“I’m really sorry. You have every right to hate me. I just want you to know that I’m not pretending to care about the Islamic Center, or you, I care a whole lot, I’m just—”

  “A nitwit?” I finish for him, and he finally breaks his resolve, his expression a mixture of surprise and amusement.

  “I guess so,” he says. “I’ll just pick the time slot for the petition then…” He scans the reception desk for Donna. “… When she gets back.”

  “I’m waiting for her too. We can wait together,” I say.

  We have yet another silent staring match that probably only lasts a second or two but feels infinite.

  “That sounds good,” he finally says.

  19

  BROWN PEOPLE TIME

  Said

  I’m so deep into my current sketch of a rendition of the welcome sign of New Crosshaven that I don’t realize Abbu is calling my name until he’s waving his hand right in front of my face.

  I quickly take off my headphones and close my sketchbook.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “Nothing’s wrong,” Abbu says, his eyes drifting to my now closed sketchbook. “Was that the entrance to New Crosshaven?”

  I shrug. “Yeah, just … doodling.”

  Abbu nods slowly. “It was good. Really good.”

  “Thanks,” I mumble, waiting for the other shoe to drop. I know that he wasn’t calling me just to compliment me on my sketch.

  “So, I’m heading out to Imam Abdullah’s for jummah. The Walker Center was fully booked—again—so we’re going to pray in his sitting room. I thought maybe you could join me if you aren’t too busy,” Abbu says.

  I blink at him slowly, confused. I can’t remember the last time I went to pray jummah. It was probably months, if not years, ago. It’s not like St. Francis Academy has an imam, and the nearest mosque to the school is an hour’s drive away.

  “Uh, I’m not sure,” I say.

  “Imam Abdullah would probably really like to see you again. He mentioned the bake sale when I went to pray maghrib the other day,” Abbu says.

  I glance down at my sketchbook for a moment.

  “Yeah, sure. I guess I can go to jummah. Let me quickly get changed,” I say.

  Abbu grins bigger than I’ve seen him smile so far this whole summer. “All right, I’ll be in the car. See you in five.”

  * * *

  The car ride to Imam Abdullah’s is short, and much less painful than I anticipated it would be. For one, Abbu doesn’t bring up college applications even once. Instead, he talks about how he’s picked up gardening this summer and hopes to serve freshly grown tomatoes at the dawat coming up.

  “Since when did you grow tomatoes?” I ask.

  Abbu smiles. “It’s a hobby I’ve taken up. Imam Abdullah gave your ammu some carrots from his garden and I thought I’d try to plant some of those too.”

  I’ve been so distracted this summer, I hadn’t noticed that Abbu was now a full-fledged farmer. He talks about his veggies some more and somehow it segues into him asking about the bake sale and petitioning for the Islamic Center.

  When I tell him about the town hall meeting later that day, he actually looks proud.

  “Should your ammu and I come?” he asks as he parks the car by Imam Abdullah’s house. “There’s safety in numbers, you know.”

  I wonder for a moment if he thinks Mayor Williams and the other town hall politicians would end up starting some kind of a brawl over the Islamic Center hearing.

  “I think we’ll be okay,” I say.

  “Right, well. You just call us if Mayor Williams gives you any more trouble. Your ammu and I have had our run-ins with him. We know how to handle him,” Abbu says sternly. I’m not sure what methods Ammu and Abbu have for handling Mayor Williams, but I can just imagine. Ammu probably throws him the death glare that used to give Safiyah and me nightmares as kids, while Abbu probably tries to bribe him with mishtis.

  “I will, Abbu,” I say.

  The two of us climb out of the car, pass the dozens of other cars piled around Imam Abdullah’s front gate, and ring the doorbell.

  The door opens just a moment later, and Imam Abdullah stands in the doorway, his smile visible through his long gray beard.

  “Ah, Said. Hossain bhai. You’re right on time!” he says, ushering the two of us inside. We slip our shoes off and join the rest of the group in the living room. The place has been set up with a large carpet on the ground. There are a few chairs lined up against the wall, but no couches, no TV. Nothing to indicate that it’s a living room at all.

