“Then this is the part that really caused a lot of trouble. Your wife told these girls in my class that she wrote her own prayer in English and that at least once a day, out of her five prayers, she recites her own prayer and it gives her the best feeling in her soul,” Naja said.
“What did the teacher say?” Umma asked.
“We were all at lunch, eating and talking. Chiasa was sitting with me and my friends, so the teacher did not know at first. But then the Somali girl agreed with Chiasa. Later, she even said her prayers in her own language that she learned at her mosque before her family moved to America, instead of Arabic like we all do. When the teacher insisted that she recite in Arabic, the Somali girl told the teacher in front of our whole class that her prayers feel better in the Somali language.
“When we were getting on the bus to come home, we saw the teacher speaking to the Somali girl’s mother. When Chiasa and I walked by, the teacher grabbed Chiasa and told her that she couldn’t come back anymore if she interfered with the lessons. The teacher told Chiasa that students at Khadijah’s Islamic School for Girls will recite only in Arabic until they learn Arabic. Then she told Chiasa that she should learn to pray in Arabic also, and that for her to say the prayers in English is ‘no good.’
“And she said if Chiasa said her prayers in English she would always have an excuse not to learn Arabic and that she would have no way of knowing if Allah accepted her prayers, because the Holy Quran was revealed in the Arabic language because it is the best and most perfect language. ‘Arabic is not like any other language. It is not casual,’ my teacher told your second wife.” Then Naja was done telling and headed up the stairs, happy with herself.
When Chiasa emerged from the bathroom clean and dressed for the prayer, Akemi said something to her in Japanese. Chiasa responded softly. Then they were back and forth in their language. Seated beside Akemi, their dialogue looked friendly. But then again, the Japanese were the type who could say, “I’m going to break your fucking neck,” softly and make it sound beautiful and polite. They were also the type who could maintain a game face through even the toughest confrontations. All I know is Chiasa ended up walking the tiny key over to Akemi and placing it into Akemi’s palm without glancing my way.
After Fajr prayer, Chiasa was grinding out carrot juice in her juicer. “Carrot juice,” Chiasa once told me, “is the best formula for vision.” She explained that because carrots contain beta-carotene, she could drink a glass of it and feel the effects on her body in general and her eyesight in particular immediately. Perhaps that is the reason she always has perfect vision, and rarely overlooks even the smallest of things even if they were well hidden.
Whatever happened at Naja’s school the day before, Chiasa left the house with Naja and boarded the school bus with her the same as though nothing had ever changed.
Akemi and Umma remained at home, working to complete orders for Umma’s Designs. The customer base had expanded wildly and now included even some Asian customers. The designs that Akemi drew were added to the catalogue that Umma had already designed. Once Umma handmade all of the samples based on Akemi’s new designs, a new market opened for us. At the same time, Umma had gotten a big account from a woman who had chronic allergies. She’d had to actually donate all of her store-bought clothes, which she’d accumulated over the years, and start her wardrobe from scratch using organic fabrics only. One hundred percent cottons and linens, no rayon, lycra, fake fillings, or chemically treated cloths. It was quite an expensive undertaking, with Umma Designs landing on the winning side. With her severe allergies, even the handling of the woman’s fabrics mattered. She could not wear fabrics that had been stored in a drafty or contaminated factory, or thrown and transported into a soiled truck even though they were boxed and packaged, or a vehicle that had previously transported any chemicals or bleaches or toxic cargo. The woman and her husband both had six-figure salaries and spared no expense in commissioning new non-hypoallergenic clothing. She said no matter what amounts of cash she had to pay Umma to produce her new fashions, the cost for organic hand-tailored clothing would never be comparable to the astronomical medical bills that she would have to pay if she had not made the complete fabric and lifestyle change.
* * *
Out on the streets by 9 a.m., I made Umma Design deliveries. Afterwards, I went straight to scoring the right high-quality, low-cost vintage clothing, kicks, and accessories to package for resale in Korea and Japan.
