I listen to him snoring in his mosquito-net protected bed, just as I watch his sleeping form. For two hours. The night he travelled, I missed him. I lay awake for a long time wishing I had him or someone else - anybody else - in the same room. Not necessarily on the same bed, just another human presence. I felt so far away from home to be left alone...and lonely. I missed his early morning prayers. Those moments when he would wake up, go wash up then unfurl his mat, spread it, kneel and prostrate on it, softly muttering words to Allah. Then, I wished Allah was obliged to answer. I had not been paid and I wished to tell him to tell Allah to help hasten the payment of my allowance. No, Allah had to answer. He was obliged. The land was full with his adherents so if He wasnt here to answer, what business would He have elsewhere? It was His responsibility...or was it? Before he travelled, he gave me half a tuber of yam. Or wasnt I the one who jokingly requested for it? Anyway, the thing is that he gave it to me. And I was very grateful. Few days after he travelled, I was cleaning the room. Our room. I was worried. In his corner of the room, some of his religious paraphenalia lay about. You see, in the more than two decades of my life, I had not as much as read SHARING A ROOM WITH A MUSLIM for dummies and here I was wondering whether to pick his things up, arrange them before sweeping and mopping. So what did I do? I swept and cleaned only my place and left his place alone. No malice at all. It was not even fear. Fear of who? Allah? No, I heard Allah was benevolent. Qasim? Taah, he dared not try nonsense with me, I assured myself. So it was not fear, my friend, I think it was a heightened sense of things. A week later, the heightened sense of things had drastically reduced. I remembered that when I was young, much younger, I believed the Bible was the Quran written in English and the Quran was the Bible written in hausa. Then, I thought hausa and arabic were one and the same. That was before I stumbled upon an English translation of the Quran. And read it. Well, thats another story for another day. So, it was another cleaning day. I was done with my area of the room. Our room was actually meant to be the combination of a sitting room and dining room. I eyed his area and belongings warily. The contrast between his and mine was sharp. Talk about the Taj mahal and the ancient Augean stables. No, I had to do something. Daring whatever god that be, I packed his beads to one side, folded his mat, calmly arranged his belongings, then swept and cleaned the place. I like to believe Allah was pleased with me. Then he came back one early morning. Around 4am. Unexpected. I had once missed him but now I was perplexed. I wasnt expecting him. I had grown used to his absence. Used to? Sorry I lied, I loved his absence. I cherished the darkness that was mine alone when night fell. Mine. Mine alone. I was selfish. The room was his long before it became ours. Was I going to oust him? I hope it would not get to that. He is a liberal muslim, just like other Yoruba muslims I had met. If he was an Hausa muslim, I feared I might have disposed of him long ago. Nothing personal. Maybe its just in my head. He acts as though he likes me. I think I like him too. I believe so. You see, I can have a deep dislike for someone and still smile at and laugh with them. I just cant remember how and when I learnt how to fake sincerity, well, if I want to. Even if we share a cordial relationship nearly bordering on cold mutual respect, I believe it will be enough for the few weeks we had left to share a room.
Posted on: Sun, 26 Jan 2014 07:28:26 +0000
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