The Size of a Mustard Seed

THE SIZE OF A MUSTARD SEED

Covered Pearls Series: Book 1

Umm Juwayriyah

Copyright © 2010 by Umm Juwayriyah

All Rights Reserved.

Published by:

Muslim Writers Publishing

P.O. Box 27362

Tempe, Arizona

www.MuslimWritersPublishing.com

Paperback Edition: ISBN 978-0-9767861-4-6

E-Book Edition: ISBN 978-0-9819770-3-4

Names, characters, places, and incidents, unless otherwise specifically noted, are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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Dedication

For Sabura Faatimah Muhammad

THE SIZE OF A MUSTARD SEED

You who believe, be steadfast; be supreme in steadfastness;

and remain stationed; and have fear of Allah;

so that hopefully you will be successful.

(Surat Al ‘Imran: 200)

Chapter 1

It wasn’t just some corny saying. That old adage about time couldn’t be truer. It really does fly, I thought to myself. I was sitting on the floor of my bedroom in my favorite plaid pajamas, holding the Qur’an in my hands, reciting the fifteenth chapter of the night in a low mumble. The wind blew through the trees outside, and the branches tapped against my windows. In that moment, I was reminded of Allah’s greatness. Allah is able to hear and see everything all by Himself. Even when I am alone, I’m never by myself. Though I’d be lying if I said it didn’t feel like it sometimes.

After reading for a while I put the Qur’an down. My thoughts had wandered to a more specific issue: the month of Ramadhan. Oh, Allah, why can’t I list some useful things that I’ve done in the last two weeks? That wasn’t good. The days of Ramadhan had been before me, and then the days, one by one, had disappeared. Work, school—even the time I’d wasted getting mad with the pump attendant at the gas station up the street—I could play back in color with full detail in my mind, yet everything else, everything that was supposed to be important to me, was coming up like a gray fuzzy blur. Have you ever needed more time? I always needed more. More hours, more minutes—I would even take more seconds to have the chance to make more supplications, read more Qur’an, and offer more salat, but instead of gaining more time, I saw it tick away from me. Time doesn’t stop for anyone, and it sure doesn’t rewind. I got to think up something right now to get my deen and my life on the fast track to Taqwa-hood—"Taqwa as in God-fearing, and hood as in neighborhood."

I replaced the Qur’an on the oak dresser, grabbed my one-piece polka dot prayer garment and slipped it over my head. Now was the time to offer Witr salat, and I needed to do it before that, too, passed by me, because at this rate I was working on being habitually a day late and dollar too short. Not a good thing. After I completed my prayer, I glanced up at the clock. It was after ten. Another obligation filled my mind: I had school bright and early in the morning, and I really didn’t feel like going, but I had to. Reluctantly, I made my way to my bed.

After pulling back the crisp flowery comforter that lay perfectly over my king-sized bed, I eased my way underneath it and turned off the lamp on the nightstand. Tossing my body left, then right, I grabbed my pillow tightly and finally snuggled in on my right side. I was restless and worried, just the makings of what I knew was going to be a long night. On nights like this—every night, these days—I’d lie in bed in the dark, praying for and thinking about all the things I possessed in my dreams: a wonderful loving spouse, a beautiful home, and two beautiful children. In that world, I lived peacefully. I was the ultimate super Muslimah. I even practiced the sunnah of smiling all the time because I was just so happy. I had everything I needed, and I was able to give to others whatever they needed too. Nothing ever got me down, and I never, ever got angry with anyone there. It was the perfect life.

Okay, I know it all sounds too good to be true. It’s supposed to be. Didn’t I tell you it’s my dream world? Besides, a life that good—stressfree, drama-free, and anger-free—please, that doesn’t even exist for the rich and famous. Believe me, everybody has an issue or two and sometimes three, four, five, and six, too. And since we’re building a relationship here, I’m going to be the first to admit to you that I’m about three issues away from losing my mind. You didn’t think you were reading about the life and times of a super-righteous Muslimah? I am intolerant of all kinds of things, I’m not that easy to get along with, and I can go from calm to red in the face mad in about ten seconds flat. Smiling is strictly reserved for only a handful of people like my parents, elder Muslims, and my nephew. Don’t cross me on the highway, either, ’cause I’m prone to road rage, and I hate for people to call me on the phone at Fajr time. My mood is always bad in the early morning if you call me. That’s my time with my Lord. Don’t interrupt it.