On 23rd Street in lower Manhattan on the West Side, I looked up and saw on the theater marquee of The New York School of Visual Arts that they were featuring the following night an Arabic-language foreign film. Also, the actors for the film would join the audience after the screening in a question-and-answer session. I thought, Alhamdulillah! I’ll ask Umma for a date, just she and I for a change, like it used to be. I’d dress up dapper like my father would for her, and she would dress up too. I’d take her out for dinner to show my appreciation to her, for her, and a great thanks that she did not panic when she saw my blood spilling out of my chest. She burned the tip of her needle and even sterilized the thread. Although she shed a few tears as she stitched, knowing that it caused me some pain, and was probably trapped inside of her thoughts wondering who hated her son enough to have done this to him. Further, she may have been thinking about what could have happened if the knife was pushed with greater force and the cut was three inches lower and into my heart, or dug inches deeper than it was. She stopped the blood, cleaned the wound, stitched it up like it was fine fabric instead of skin, and followed through until it was done.
I called home to let Umma know two things: one, I would miss family dinner tonight because I was going to basketball practice, and two, to ask her out on a date. I heard in her voice that the date idea made her feel happy. The call helped her to control any worried thoughts she was having over me. She remained quiet about the fact that I was still going to practice with the injury. I knew without words that she thought I should rest and heal before I raced back into athletic mode. However, I’d given my word on making my best effort to show up to all remaining practices and games. So I did.
I was excited to be back as a contender for the ten-thousand-dollar purse in the Hustler’s League. Getting money playing ball, something that before marriage I would do every day for free, that was great for me. Business was sweet. I had sold in one month’s time one machine to Zhou, two machines to Chris’s father, and seventeen machines to Santiaga. For buying in bulk, I got three new machines for myself at a cut rate. When Chiasa called and placed the orders, the Japanese company was astounded at what we had accomplished in a short period of time as their new customers. A few days later, the company owner contacted Chiasa and requested to meet with “her boss.” That, of course, was me. My second wife set an appointment to take place at a New York City office we never knew they had, since she first ordered the machines from their headquarters while we were still in Asia. I didn’t want to be greedy but I had big plans and babies on the way, Insha’Allah. I also had to show up for every practice so my teammates would look favorably on me once again and get comfortable enough for us to sweep the playoffs.
* * *
As I approached my house at 11:15 p.m., I knew Akemi was awake and sketching. She had a bright white light shining through her curtains. The meaning was that she was drawing or sketching a masterpiece. Therefore, she preferred to be alone with her imagination, pencil, and paints. She and I signaled one another through her lighting choices. Red meant she had family matters happening, on either the Japanese or Korean side. Green meant she needed to talk to me right away about business. Yellow meant young Naja, Umma, or Chiasa was in our bedroom. Blue was any emergency or sad or sick feeling. Purple was the color of love. I liked the colored light bulb system, although both of us knew if either of us caught an urge or strong feeling, we could come to one another without hesitation. Akemi does not approach me, however, when I am in Chiasa’s bedroom, or in Chiasa’s energy, so to spea
k. She’ll go in Chiasa’s room if I’m not around and talk or read and chill with her, and Chiasa will go in Akemi’s room just the same. I think Akemi does it that way for her own comfort.