  “We had to move some things out to make room for everyone, especially for jummah,” Imam Abdullah says when he sees me looking around. “I think you’re the last ones I was expecting. One of the benefits of leading prayer in my living room. I can wait for whoever I want to, no set schedules.” He beams at me before heading to the front of the room.

  Abbu and I sit down on the carpet, side by side with an uncle and his two sons who I recognize. We say our salams, but don’t get to say much more before Imam Abdullah begins his khutbah.

  He starts off in Arabic, the sound of the words familiar to my ears even though I don’t understand any of it. I expect to drift off, but somehow I find myself listening with rapt attention. There’s something about the way Imam Abdullah speaks—even in a language I don’t understand. It commands attention, but not in a bad way. It almost invites you in.

  Finally, he begins translating into English.

  “As everyone in town knows, recently our community faced a big blow. Our Islamic Center burned down in a tragic accident. As I reflected on this accident, it brought me back to a time when New Crosshaven did not have an Islamic Center at all. Yes, there was a time when the town had no Islamic Center, and our Muslim population was sparse. It was a sad time, and it was when many felt alienated from their religion. They had nowhere to turn to, nobody to turn to.

  “They struggled with their faith in the absence of community. They questioned Islam, if it was right for them. They struggled to pray, to fast, to keep their obligations as a Muslim. Many would say they strayed too far from Islam, but I don’t believe that. Allah is the most gracious of them all, and he is understanding of our struggles. And he waits to welcome each of us back whenever we are ready.”

  I stare at Imam Abdullah, wondering how he delivered a khutbah that felt tailor-made for me. How it feels like he looked right into my soul and into the exact thoughts and struggles going on inside me right now. But Imam Abdullah doesn’t look at me. He smiles at everyone and stands up to begin the jummah prayer.

  I stand too, raising my hands to my ears as Imam Abdullah says Allahu Akbar. Somehow, my lips form the words of the prayers alongside Imam Abdullah, my hands and feet follow the motions. It’s almost like no time has passed since the last time I prayed jummah.

  By the time I turn my head to end the prayer, mumbling, “as-salaam-alaikum wa rahmatullah” under my breath, I feel like I’m back to when I was younger, always going to the mosque with Abbu, praying jamat with my friends and their dads, usually meeting up with the Olatunjis afterward.

  And I realize that I’ve missed all of this more than I had known before this moment: being close to Allah, spending time with Abbu, going to the mosque. And maybe Imam Abdullah is right, maybe I’m ready to be welcomed back.

  * * *

  I check my watch again as Abbu pulls the car to the curb of the town hall.

  “You’re not late, Said,” Abbu says.

  “But there’s only five minutes until the meeting is supposed to start. It’ll take me five minutes just to walk in and find the room where the meeting is taking place,” I say, my leg going up and down.

  Abbu sighs, parallel parking on the side of the road. Sometimes I wonder how Ammu, Abbu, and Safiyah run on brown people time when I am punctual for absolutely everything. It’s like the tardiness genes skipped me somehow.

  “Sure you don’t want me to come with? I could call work and say I got held up with something,” Abbu says.

  “That’s okay, I’ll let you know how it goes,” I say, already pushing the car door open and slipping outside. I hurry up the steps of the town hall and toward the reception.

  “Hi, I’m here for the town hall meeting?” I ask, looking around for any sign of Tiwa. She’s nowhere to be seen. I hope she isn’t late to this thing. Knowing Mayor Williams, he would somehow use that to convince everyone why we don’t need an Islamic Center.

  “Yes, the meeting has already started. It’s down the hall to your left,” the receptionist says, barely looking up from her computer.

  Oh crap.

  “Thanks!” I call out quickly, while jogging down the hall. This is what I get for dawdling after jummah prayer to talk to Imam Abdullah and the uncles, and for letting Abbu drive me to the town hall. He had to stop on the way to fill up his car with gas, and then to run errands for Ammu. Which apparently made me officially late.

