The Arab stepped outside his store. The door closed and locked behind him. Umma stepped back. I remained standing there in his face.
“You see the pharmacy there?” He pointed. “Go and buy a camera and bring it. I will snap some photos of our bangle collection. You will show him and return with his money and his choices,” the Arab said.
Umma stood silently, listening, watching. If she were not standing here with me, I would have stopped this conversation before it ever started, before he decided after too long a wait to move closer to the door. But I wanted to please Umma.
“All right, if we can come in, my mother can look over the bangles. She will know the tastes of our client,” I said, preferring to work it out that way.
“Is she buying or is he buying?” the Arab said curtly.
I touched Umma’s arm. We turned and left. I heard him spit on the ground somewhere behind me.
• • •
Running suicides at basketball practice wasn’t nothing for me. I needed to do something physical and extreme to burn off energy. So I did. After Vega’s whistle, I was still running suicides. The laps Vega called for, I doubled. The drills, I drilled. I wasn’t tryna impress anybody. I was trying not to kill anybody . . . else. But the disrespect was too constant.
Three hours after practice began that same night, the entire team was seated together on the gym floor, drenched in sweat. Vega wasn’t sweating. He was plotting.
“All of you are making me look good tonight. Keep it up. We’ll look good together,” he said, talking fast and clapping his hands twice.
“For now, you need to choose a team captain, a leader, a point man. I’m gonna walk away. In three minutes when I get back, you all tell me who it is.”
“Who wants to be the captain of Los Negros?” Panama Black asked. So we all knew he did. Nobody was stepping up. Then the kid named Braz said, “That brother right there should be our captain,” pointing at me.
“Nah. I’m just a shooter. Let Panama Black be the captain. He hustles hard. I’m not a leader. If I’m in the clear, feed me. I’ll sink it in the hoop,” I told them. “A’ight?” I asked.
They all nodded their approval or said, “Yeah.”
Panama Black smiled, revealing his framed gold teeth. “You know it,” he said, accepting the new position.
On our way out, Panama threw his arm around my shoulder and kept it there too long for me. “You a cool motherfucker,” he said with a straight face. “Where you from?” he asked.
“Brooklyn, same as you,” I answered.
He laughed once and said, “A’ight, I hear that.” He knew we were both from different countries. I was just being polite enough not to tell him to mind his fucking business.
Panama thought I was doing him a favor, stepping out of his way so he could shine. I looked at it the other way around. The way I saw it, Vega was about to dump a heap of responsibilities on his head as team captain. Panama would have to be accountable for every player on the team, their whereabouts, and getting them to act right and show up on time. When a next player fell short, he would take the weight. I didn’t have the time. For me the league was strictly business. I was glad to give him that position and move out of the light where I preferred to be.
Our team stepped out of the gym and into the red and blue lights of the popo, pulled up and parked on the curb in front of the gym. They was eyeing us with a hatred that didn’t mean shit ’cause it was an everyday thing. “Keep walking,” a cop’s voice blasted out over the megaphone. “Keep walking, clear the area, get back to your buildings,” the voice ordered. Only one team member made the mistake of turning around and looking back toward the police cruiser. The cop on the driver’s side jammed the gas pedal. The police cruiser jumped and sped up to where we were walking. One and a half seconds’ worth of siren rang out then stopped immediately. “We’re looking for a black guy in jeans and a T-shirt. Is that you?” the cop asked sarcastically, throwing his voice over the megaphone from inside the cruiser. Our whole team was wearing sweats and kicks. We just kept walking, our backs to them.
Vega walked with us too, toward the train station. I knew he had his reasons for walking with the team, because earlier, I seen him roll up in his car, which he parked in the opposite direction. I noticed Vega wasn’t saying nothing either. The cops followed us slowly, still sitting and riding behind us all the way to the station. They disappeared when they were sure we were all going down into the subway and out of their area.
“A black guy in jeans and a T-shirt,” I thought to myself. That fits the description of every male youth in all our hoods.
I had two guns, four knives, and eight hundred dollars on me that night. Close call.
24
ISLAM, LOVE, AND SEX
In our Brooklyn apartment, late, clothes and cloths hung on hangers everywhere. There were white sheets laid across the length of our living room, a strategy Umma used to keep the cloths she was working on clean. Umma was seated on the floor with six yards of a brilliant red cloth laid across her lap and an open box of beads, sequins, and tiny jewels. The lampshades had been removed from our three lamps. The hundred-watt bulbs were radiating blinding light and extra heat. I knew she was really doing it.
When she gets in this intense creative state of mind, she stares at the cloth as if she sees something there that no one else sees. She pulls out her spool of gold thread. She lifts up her needle, threads it the first time without missing the impossible needle eye. One by one she sews on the beads, sequins, and jewels in a pattern that only she has in her mind. With great patience she sews on five hundred to five thousand adornments, never breaking her pattern, until the thobe is perfect.
I removed my sneakers and walked around the perimeter of the living room wearing socks, not saying too much, trying not to break Umma’s concentration.
Before I could reach the door to Naja’s room, Umma stopped everything and looked up at me. I was disappointed with myself for being in her way. I knew that whenever I was in the same room with her she began to focus on me.