Our front- and backyard are family spaces, especially on Sundays, which is our family day while living here in America. We all have something to do in the backyard, separately or together. Akemi lays facing the sky in her kaleidoscope-colored hand crocheted hammock that Umma stitched and I built for her. Naja plays with the pogo stick I purchased for her, or the Hula-Hoop Akemi gifted her, or jumps on the trampoline that Chiasa got her. Sometimes she swings in Akemi’s swing or plants or picks or waters flowers with Umma. On the warm and loveliest days, Umma hangs washed sheets, silks, and linens on the clothing line I made for her. Or, sometimes she sits and enjoys being served fruits or juices prepared by her daughters-in-law, or her favorite well-seasoned meats from her son. I rock the barbeque grill. However, routinely, the backyard is Chiasa’s territory, because her window is the only bedroom window that faces it, and also because she works out back there on a daily basis. While we were building the wall, when Chris and Ameer were not around, Chiasa would do her stretches, climb the scaffold, walk the deck railings, swing her sword, practice her martial arts, jump rope, do long jumps and leaps, and lie in the sun browning her body or reading her books. One night she was even out there on the deck placing her hundreds of toy soldiers on a wooden platform and using them to reenact military formations from one of her many books. How a pretty girl was so fascinated with fighting and wars was something I did not understand. She loved history and reading nonfiction. But when it came to her own flesh and blood, and the ones she held in her heart, she was soft, passionate, and protective. With the ones closest to her, she wanted peace. I knew that when I joined her at her little bonfire that night.
I walked out onto the deck. I leaned over the railing and watched her facing the fire. She looked up at me. Silenced, we were both just staring. My love for her gets caught in my throat, like I’m standing in nine feet of water, not floating or swimming, just standing and drowning. Her eyes reveal how she melts at my black silhouette against the dark night. Still, this time she wants me to come to her. I could resist, stay still and see how long it would take for her to be pulled and dragged by her own emotions right over to me. I give in because I’m so in love with her. Besides, I like the way the fire flickers across her face, the light dancing and illuminating pieces of her skin.
“Should there be secrets between two people who love each other deeply?” she asked me softly. She had a small, quiet fire going in our backyard, burning the evidence. Not knowing anything about the incident, but believing, as any ninja would, that evidence should be destroyed. The nine-foot wall was completed. It was dark. The night was clear, as often happens after a heavy rain. All had been cleansed.
Other than the stars in the sky and the allure of the crescent moon, we had complete privacy. She was uncovered in the spring heat, her hair wild and everywhere. I walked from the deck and into the yard and stood behind her. She did not turn. I pulled her hair back and braided it into two long, thick, rope-like braids.
“Can’t let your hair catch fire,” I said, the first words I’d spoken to her in twenty-seven and a half hours. I hugged her from behind, enjoying the hurt from my fresh injury. Rejecting it.
“When you do things like that, how do you want me to react?” she asked me.
“Like what?”
“Like, touch me like that so gently, and braid my hair.”
I kissed her neck, and sucked it on a sensitive spot. My hands were traveling, caressing her shoulders and over her breasts, and brushing her raised nipples. I gripped her waist, slid my right hand between her thighs and held it there, touching lightly. “We have to get you to the doctor,” I told her.
“Why?” she asked. “I’m so healthy.”
“ ’Cause your pussy is fat,” I said, squeezing it. I was smiling, but she couldn’t see me because I was standing behind her.
“What!” she had an outburst.
“Seriously, your pussy is fatter than it was before, and sweeter than black cherries,” I said matter-of-factly.
“I cannot believe you just said that,” she said, bumping me backwards, then spinning around and fighting to hold in her laughter.
“So what’s the doctor gonna do?” she asked.
“Well, you and I are going to go see her together. I’m going to tell her your symptoms. I’ll say, ‘Doctor, my wife’s pussy is fatter, sweeter, and more juicy than anyone else’s,’ ” I said in a serious tone. Finally Chiasa laughed.
“Oh my God,” she said, bending over with laughter.
“Then the doctor will say to me, ‘Sir, your wife is pregnant. Her pussy is going to get even fatter!’ ”
“Stop!” she fell out. I sat in the grass beside her. “Is that what you think?” she asked me. “You think I’m pregnant?”