  When I finally spot the door for the meeting room, I quietly twist the handle and push it open. The first thing I see is Mayor Williams at the front of the room, sitting behind a raised podium. There are two men on each side of him, both white.

  Rows of red chairs face the podium, and there are only a few people sitting on them, making it easy to spot Tiwa and Safiyah near the front.

  I consider joining them, but slide into one of the seats in the back so as not to cause any kind of disruption.

  “We’re already running over, Mr. Howard. Let’s call this to a vote. We still have the Islamic Center issue to deal with,” Mayor Williams says, interrupting the man on his right—who must be Mr. Howard. I sit up straight, feeling relief flood through me.

  “Fine, I think we’ve all presented our cases well enough,” Mr. Howard says. “All those in favor of passing the road safety sign bylaw say aye.”

  Everyone except for Mayor Williams mutters aye, with him being the only one opposed.

  “So, the road safety sign bylaw has been added. It’ll come into effect once we sort out all the paperwork,” Mr. Howard says. “Let’s take a five-minute recess before reconvening for the Islamic Center issue.”

  Most people exit the room almost immediately, but Tiwa and Safiyah stand up, hugging each other tightly like they’ve won the lottery or something. Given their track record, I should have probably guessed they weren’t early to the meeting for the Islamic Center.

  That’s when it dawns on me. I still remember the day Ammu called to tell me what had happened. The hit-and-run, the road sign that could have been there to prevent it from ever happening. Timi.

  This bylaw has to be about him. This must have all been Tiwa’s doing.

  I get up and approach them.

  “Hey.”

  “Hi, Said,” Safiyah says, pulling away from Tiwa. Her eyes water, like she’s holding back tears, and Tiwa’s are bloodshot like she’s just been crying. But she’s smiling too, so I know it’s the good kind of crying. The celebratory kind. “Of course you’d get here right on time.”

  “Hey,” Tiwa says, her voice strangely small.

  “Okay, I do have to get going. I’m already late for meeting Ishra, and there’s fashionably late which is cute, and then I’m-never-going-on-a-date-with-you-ever-again kind of late,” Safiyah says. “Good luck, and let me know how everything goes.” She gives Tiwa a meaningful look before hurrying out of the room.

  Tiwa and I sit down side by side, silence washing over us for a moment. I’m sure Tiwa is thinking of Timi. I’m thinking of him and all I did was catch the tail end of this meeting.

  “It’s a good precedent,” I say finally, breaking the silence.

  Tiwa turns to me with a questioning look. “What?”

  “That everyone disagreed with Mayor Williams,” I say. “Maybe they’ll disagree with him again. Clearly he’s not Mr. Popular around here.”

  “Maybe, but none of the town hall committee members are Muslim. I feel like they won’t understand,” Tiwa says, her eyes downcast.

  “They don’t have to understand, but they have to listen to us, right? So many people signed our petition, they can’t just ignore all of us. They’re supposed to represent us and our voices so … they have to listen,” I say.

  Tiwa nods, though there’s none of her usual confidence in it. I open my mouth to say something more reassuring, but just then the doors open and the committee members and Mayor Williams come back in, along with a small stream of other people from the town—many faces I recognize, some from when I was petitioning, others from dawats and many Eid parties over the years that I’ve been to. I even spot Imam Abdullah entering in from the back, still dressed in a panjabi from the jummah prayer.

  “Now, let’s get started,” Mayor Williams says as soon as he’s sitting behind the podium once more. His eyes land on me and Tiwa for a moment, and he frowns, before looking away. He’s clearly not too happy to be holding this meeting.

  “There’s been a motion raised to rebuild the Islamic Center, which burned down in an accident recently. A few citizens submitted a petition…” At this, Mayor Williams raises the petition and passes copies to the elected town hall members. “And the petition has reached the required amount of signatures.”

  More than the required amount, I want to say, but keep my mouth shut. I’m sure nobody would take too kindly to me correcting the mayor in a public forum like this.