“You’ll need some rest tonight. The next eight days will be a haboob,” Umma said, which means, in our Sudanese Creole, a “sandstorm.” “Tomorrow, I will need you to place the fruit order at the wholesaler. Go there and make sure that everything there is fresh, completely fresh. If it turns out to be a quality wholesaler, and inshallah it will, place our order and make sure he schedules the delivery to arrive on Sunday morning, the morning of the wedding, fresh. Double-check, since the wedding will be held on a Sunday. Some of these businesses are closed on Sundays and I don’t want the fruit to be delivered on Saturday.”
“No problem. If their fruit or the delivery date is no good, I know a couple of other places to try out,” I assured her.
“And, while you were at basketball practice, I spoke to Temirah Auntie,” Umma said, referring to Mr. Ghazzali’s wife. I could see that from working together, she was feeling much more friendly with the first Sudanese family that we’d met here in America. I’m sure she was also relieved to be working for people who spoke her language. Because of this, she was handling more responsibilities than usual, jobs normally reserved for me.
“Ms. Temirah will arrange for the groom and you to meet and visit a variety of jewelers. His father and his uncle will not be able to accompany him. They are both working and unavailable. You’ll need to stick with him until he makes his final purchases. I know that you know jewels. I promised Temirah this,” she said, very sure of me.
“When you accompany him shopping, just think of it as if you were purchasing these jewels for your own bride,” she said, so soft and calm and clever while looking at a gold bead smaller than a child’s teardrop.
I smiled. “No problem, Umma. I’ll do it.”
“You have their telephone number. Do it on Monday. This way, if the groom turns out to be stubborn or to have poor taste, we will have time to save the situation before the signing of the agid. Oh, and I will need you to come along
to the mosque for the ceremony,” she said.
“The wedding?” I asked.
“No, not exactly. A Sudanese wedding takes place over several days. The signing of the agid is the contract between the groom and his new wife and both of their families. It will be a much smaller ceremony than the actual wedding, but it is extremely important.
“You see, when you choose, or your family chooses your bride, it is the marrying of the two families together. It is not just one person doing whatever or however he pleases,” she said.
And then there was silence, the Umma kind of silence.
“So, what did you do today before you came to pick me up?” she asked, so sweetly, and full of innocence.
“I saw Akemi. I went to her uncle and aunt’s home in New Jersey, a very nice place. But the aunt and uncle were not there,” I said. Then I explained about the aunt being a surgeon, and the uncle being away on work. I knew that Umma would disapprove of my visit to Akemi’s family’s home without the elders being present. I knew she would look down on the elders for allowing it. Then Umma responded with one of her truth-filled bombs.
“Not everyone in the world believes the same beliefs,” she said. “But I know that what we believe is true. Allah has given us a way of doing everything. It is a way that is right for any people who want what is best for everyone over what they may think is best for only themselves.”
“I’ll get you some water,” I said, walking to the kitchen to keep my brain from exploding.
I came back with two glasses of water, both filled with ice. I thought of my father, who never took ice in any drink. He disliked ice and air conditioners or anything like that. In one-hundred-degree weather, he seemed to feel cool and easy.
“She can come,” Umma said, bringing me back to the here and now.
“Who?” I asked, blindsided.
“Akemi. We will let her see what we believe and how we live at the signing of the agid. We will watch and wait and see how she feels about it,” Umma said.
What could I do besides agree with Umma? Of course I wanted to see Akemi as much as possible.
“So, the two of you were alone in her uncle’s house?” Umma asked.
“No. Akemi’s grandmother, cousin, and her two brothers, and two of their friends were there too,” I said truthfully, but feeling like I had just lied.
“Very well,” Umma said, returning her attention to her work.
In Naja’s room, the lime-green lights of her alarm clock read 1:15 A.M. She was asleep under one sheet and one very light blanket with her quilt turned down at the foot of her bed. Her bookbag was packed and placed in the corner as usual. The glow-in-the-dark stars and crescents on her bedroom ceiling were all lit up. Everything was good with her. So I closed her door.
“Naja has been saying that she needs to spend more time with you. I reminded her that we are all working hard when we are away from home,” Umma said.
“On Sunday I will keep her right by my side. I’ll make her feel special, even when I’m working,” I promised.
In my bedroom after my shower, I turned the volume down and pushed the button to play my voice mails. I wrote down the new business inquiries and contacts into a small notebook I used.
Ameer’s familiar and excited voice was the last message. It came through at a greater volume than everyone else’s voice.
“Wednesday night, you, me, Chris, and the girls. Say no, and I swear I’ll bring all three of them to the dojo. Hit me back. You know the digits.” Click.
I looked at the clock, realizing how few hours I actually had remaining before I would have to wake up and hit the pavement.
I lay still, surrounded by darkness. Akemi’s pretty eyes came to mind. I thought about her touch. For me she was more than a sexual desire, although that desire was strong and real and growing stronger with each day. I liked her whole style, admired her talent, respected her thoughts, and was completely drawn in to the way she went about showing me love too. I felt a genuine love growing that was never within me for any person outside of my family. It was a completely new and different kind of love and a real good feeling.
