A Moment of Silence: Midnight III (The Midnight Series Book 3) (51 page)

“Vineyard?” I repeated.

“Martha’s Vineyard, it’s in Massachusetts. You must’ve heard of it before?” she asked softly.

“So you must have gone there before?”

“Twice,” she said, smiling. “Once with Daddy; he was only able to come one time in the last ten years because he’s always on duty. And the other time I went with Aunt Tasha and all of my cousins. Uncle Clementine owns a pretty huge house on the vineyard. We are invited to stay with them for the weekend, and this year July Fourth is on a Friday, so it’s just perfect. If you’d like, we can go up on Thursday night and stay until Sunday, late afternoon.” She looked up at me eagerly.

“Why would you think that I would know that place? Is it just because your aunt and uncle own property up there that I should’ve known about it?”

“No!” She laughed. “It’s because it’s a famous place for African-American families to vacation. Like especially the families of doctors and lawyers and judges and architects, engineers, executives, and you know . . . people who have professional practices and who own successful businesses.”

I caressed her. I already knew I would be playing in the championship game in Brooklyn on July 4, not in a vineyard. I kissed her on her ear. I stroked her hair. I kissed her nose. I kissed her lips. I
flipped her. I kissed her neck and caressed her butt checks. I fingered her from behind. She grinded on my finger. I mounted her from behind and entered her pussy. She pushed up onto her knees. Her breasts were dangling. I grabbed them. We were humping. I was aware that right then I was a little rough with her. As I was stroking her, I was convinced that I was right in my stance with her. She’s a woman, one hundred percent emotion. She’s naïve. She thinks her father and her male cousins are nice guys. She didn’t realize she was inviting me to stay in a house with a man who’d tried to stab me in the back. So of course I should make all of the decisions and protect her. She is my love. I was caressing the back of her thighs. She was completely quiet except for her beautiful breathing. All of her curiosities and requests slipped away. As I pulled her into a new position so I could see her pretty face, her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were the eyes of a woman who would willingly obey. I was inhaling her scent, coconut skin and olive oil sweat, lavender hair and a clean-smelling pussy. Oh,
Allah.

*  *  *

“And the dojo, the same thing. Stay out of my training space. Don’t make me break somebody’s neck,” I warned her.

“Is there anything that women can do, in your mind?” she asked me softly, staring down at her own feet.

“Women can do everything,” I said. “But women should do it among women, and men among men. If you want to be a doctor, be a doctor for hundreds of women. Do you think I would take you to a male gynecologist or male obstetrician? No,” I told her. “I wouldn’t. That’s how it is back home. The men marry and love the women, protect and provide for their women and children. The men work and the women work also in separate realms, even the ones who have college degrees and powerful professions. Umma had her own business in Sudan, same as she has one here in America. She had many women working for her on our estate, but only women. She dressed so many women of the Sudan with her fabrics
and fashions and designs. When she made clothing for men, she spoke to them through their wives, or their female servants.”

“I like that,” Chiasa said, surprising me. “I would think that it was really too much if you thought that women couldn’t do anything. You are just saying that we should open businesses for other women and with other women, and not interact with men who are not our husbands or brothers or sons or cousins, like family, right?” She was right, but her cousin Marcus came to mind and that made me pause.

“Right,” I said. “But you know in Sudan, some cousins can and do marry one another. It’s the same in other Islamic countries as well.”

“No way!” she said. I was glad to hear her feeling about it leap out like that.

“Seriously, sometimes two cousins have been promised to one another in marriage from early on. It could be an arrangement made by their parents or even between themselves, because they spent so much time together they just naturally became attracted.”

“That would be weird. I couldn’t imagine having to marry Marcus or Xavier, or any one of my cousins. I mean they all have known me since birth. We are related by blood. I don’t look at them that way,” she said.

“What way?” I asked.

“The way I look at you.” She kissed me.

“There you go.” I pulled back. “Trying to distract me with those pretty lips.”

“I’m not!” She jumped back, smiling. I just looked at her.

“Don’t stare at me like that,” she said.

“Why not?” I asked her.

“It makes me crazy, gets me all turned on.”

*  *  *

“Tell me
your secrets
,” I said. I was hoping she didn’t have any secrets. It was 2 a.m. then. We were naked beneath the sheets in her darkened room.

“I’m not going to lie and say that I don’t have any secrets. But
I just hope that if I tell you mine, you won’t get angry about any of them, and that you’ll always trust me,” she said softly.

“I won’t get angry. I know you wouldn’t do anything that you knew would make me angry.”

“Well, my father has given me a bank account with twenty thousand American dollars in it,” she said. “But, he says that it’s not the birthday present for my birthday in a few weeks. He says it’s for me to use for college in September, an education fund.”

“Did you ask him for money?” I asked her.

“Not at all. He said he had been saving it up for me since birth, little by little and that he would provide a portion of it at the start of each college school year. I never knew anything about it. Right before you and I married, I always worked really hard to make money to pay for my flight courses. But now that Daddy wants me to go to a four-year college and to become an aeronautical engineer, not just attend a flight school, that’s why he sent the money.”

“Anything else?” I asked, avoiding reacting one way or the other.

“And Aunt Tasha scheduled an appointment for me at her gynecologist. She wanted me to get on birth control. I told her nicely that it was not what we wanted. She also offered me to use the ground-floor apartment in another brownstone she owns in Harlem,” she said. I felt heated but remained quiet.