  “The issue is that I have reviewed the petition and I have also reviewed the most recent census of our town. The population of Muslim citizens simply does not justify the rebuilding of the Islamic Center. That we had one in the first place is honestly a miracle,” Mayor Williams says with a chuckle.

  Beside me, Tiwa narrows her eyes in such an intense glare that I’m surprised Mayor Williams doesn’t drop dead right then and there.

  “I have been consulting with a building contractor who is willing to give us a fantastic deal to come in and demolish the remnants of the Islamic Center, building a block of apartments in its place. They’re available to start as soon as next week. It’ll serve the population of the town much better than any Islamic Center could, because it’ll serve the entire population equally,” Mayor Williams finishes. He’s smiling from ear to ear like he’s proud of his ridiculous speech.

  “I suppose what poses a problem is … What are the Muslim citizens of New Crosshaven meant to do for prayer and community?” Mr. Howard, one of the panel members, asks.

  “Well, the answer is simple: the Walker Center. It is supposed to serve the entire community indiscriminately. Our Muslim citizens can book it when they require, same as our Christian citizens, Jewish citizens, Hindu citizens … et cetera. It’s a shared space to be used exactly in this manner,” Mayor Williams says.

  Mr. Howard nods his head as if Mayor Williams’s point is in any way acceptable.

  “Any other questions?” Mayor Williams asks.

  I glance around and see Imam Abdullah’s raised hand. Mayor Williams spots him too and his face falls into a slight grimace.

  “Apologies, Mr.…” Mayor Williams begins.

  “Abdullah,” Imam Abdullah says.

  Williams nods. “Mr. Abdullah, I don’t believe your name is on the list of pre-approved speakers for this meeting.”

  Of course he isn’t on the pre-approved list; no one is. Mayor Williams made sure there wouldn’t be any time for that—not that he’d let us know that anyway.

  “I just found out about this meeting yesterday, how could I get on the pre-approved list?” Imam Abdullah says, sounding uncharacteristically angry. In all the years our family has been going to the mosque, I don’t think I’ve never seen Imam Abdullah get angry.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Abdullah, but the rules are the rules. Does anyone who is on the list—apart from the motion proposers—have any last words or questions?” When no one comes forward, Mayor Williams smiles and continues. “If not, let’s call a vote. All those in favor of demolishing the Islamic Center and building apartments in its place, say aye.”

  Beside me, Tiwa’s shoulders tense. Even I feel my throat dry up.

  They barely presented our case. They barely even glanced at the petition.

  Mayor Williams and all his colleagues say aye.

  “And those in favor of rebuilding the Islamic Center, say aye…” Williams says with a smile that almost seems triumphant as no hands go up.

  The decision is unanimous: The Islamic Center will be demolished.

  A mumble of dissent spreads through the room, but it’s quickly shut down by Mayor Williams slamming his gavel and silencing everyone.

  Everything seems to slow down, and my chest aches. All that work. The petitioning, all my sketches, our plans for the mural … and it resulted in nothing. Just like that, in a meeting that barely lasted fifteen minutes, these men who understand nothing about our religion took away our safe space. Our community.

  “Are you okay?” Tiwa asks. Somehow she looks more put-together than I feel.

  “I just … can’t believe it,” I say. “I really thought that … they’d listen. I mean, we got so many signatures. We went over the amount required for the petition. And then the mural? It was a really good idea.”

  “I know,” Tiwa says with a sigh. She slumps back in her chair, looking more tired than I’ve seen her maybe ever. “We tried, Said. At least nobody can say that we didn’t try. And at least we’ll have our Eid party. That’s something, right?”

  “I guess. Imam Abdullah will have to lead prayers from his living room for his entire life now,” I say, thinking about the tiny space. “How will he entertain his guests when it’s not prayer time? He doesn’t have a living room anymore.”

  “And the women will have to find some other place to pray. I’m guessing Imam Abdullah’s living room isn’t big enough to host us,” Tiwa says.

 

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