Point blank, I have a bad attitude, but I’m far from terrible. I’m like you: a struggling Muslimah with a lot of faults, but who still passionately loves Allah, the prophet Muhammad, peace and blessing upon him, and the Muslims. I do the best I can, but I know there are a lot people who are reading this and tripping, like this can’t be. A Muslim woman is happy and loving and pleased all the time, and what I’m saying is, it’s all made up. I mean, who would ever think that, under my hijab and jilbab, all this negativity existed? It’s a lot to digest, I know. There have been times I’ve shocked my own self with my behavior. But I’m not a walking time bomb, either, and excuse my use of the word bomb, with being a Muslim and all. Anyhow, for the most part, I try hard to hide my bad characteristics from others and be the best Muslimah I can be, yet and still, the inner fight against oneself is the hardest and longest struggle that we all have. So, from here on out, I’m gonna be real with you and myself.

Problem is that lately it seems like new bad habits have been creeping up. They don’t belong there, nor do I want them. Issues weigh a ton, and they’re heavy on the mind, not to mention one’s soul. I can’t even concentrate during my prayers because my problems are overcrowding my mind. It’s not easier fronting, either, even though I do it because that’s what’s expected of me, but it just makes me feel horribly fake by the end of the day. Sometimes I wish I could keep it real when I’m asked how I’m doing and say something like I’m struggling, or even truer, that I’m drowning.

Wouldn’t it be great if there were places in every city where people could go and abandon their unwanted issues, AKA baggage, no questions asked? It could be a two-step process: you could drop it off and keep moving no matter what it was or how much it’s hurt you in the past. Shoot, if I wasn’t so downtrodden myself, I’d start it up in the wealthiest neighborhoods. I’d call it Good Riddance and would have easy value plans, like at fast food restaurants where customers could order by numbers. Good Riddance isn’t that bad of a plan, so don’t my steal my idea.

Now wait a minute. I feel like I’m putting myself out there too quickly. To be balanced, I have good that I can mention, too. I do, alhamdulillah. I’m a dutiful daughter to my parents. For the record, they say this, not me. I’m a dependable big sister to my younger sister, Khadijah, and my little brother, Adam. I give easily when asked by others. I’m a helpful member of my community. I’m goal-oriented and driven. And my mother has told me that my best quality is that I forgive easily (even though I anger just as quickly). So that’s not too bad for a self-titled grouch, is it?

Believe it or not, there was a time when I wasn’t so uptight and angry. I felt good, and people enjoyed my company. Then life changed. Actually, the whole world around me changed. New York City wasn’t the only city affected by 9-11. My city and every other city on earth changed. People changed. I changed too. I had to if I was going to stay sane. I know I am talking about the now, but let me take you back to about a year ago for a second to September 11th, 2001 and the days following it.

On that Tuesday morning I was already at Covered Pearls, the hair salon where I’m a stylist. Nurrah, the owner and my best friend, had a doctor’s appointment. Like a good friend, I went ahead and opened the shop for her. I started on her first client, since I didn’t have anyone booked until later that afternoon. Zahira was first in that morning. Zahira Shareef is one of our best clients. No, let me take that back. Zahira Shareef is our best client. Zahira is lively in a good way, and she tells it like it is. She’d been with the salon since the day it opened. Every two weeks she’s come in, whether her hair needs it or not, for a wash, deep condition, a roller set, and sisterhood. Plus Zahira is an excellent tipper. She was Nurrah’s client, though, and had never booked with me intentionally. The only chance I had to work with her was when Nurrah couldn’t.

So I just got in the salon at seven, and I was setting things up. About a half hour later, I heard some tapping at the front door. I knew it had to be Zahira, so I rushed, ’cause I didn’t want to keep her waiting.

"As salaamu alaikum, Sister Zahira," I said, stepping to the side so her large-frame body could cross the threshold into the salon.

"Oh, wa alaikum asalaam, Jameelah. I knew you’d be here on time when Nurrah called me last night to say she wouldn’t be able to keep our appointment."

Of course, I would be. I wouldn’t dare be responsible for disappointing you, now, would I? I asked.

I know you wouldn’t. I gots lots to do today. I’m going to be looking for a new dining room table and curtains. My goodness, Sis, Ramadhan is only about two months away, and my in-laws picked it of all months to pay us a visit. I told my boys to get their behinds in gear to help me get that house cleaned, top to bottom and rearranged, Zahira started as she took off her coat, hijab, and jilbab and went to hang them up in the closet.