I felt possessive over her. I wondered what she was doing right then. I wondered how long Rob and Dave stayed in the house along with her. I wondered if she was talking with that fool Rob or not. I wondered if she was talking to any man, period, who wasn’t her blood relation. It all mattered to me now, and really, I wanted her right here by my side.
I heard my doorknob turning.
Umma was standing there now, stepping halfway into my darkness, and halfway remaining in her light.
“I wanted you to know that there is a reason why in our faith we hold back from making love until we are married,” she said softly.
I was thinking to myself, How can it be possible for her to know even my unspoken intimate and private thoughts?
“Once a man has knowledge of a woman’s body, almost nothing or no one can stop him from seeking that pleasure over and over again. You should not pretend that you are the first man in the world to be feeling what you are feeling right now. You have to acknowledge that there were millions of men who lived before your life was even a thought. The outcome of your feelings and experiences is already clear. Your lovemaking will bring forth new life. New life is a beautiful blessing, but should be brought forth into a complete family, a mother and father, a husband and wife, and both of their families also. New life should come after the union of marriage is secured. Allah requires this from us, and Allah is the best knower of all things. Allah has arranged it, that if the believers follow true to the Quran, they will experience better lives.
“Don’t be stupid like the American boys, who pretend to be shocked when their women become pregnant, and then run far away. Never accept women like the American girls who have sex with anyone, then make all of their babies disappear.”
A silence fell.
“What about condoms?” I asked. My eyes and embarrassment were both shielded by the darkness of my room. I wished I were talking to my father right now instead of Umma. I remembered Ameer’s father’s advice about sex and condoms.
“Do you think you will stop your feelings each and every time to put one on?” she asked me comfortably.
“It will be easy for you to do if you don’t know, don’t love, and don’t trust the girl who you are with. But where there is real love and deep feelings, it will feel too good. You’ll go in naturally over and over again and natural life will be born.
“What then?” she asked, still leading the conversation. “Are you prepared to marry and bring forth new life with this girl? Is she the one for you, for us? Or will you touch her, then abandon her, like the men in this country who abandon their families so easily?”
I knew that what Umma was saying and asking me to consider was right. And I knew that whatever I chose to do meant the world to her. But, at that moment, I felt like five different things—a boy, a man, a Muslim, an African, and a son trying to grow up in America without being fucked up like everybody else.
25
VIRGINS
Fawzi pulled out his brown Dunhill wallet and flipped it open. There were eight slots inside. I checked out that each of the eight slots carried credit cards, beginning with his American Express Black card.
The Indian jeweler whose genuine dark gold and elegantly designed, thick, wide bangles we selected was patient and pleasant but firm. He was the sixth jeweler we had visited that day. We left the arrogant Arabs in Brooklyn. We fled from the jive Jews in Manhattan and landed in Queens with the dark man from India, who understood how to take his customers into the back room and line his bangles up on a soft black velvet cloth, unafraid that we were gonna jump up and scream, “This is a holdup, motherfucker. Get on the floor.”
Of course he had an armed guard in his place who was definitely another Indian, I guessed, probably one of his cousins. But I respected that.
“Discount is always possible with cash. Cash is always good,” he said, sm
iling swiftly and rocking his head from side to side the way Indians tend to do. Then, he pulled back to seriousness.
Each gold bangle cost somewhere in the vicinity of six hundred dollars. Fawzi had selected ten bangles, each with a different design. I had already pushed the jeweler to apply a ten percent discount because of the quantity of the purchase. The total price tag for the twenty-four-karat gold bangles was now at fifty-four hundred dollars.
The ten diamond bracelets that Fawzi then selected cost somewhere in the vicinity of six thousand dollars for each one. I sat blank-faced but in shock of how easily Fawzi made decisions. I wondered if the jeweler really expected us to spread almost sixty-five thousand dollars in cash onto his glass counter.
“Easy,” Fawzi told the jeweler. “You have already applied the ten-percent discount for my overall purchase. So I don’t mind paying the tax for the jewels. I will also need a receipt. I will have everything appraised and insured in any case.” He slid his black card onto the counter. Before the Indian jeweler could cast any doubt, he slid his driver’s license next to the card.
I saw that both Fawzi’s and his father’s name were on his credit card.
The jeweler ran his credit.
It was only then that I felt fucked up. Not about Fawzi, but about myself. I mean, I was seated there with a pocket filled with my own hard-earned cash. But Fawzi had legitimacy and backup.
He was in the position I should be in easily, a son fully set up and financed by his father. A son who still studied hard and worked nonstop and pushed hard to make his own name in this world. He must love this woman a lot, I thought. Even if his father is backing up his spending, it was still a lot of paper to drop in one sitting.
As the jeweler cleaned and boxed the jewels and prepared the paperwork, Fawzi turned to me and said, “I think you are right. My new wife is going to love these jewels more than she loves me.” He smiled.
He was wearing a tan leisure suit and hard shoes. He was much more confident and laid back than I had expected. He could flow in Arabic, English, or Sudanese Creole, although he spoke English the majority of the time.