“That’s what I wish. Think I’m gonna have to go in you again to be sure it comes true.” She kissed me, her thick lips pressing against mine. Soon she was smooching all over my face, her eyes closed and her breathing picking up intensity. We were tonguing and tugging at each other’s clothes. My feeling towards her heated up so high, I pulled her out of her skirt, laid her down in the grass, rolled her panties down her thighs, and put both my lips over her pussy lips and pulled like I was sucking the inside of a lemon. When I caught her clitoris between my lips and sucked it gently, she let loose sounds of extreme pleasure. Both of us forgot about our “secret love,” about being half nude in our backyard. Hotter than the fire she’d lit to burn the bandages, I was fucking her now, our bodies rolling in the grass and the soil. Her pretty thighs pumping, her hips swinging, her pretty fingers hugging me tightly. I was sucking her titties, making her so wild her braids were unraveling. We ended up more than a few feet away from where we started. She was sucking my throat until our bodies shook, erupted, and then collapsed comfortably on the earth. We were paused just soaking in the feeling that was still moving in our hearts.
“Let’s wash up some and do it again,” she said.
“I thought you were angry,” I said, teasing her.
“I was, but I liked your apology. Oh Allah, what a feeling.”
I love the way there was no fronting in her. If she feels good, she tells me and shows me. When she wants to kiss, she leaps on me. When she wants to fuck, she says “fuck me.” When she feels hurt, she puts her words together nicely and says them softly. When anyone doubts her, she speaks her loyalty. Her heart is up-front and her thoughts, words, promises, and actions all match up. Truly, her humble brand of honesty knocks me off my feet.
I washed her with the water hose. She seems to think it’s her personal shower. She spread her pretty thighs and smiled down at me, pointing. “Splash it here,” she said. The water gushed in between her pussy lips, clearing out her juices and mine, tickling her with the water pressure. Her pretty thighs were trembling from the coldness of the water temperature. I liked washing her feet. I liked her washing me from head to mouth to toes even more. I liked how happy she was and how easy it was for me to make her happy, even after her angry feeling. I just love her.
“I’ve never seen you dance,” I said to her when the thought just dropped into my head.
“When I’m swinging my sword, I’m dancing,” she said.
“Nah, I mean like ’hood dancing, body grinding, riding the beat of the music. It’s an African thing. All African people can do it, naturally.”
“I was born in Japan, grew up there in the forest,” she said, smiling, a pure, pretty smile.
“Then I’ll have to teach you.”
“Are you going to take me to a party?” she asked, excited.
“Yeah, right in your room. Me and you and some music.”
“That’s not the same thing!” she said, laughing.
“In Sudan, single college men and women can’t even have a party. The police come in with sticks and whips and
send everybody back to their families,” I told her.
“Why!” she exclaimed like she couldn’t believe it.
“It’s an Islamic country. Islam is the wisest faith. It takes into account human nature and instinct in every instance,” I explained.
“Meaning?”
“Meaning, if a group of young males and females meet up in the dark in a room where the music is playing, if the beat is powerful, naturally bodies start to bounce and move. If I see something I like, and a female sees something she likes, next thing you know, we’re up on each other. And, if we are not married, we will most likely still end up fucking ’cause the mood is so intense and because it’s a natural feeling. You already know, unmarried sex is forbidden in Islam.”
“Hmmm,” she said. “But whips and sticks? Do you think the same thing happens at every party just like that?”
“As long as there is one female or more, and one male or more, it happens, just like that,” I assured her. “Just look at what happened between you and me when we first met. Soon as we saw each other, we caught feelings.”
“True,” she said softly. “We had feelings, but you didn’t touch me. We didn’t have sex.”
“Right, but you kept trying to get me alone in a room,” I said, teasing her with the truth.
“Oh!” she shouted excitedly. “I did not!”
“Yes, you came to my hotel room, didn’t you? You were offering me translation services. I saw those big pretty eyes and thought I might lose my mind. It was hard every time it was just you and me in a room.”
“But you resisted me,” she said.
“Until I married you, I had to. Now look at me. I can’t keep off of you. And if someone tried to keep me off of you now, they would need a stick and a whip and a pistol,” I said. She laughed hard. I laughed too.
“Hope you know, it doesn’t matter what anyone says about you, how weird or unique or different you are. You are right here,” I told her, and placed my hand over my heart, then grabbed and hugged her up. “Come, let’s go inside.”