smiles and tears, and all that we must be.
So I have told you multiple beginnings and showed you a handful of endings. I hope you haven’t lost count. I know you’re wondering what happened to these beginnings – these peasants of time – afterwards. Especially now that it’s been eight years since Saleem died. I can tell you everything; I can take you to where time hasn’t touched yet.
And I can show you lots of different types of days. I can tell you about the senator and whether Umar went after him. And Jameel’s parents and whether they got back together and whether they all lived in Alhaji’s gigantic house – Jameel, his parents, and his siblings. And about Adam’s book and whether the Anecdotes of Zaria brought the change in the world the way Adam wanted it to. And about Abubakar’s little Noor and how she’s not little anymore. And about Umar’s Maryam and Maryam’s Umar. And about umma and Abba, Aamati, Shaykh Basheer, Sarah, Junaid, and The Concentric. And about me and what would happen after I write the last full-stop of this story. I can tell you all about that but I won’t. I won’t. Because we are not just stories; we are stories of time.
But I’ll tell you this though. Seven years after Saleem died, I was thirteen years old. Umar had been planning to carry out his sister’s wish about traveling the whole of Nigeria but never found the time until seven years after Saleem died. He bought a Toyota Sienna for the trip. Instead of traveling the whole of Nigeria, we travelled to Dihaara. Umar drove and I sat in front. Jameel, Abubakar, Adam, and Jamaal were in the back. It was the first trip I had with my five uncles and it was amazing! Jameel sat with his wittiness, loyalty, and his jokes. Abubakar sat with his kindness and simple words. Adam sat with his compassion, realism, and a bunch of anecdotes of Zaria and Lagos. Jamaal sat with his inquisitiveness. And Umar was smiling and driving, listening to all the fun and craziness that filled the car.
Dihaara’s wind was as kind as ever. It was thick with softness. And as always, the city’s numerous light sources, and noise, bumps on you in all directions then apologized with a gentle breeze and a fluent sunset. But I hadn’t seen the sunset yet for it was noon when we arrived at the palace of Dihaara.
We had lunch with King Abdullah, his wife, great grandfather, and Hajia in the Iris. It took a lot of convincing but King Abdullah got great grandfather to come back to the palace. Grandfather was still strong even though his memory wasn’t what it used to be. “I hear my great-granddaughter is a writer with two books published? I’m proud of you, Hafsa.”
“Thank you, sir. How’s your health?”
“Alhamdulillah. All praise to Allah. Sometimes I forget things that are integral to me but I pray I never forget you, Hafsa. Maybe you should write something about you and all that you’ve been up to so that I’d have something to read every day. My doctor says reading would help with my memory loss.”
“Everything will be okay, sir,” I said.
“May Allah bless you,” said the former king. And no one means a prayer like an old man. This was a man who had seen more time than anyone in that room. A close second was his wife, Hajia. Sometimes, when Hajia seats me down to tell me tales about him, I look at her sagged skin and the stories they tell. I look at her eyes and I see that her eyelids have chiseled decades of memory into them so that whenever she blinked, I sip a droplet of time. And I can’t help but wonder how much time they have seen.
Later that day, Umar took me in his car to the highest mountain in Dihaara. Climbing up was moderately easy as there were rails and friendly pathways leading to the top of the mountain.
“So what do you think?” Umar said pulling me up as we reached the peak of the mountain.
“About falling? One is so dead when one falls from this height,” I said smiling.
“No, silly! I mean the view.”
“It’s beautiful, Uncle U. Thanks for bringing me here.”
“It’s my pleasure, sweetheart. I brought you here to show you one of the most beautiful views I’ve seen. Also to give you this,” Umar said pulling it from his backpack.
“Isn’t this Uncle Saleem’s manuscript?”
“Young lady, how do you know that?” Umar said, looking at me with a suspicious look. “I’m very sure I hid it somewhere no one can find.”
“Sorry, Uncle U. I was just curious. I’ve actually read it several times. It’s unfinished though.”
He just smiled and said, “You’re just like your mother. The reason I’m giving you this is so that you’ll finish it. Your uncle was a great writer and I know he’d have wanted you to finish his work.”
“What?” I said. “I can’t do that.”
“But you can, sweetheart. You can. I must say, there are some things Saleem got wrong in there,” Umar said. Actually, there are a few things he got wrong and I corrected them with Umar’s help. “And some things I don’t even know how he came about them. Like the close-door conversation the senator had with his thirteen friends in a dark room. But it tells quite the story.”
“Yes, it does. May Allah have mercy on Uncle Saleem,” I said. ‘“Except the one who comes to Allah with a heart that is saleem – pure,”’ I added, quoting a verse in the Quran. And that was the verse Shaykh Basheer quoted the first time he met Saleem. Saleem Ja’far – what a name he had! What a man he was!
“I pray he met his Lord with a pure heart,” Umar said. “I miss him a lot. I miss him so much, you know.” But that was an understatement.
Umar was silent for a while; he took a long breath then continued. “He wrote about my thoughts and some of them, he got right; actually, most of them he got right. It’s unbelievable how well your late uncle knew me.” Umar paused when he said that, thinking about all that Saleem had written. “So go through it, improve it with that unique style of yours that your late uncle was most fascinated by. Any information you need about me or anything just ask me. I’m here for you.”
“As still as water enters into emptiness?” I said quoting my late uncle.
“Yes sweetheart, and as still as love enters into time,” Umar said with a glint in his eyes. “Attached to the manuscript, you’ll see some of Jameel’s emails to his mother and a few notes he wrote about himself. Saleem’s manuscript can stand independent without the mails but find a way to harmonize them. You can also include the conversation we are having now.”
In all the time I went through the manuscript, I never imagined that I’d be the one to finish it until that moment. “But this is very personal. It’s about you and it portrays your… your weaknesses,” I said.
“Yes it does and that is okay, you know. It’s all part of growing and moving with time. Never in one’s history should one stop moving with time because one is afraid of being seen. Of being known. Of being human. Of making mistakes,” he said looking into the distance. “Because we are all a story told. And trust me, all the risk is in the telling.”
“It is,” it is.