“But I told Aunt Tasha ‘no thank you,’ that I am happy living here with my husband and his family. So she said for my birthday she would gift me two memberships in their health club. It’s really nice. I think you would like it, and that’s a place where the male and female facility is separate. I can work out there and it wouldn’t be so bad that I don’t have an all-girl New York dojo to train in just yet.”

“And what else?” I asked.

“Um, well, you know I’ve been going to the main New York Public Library, the really nice one, and I’ve been reading all of these books that I would never have been able to get, say, in a little local bookstore. Well, I’ve decided to write a book about my life.”

“All sixteen years of it?” I asked her calmly.

“Come on, take me seriously, really. I’m about to turn seventeen.”

“I definitely take you seriously.”

“Okay, listen to my title,” she said, excited. “The name of my book is
My Shahada.
”

“I like that,” I admitted.

“On my book cover there is going to be a sword, a star, and a crescent moon. Not just any kind; I’ll ask Umma and Akemi to design it for me perfectly. And I came up with the idea because every book that I find about Islam, or about Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him, or about the times when the Prophet was alive and among his friends and companions, they were always books written by men. I thought to myself, wouldn’t it be awesome if Prophet Muhammad’s wives would’ve authored books? I would love to have been able to read his first wife, Khadijah’s, book. I’ve read two books about her so far. They were both written by men. It sounded and read and felt like they were written by men. I mean a woman would express things differently. And she wouldn’t forget to include certain things like her true feelings. And men don’t have the same thoughts and feelings and experiences as women do. What if Khadijah had written a book and inside of it, she also spoke about how she saw and experienced the Prophet, peace be upon him. That would be awesome. That would be something only she could do, a story only she could tell, because they shared a closeness that no other person shared, especially not with the Prophet. What do you think?” she asked me.

“Sounds good, even though you are not married to a prophet, but an ordinary Muslim man.”

“Not a prophet, true, but definitely not ordinary. And
My Shahada
is not mainly about our marriage. It is about my adventure from young girl to young Muslim woman and all of the incredible places, things, people, and events that includes.”

“Do it. You can write in the house or in a bookstore or library. I’ll drop you off and pick you up when you are finished.”

“Is that the only reason you agree, because you’ll know where I am and it’s work that I can also do at home?”

“Not the only reason, but definitely important reasons. Just remember, when you write about Islam you have to be very careful. Believers worldwide, we take it very seriously, and for most it’s passionately personal. So give each word some thought before you write it on the paper. Do good research. I know you will.

“Naja told me what happened at her school about you writing your own prayer,” I said.

“Do you think I was wrong?” she asked me.

“Nah . . . How could it be wrong for you to say a prayer in the language of your soul? And what human could judge the words you speak in prayer to Allah? I do think it is important for Muslims to learn Arabic, though. I also know that there is a definite way of making
salat
, and then there is a way to make supplication.”

“Supplication?”

“Muslims all around the world, we make our prayers a specific way, with specific movements and in a specific language. But we can all also offer a prayer about a certain feeling or burden or desire or challenge or even a wrongdoing in the language of our heart, and from our soul or mind to Allah. That’s called a supplication. When we do, we pray also that our supplication is accepted by Allah. Since Muslims believe that Allah is all-seeing and all-hearing and all-knowing, no one human can tell you that Allah doesn’t understand your particular language or whether or not Allah accepts your supplication. That’s between your soul and the One who created your soul, I believe.”

“You are so good and so smart,” she said in her sleepy voice, and then turned to face me. “That’s what’s so cool about you. Tomorrow, I’m going to write down my prayer and show it to you. And, I hope to record your voice calling the Azan. Is that okay?” she asked. “And is it okay that we speak about these kinds of things while we are like this . . . ?” she said, referring to our nudity.

“For Muslims, sex is not a dirty thing to feel guilty about. I’m your husband. You are my wife. We can speak about anything. And, I am supposed to go in you, repeatedly.”

“Well, put me to sleep, then,” she said, kissing my chest.

“From now on, I’ll consider your
mazaj.
I’ll check you before I go out and make sure you feel good so you can hold onto that feeling and wait till I come back to you.”

We slept.

Chiasa’s Prayer

Dear ALLAH,

The Most High, The Most Gracious, The Most Compassionate.

Dear ALLAH

The Only, Forever Present. The Only, All Knowing. The Only, All Powerful.

Dear ALLAH

The only ONE who is Sufficient. The only ONE who is Above Need.

The only ONE whom every soul needs.

Dear ALLAH,

Creator of the sun and the moon and the stars,

Of the planets and the universe, within and beyond.

Dear ALLAH,

Creator and Painter of the sky.

Maker and Mover of the mountains,

Creator and Stirrer of the oceans,

Shaker of all worlds,

Bringer of the waterfalls.

Dear ALLAH,

The only Immaculate Expressor.

Creator of the heartbeat, the soul, and the breath of life.

Creator of the mind, the memory, and the imagination.

Dear ALLAH,

Creator of the earth, the sand, and the soil.

Creator of the seeds and the roots, the plants and the flowers,

The trees and the fruits.

The Supreme Healer.

Dear ALLAH,

The Life Giver, The Life Sustainer,

The Owner, The Maker, The Designer of all souls.

Dear ALLAH,

The One, to whom all souls must return,

To answer, for our living choices, actions, and deeds.

Dear ALLAH,

Above all.

Dear ALLAH,

Above any.

Dear ALLAH,

Who has no equals, no partners, and no children.

Dear ALLAH,