"Well, don’t stress yourself out, Zahira. Take it easy on those boys, too. You have plenty of time to prepare for Ramadhan. By the time it finally gets here, you’ll be long finished with everything, I’m sure, insha’Allah. And that house of yours is already beautiful, so relax."

Thanks for the encouragement, but I don’t know. I feel like for some reason I gotta get things done and out the way. But we’ll see how it turns out. You know how my boys are.

I headed into our kitchen area, grabbed the teapot, filled it with water and placed it on the stove to boil. Zahira came in and asked for some coffee, so I grabbed the canister from the cupboard and started to prepare it.

We always keep lots of goodies in the fridge to serve free of charge to our clients while they wait in the waiting room or sit under the dryer. It’s what Nurrah called the Total Covered Pearls Experience. At Covered Pearls, we pamper and provide glamour for Muslim women and, let me tell you, they savor it up.

So back to the details. I grabbed a tray and filled it with assorted breakfast items, the teapot, and teacups and a poured a cup of joe. I set up most of the things in the waiting room and brought Zahira her coffee.

I’m ready to start as soon as you are, Zahira. But take your time. Drink up.

Taking a slow sip from her coffee mug, Zahira looked up and smiled. Mmmm, I needed that. I’ll be ready in just a sec. Can you turn on the TV? I hate not to catch the morning news.

Without any thought, I walked back into the salon area, grabbed the remote off one of the counter tops and flicked on the set. The cable TV flashed on, and I clicked away until I found a morning news program.

"Good Morning, America, okay?" I asked her.

"That’s fine. Shukran," she told me, and I left the room. I had a key for Nurrah’s office, so I went in there, because she had a computer hooked up to the Internet. I had been interested in enrolling in a bachelor’s program at a local private college and wanted to check out the school’s site before I called to speak with an advisor.

I couldn’t have been online for more than thirty minutes or so when I heard Zahira wail my name. I shot up out of my chair quickly and ran out of the office and into the salon. My heart beat fast, as I thought maybe we’d had a break-in or something because the shop wasn’t located in the best area. Instead, I found Zahira standing up in front of the TV with tears flowing from her eyes as she rushed to get dressed.

What’s wrong, Zahira? Are you in pain? I asked, approaching her. She couldn’t respond. She just pointed and, when I looked up at the TV, I couldn’t believe my eyes. The World Trade Centers were burning. I swear it felt like my heart skipped a beat, and then my cell phone began to ring. I rushed back into the office to grab it.

Yes?

Jameelah, where are you? My father’s voice came through, and I immediately heard the worry that carried over in his voice.

"Abu? I asked, knowing full well who it was. I’m at the salon."

You have to come home. Is Sister Nurrah there? Are there many other sisters there, too? he asked.

No, Nurrah isn’t here. Just me and Sister Zahira. But why leave now?

To be safe. Tell Sister Zahira to go home. You come home now.

Abu, my apartment—

No discussions, Jameelah. Do not go to your apartment. Come home. In fact, you stay right there. I’m coming to the salon right now to bring you home. Stay inside. As salaamu alaikum.

Next thing I heard was the disconnect sound; Abu had hung up on me. I grabbed my purse and headed out front to the salon. Zahira was fully dressed and was on her cell phone, and then my cell phone began to ring again.

Abu?

Jameelah, it’s me, my business partner and best friend said.

Nurrah. Alhamdulillah, girl, I’m so glad you called.

Of course, I called you as soon as I could. Listen, we need to close up the shop. I was just talking with Amadou, and he said to forget about my doctor’s appointment. He’s coming to pick me up. I’m waiting outside of the doctor’s office for him right now.

What’s going on with the towers?

"Jameelah, you ain’t see it yet? The news reporters say planes flew into them, and they’re saying they were Muslims, girl! Turn off everything and lock my shop up. Amadou is pulling up now. I’ll call you back soon, insha’Allah. As salaamu alaikum."

Wa alaikum asalaam.

I stood in disbelief and looked up at the screen, dazed. Could Muslims have done that?

My boys, Zahira wailed, breaking me out my thoughts. I want to go get my boys from out of school.

Yeah, that’s a good idea, I said, not fully understanding her hysteria. Go ahead and go. My father is already on his way to come get me. Go get yours sons. Zahira wiped the remaining tears from her eyes with her hijab and tried to look confident as she walked up and gave me a hug that almost bruised my rib cage.

I love you for the sake of Allah, Zahira confessed like she was going off to battle the whole world.

May He, for whose sake you love me, love you more, I responded and out the door she went.

What was really happening? Allah knows. I had no idea.

"Laa ilaha ilallah (There is no one worthy of worship except Allah)," I remember hearing my mother repeat over and over again in a soft mumble as I sat on her living room floor with the rest of my family later that night. My father had come to the shop and helped me lock everything up. We went directly to my parent’s home, which wasn’t far from Covered Pearls. The local news and national news coverage were on every channel. The video footage of the towers collapsing, the fire, the smoke, the people in New York running for their lives, and the rescue workers working effortlessly were played over and over again.

As tears rolled down my mother’s dark brown face from her sorrow for all the human losses, she’d told us, Are not the words of our Lord true? You watch and see: everyone is going to turn their backs on the Muslims now. Mark my words.

I heard her, but couldn‘t understand her fear. Ummi had always been an overprotective parent. Every illness, accident waiting to happen, and predator in the city she was convinced were after her children, and she did her job a little too well to protect us from all of it. I, on the other hand, considered myself more reasonable. I took precautions and left the rest in Allah‘s hands. I was a city Muslim girl; I wasn’t easy to faze. Why would I believe that this event was any different?

I carried on like nothing had happened. That was such a bad move. After spending a week at my parent’s home, I was escorted out by Abu and Adam to run some errands and to return to my apartment to check on things. I’m telling you: as soon as I walked outside of my parent’s home, I felt the change all around me.

I mean for real, from the grocery store clerks to the bank tellers to just regular passersby—they were looking crazy at me, like at any moment I was going to go postal on them, while at the same time I’m looking back at them, alert with fear. They were treating me like I was no longer their neighbor or the gracious tipping customer they saw every other day. I was being treated like the ex-con parolee that nobody wanted on their block. People say sticks and stones can break your bones and words can never harm you. But whoever made that up couldn’t have been a Muslim living after 9-11. The words that I heard people saying about Muslims, and even those glares—they pained me deep into the core of my being. People were seriously not playing with me, and I know some of them truly hated me just because…well, I guess they thought I was a threat to them. How whack is that, though? Emotionally, I fell apart.

The anti-Islam hype got so bad in the first few weeks after 9-11 for some Muslims around my community that Imam Muneer of Al Ikhlas Islamic Center requested that all the sisters stay home for our safety.

Now, I’ve always been headstrong and never liked feeling forced to do anything, but at that point I knew Imam Muneer was right. A number of young Muslim kids who attended public schools had been beaten up, and a couple of older sisters had even been assaulted. Muslims’ properties had been vandalized, including Covered Pearls. Covered Pearls closed for a month because the salon suffered seventeen hundred dollars worth of damage.

The following may sound shallow, but I’m human, and we’re keeping it real. At that moment I felt like the timing couldn’t have been worse. I had made a lot of strides the previous year, financially and personally. My plan to go back to school was set. I had enough money to finance it, and I had just moved out of my parent’s house into my first apartment. All of my furniture had been delivered, and Khadijah, Ummi, and I had found the perfect arrangement for it. And you know that homey feeling you get once you’re really settled and adjusted somewhere? Well, it had just found me. My apartment was my home. But I didn’t stay. Imam Muneer’s plea was clear, and my Abu had no intention of not heeding it. I packed up some of my things and went back home. I stayed with my family for six weeks. I know—that just goes to show that Allah is always in control of things.

For the six weeks that I stayed with my parents, every day Abu would take me to school, and my little brother, Adam, would pick me up and take me to work. And then, right before I got off of work, my Abu would be outside waiting on me. Alhamdulillah, I admit it felt good for a while. It was nice not having to drive my own car in and out of traffic everyday and spending time with my parents was a much needed dose of love.

At home I was free to be as Muslim as I wanted without the stares or rude and snide remarks I was getting outside. Being home made me feel good and safe, and it had me questioning myself as to why I fought so hard to move out in the first place. Then reality set in, and it all came back to me.

Abu had recently turned sixty and his health wasn’t strong enough to take care of me day in and out, even though he would never have admitted it. You see, my Abu is a selfless human being. Anything for the pleasure of Allah or the pleasure of his family, he’ll give it his all.

I remember when I was about ten years old, I had this grand idea that I was destined to become the next big equestrienne. I needed to take horseback riding classes, but Ummi wouldn’t hear of it. She gave me every reason why I couldn’t do it, from it being a waste of money and a distraction from my school work, to it not being a city girl’s sport. I thought I would never win her over, and I didn’t.

One afternoon after school, Abu took me out with him to the Islamic Center for the evening prayer. After the prayer, we got back in the car, and I thought we were headed home. Abu turned to me and asked what would make me happy. I smiled and told him that I would be happy if I could ride horses. He smiled back at me and said, Then, insha’Allah, let’s go find you a horse, Jameelah. We drove an hour and a half to a farm in Monson, Massachusetts. I got to ride a horse for the first time, and Abu signed me up for lessons. I took the lessons for two years and loved every minute of it. But most of all I loved knowing that Abu had my back when the odds were against me. He’s a dedicated family man, and that’s why it pains me so much to see him struggle.

My parents operate their own halal (Islamically permissible) food restaurant, called Halal Time, seven days a week from eight-thirty in the morning until eleven o’clock at night, and they‘re active members of the Islamic Center. They’re both hard workers, actually, and enough was enough. By the fourth week I’d asked Khadijah’s husband, Khaleel, to take over Abu’s job of hauling me around.

Khaleel is a White revert to Islam, and he, too, is another great Muslim family man. He has been another brother to me from day one and has always been there to help me out when I really needed it. This time wasn’t any different. I knew, though, it couldn’t be long-term because he had a heavy schedule, too. Besides taking care of Khadijah and their son, Waleed, he attended Western New England College’s law program and worked full-time as a paralegal. After the first week, slowly, but surely, I began to feel guilty. I hate feeling like I am asking too much of others. However, since I’m not married, as a Muslim woman I continue to be my family’s responsibility, and I have no problems with that. It’s when you’re blessed to have a great family like mine that you become extra-sensitive to over-burdening them. I had to pull away just a bit for their sake, and that’s why I had to move out.

It had taken over a year of slow, but consistent conversations to sway my parents before 9-11. But finally we came to an agreement on certain conditions, and it happened. A couple months after 9-11, I tried to persuade Abu to let me be free again. I had to. The stress of the situation was making me unbearable to be around. I couldn’t keep going on like that. I did some good old-fashioned begging to finally sway Abu. This time, though, I went back to my apartment with Adam in tow. Part of our second agreement was for Adam to stay in my apartment for a couple of months. All was good again, or so I thought.

Ramadhan crept up on me that year and knocked me right back down on my behind. I was a complete mess. Fatigue, depression, and a bad attitude to boot were what I was working with. For the first time since I was a kid, I was shaken up by Ramadhan. If you don’t know what that means, it’s a condition that a lot of new Muslims usually deal with, since they’ve never had to abstain from food all day. It’s like your whole body goes into shock from the fasting. Stomachaches, headaches, dizziness, and nausea—I had it all. Plus, I’d become a sugar and caffeine addict after 9-11. Two chocolate candy bars and two mocha lattes a day was my own prescription to keep my mood swings at bay. Stopping cold turkey was the pits and, yeah, my attitude got even worse. I couldn’t help it. When my emotional illness finally let up by the third week, I offered more dua (supplication) to Allah than I had ever done before. I promised to never allow myself to fall that far off again.

Anyway, that wasn’t the end of it. To make matters worse, I used the onslaught of the bad press and media as an excuse to stay home and not go out nightly to the Islamic Center to offer prayers. I had hit an all-time low at that point, especially since I’m supposed to be the tough big sister, and there I was, scared to go out publicly to worship, while Khadijah, the younger sister infamously known to be a big baby, was there every night. And speaking of Khadijah, may Allah bless her, the girl called me every night offering to give me a ride with her family. And do you know, when that didn’t work, she switched it up to calling me non-stop in the daytime. Oh, ya Allah, she drove me mad trying her hardest to cheer me up with her silly jokes and non-stop chatter all the time. What I’m going to say next is going to sound just as low as skipping out on tarawih prayers, so before you start wondering, yes, I have made amends with her, so I’ll say it. I started blocking her calls. I didn’t think it was sisterly then, nor do I now, although at the time it was my only option. Funny thing is that it was working well for a minute, too, and then one day she up and drove to my apartment. And, for Khadijah, that was serious business. She hates driving.

Look, I’m here for you, Big Sis, Khadijah said teasingly, as she patted the top of my uncombed curly mass of hair and newly formed popped belly. I was obviously letting myself go, and she, in her own way, wanted me to know that she’d noticed. I usually wouldn’t have cared, but for some reason I did.

At that moment, as she was rambling away, all I could focus on was how much she and I were complete opposites. Personality, talents, goals, and even in our looks, we were different. Especially in our looks. Most people will tell you we don’t look much alike. Khadijah’s honey- and turmeric-spiced complexion, small almond-shaped dark eyes, short nose, and pronounced cheekbones have always flagged our father’s Indonesian heritage, while I take my after my mother’s African American side with toasted brown skin, round face, full mouth, long nose, and round hazel eyes. At five feet and nine inches, she had Ummi’s height, as well as her gorgeous smile. It had never bothered me much, but I wondered, given all that she was blessed with, was she really the more confident sister? Was I the weaker sister? She was married, after all, and I wasn’t.

You gotta come out with me, she whined. "We can go visit some of Ummi’s friends and bring them some sweets that I baked for their iftar and, whatever you say, I’m not gonna take no for an answer, so don’t even think about saying it."

I didn’t want to, but I knew she wouldn’t be leaving either if I didn’t. I dressed quickly in the privacy of my bedroom, putting on a dark green jilbab and pinning a paler coordinating green hijab under my chin. I put on a black fleece jacket and a pair of wheat-colored Timberland boots and followed her out the door. Outside, we descended the towering metal staircase two flights to the parking lot.

Khadijah’s ’00 four-door tan Nissan Maxima looked brand new. It was parked on the side of the three-story brick apartment building in the towing zone. I shook my head as we approached the car. She was lucky the building’s contracted tow truck had already paid the parking lot a visit earlier in the day, or else her car would not have still been there.

Khadijah stopped at the trunk of her car, chirped its alarm off and simultaneously unlocked the doors. She glanced over to me, flashed all of her teeth in a camera-ready smile and said, You feelin’ like driving today? as she dangled her car keys on her index finger. I knew she didn’t want to drive anymore than she had to, but I hadn’t wanted to even leave my apartment, let alone deal with traffic. I grabbed the handle on the passenger side and opened the door.

Nope, not today, Lil’ Sis. Your voyage, your drive, I told her as I got into the car and buckled up the seat belt across my lap. Khadijah sighed heavily, pondered for a second, then got in on the driver’s side. Fortunately, she’d decided not to sweat the matter like she normally would have. That would have been overkill for me, and I would’ve taken myself right back up into my warm apartment. Khadijah was notorious for whining. Usually, I wouldn’t let it hamper my day, but I was not in the mood. Starting up the engine, she carefully backed her car out of my apartment’s parking lot.

I’m telling you without any exaggeration that Khadijah drove like an elderly woman on a Sunday stroll: slowly and cautiously. She was the type of driver that real drivers, like myself, were easily frustrated by. I sighed and tried to hold in my displeasure. Like usual, she ran her mouth relentlessly from one topic to the next: about her son Waleed’s new bike that she put together wrong, and the new children’s playgroup that she and her best friend Bilqis were helping to organize at the Islamic Center, and the cake she was selling at our parent’s restaurant, and the ant traps she recently purchased at the hardware store that hadn’t been working—again. I was trying my hardest to keep from getting upset, and I thought I was doing a good job until Khadijah yelled at me.

You could at least try to smile, she said with deep furrows in her eyebrows and a pouty mouth as she waited for a light at an intersection.

Huh? What are you talking about? I asked her. I was half asleep as I opened my half-closed eyes.

I’m talking about you, Jameelah. It’s Ramadhan, we’re fasting, we’re on our way to do some good deeds—hello? she said, taking her hands off of the wheel and waving them over her eggplant-colored hijab that was pinned under chin. I’m even driving. You could at least try to smile and act like you’re enjoying yourself. I’m doing all of this for you, after all.

Khadijah, I didn’t ask you to drive. I didn’t even ask you to come and get me. And I’m sorry if you don’t like the way I’m acting, I replied with neck-rolling attitude. I’m doing the best I can.

I’m not too sure about that. I’ve been calling you all week, Jameelah, and you don’t answer. In fact, everybody has been calling you. Don’t think I didn’t know you’ve been screening your calls on your cell and at home, ’cause I know you have been! Had you picked up and answered the phone, you would have known I was coming by, Khadijah said in much sassier tone