Minaret: A Novel (6 page)

A rush for the door. `Because he's a communist, he's not bothered about the prayers,' smiled the girl next to me, the pretty one with the dimples. She passed me in a hurry to go out, calling out to her friends, her high-heeled slippers slapping her heels. She wore a blue tote today and looked even more cute. All the girls wore white tubes in the mornings and coloured ones in the evening. I liked watching the change in them, from the plain white in the morning to blue and pink flowers, patterns in bold colours.

I was one of the last to leave the class. Outside, I found Anwar chatting warmly with the professor as if they were old friends. I walked past them to the garden outside and sat on the steps of the porch watching those who were praying. Not everyone prayed. Girls like me who didn't wear topes or hijab weren't praying and you could tell which bons were members of the Front, because they weren't praying. The others lined up on the palm-fibre mat but it was too small to take everyone. The ones who came late made do with the grass. Our Maths lecturer, who belonged to the Muslim Brothers, spread his white handkerchief on the grass. He stood, his shoulder brushing against the gardener's. The student who was leading recited the Qur'an in an effortless, buoyant style. I gazed at all the topes of the girls, the spread of colours, stirred by the occasional gust of wind. And when they bowed down there was the fall of polyester on the grass.

`Why are you ignoring me?' Anwar's voice next me. I felt as if he was interrupting me - from what, I didn't know. I didn't reply. I got up and walked away in the direction of the lecture room. I couldn't see the students praying anymore and I felt a stab of envy for them. It was sudden and irrational. What was there to envy?

Anwar followed me. We were alone in front of the lecture room. He held my arm, above my elbow. `Don't play with me.'

`I am the one who is angry.' I tugged my arm away but he still held on.

`Is it what I said that day at the talk?'

`Yes it is what you said that day at the talk.'

He let go of my arm. `it has nothing to do with you

`It's my name. It's my father.'

`You're taking it personally. Broaden your mind.'

`I don't want to broaden my mind.'

`Do you know what people are saying about him?'

`I don't want to know.'

`They call him Mr Ten Per Cent. Do you know why?'

`Stop it.'

`You can't bury your head in the sand. You have to know what he's doing. He's taking advantage of his post in the government. He takes commissions on every deal the government makes with a foreign company.'

Anwar said the word `commissions' in English. It sounded to my ear formal and blameless. `So!' I said, sarcastic.

He lowered his voice, but it was sharper. `He's embezzling money. This life you're living - your new car, your new house. Your family's getting richer by the day ... Can't you see, it's corrupt?'

My anger was like a Curtain between us. 'How dare you say these lies about my father! My father is me. My family ►s me.

'Try and understand this. My feelings for you and my politics are separate. It's had enough I'm laughed at for going with you.'

'Then leave me alone. ,Just leave me alone and no one will laugh at you.'

He blew impatiently, turned and went. I walked into the lecture room and, instead of emptiness, found a girl wearing hijab sitting filing her nails. She looked smug and carefree, filing her nails. She had probably heard all the conversation between me and Anwar. What was she doing here anyway instead of going out to pray? She probably had her period. I sat down in my seat and, to prove to myself that I wasn't upset, I took my pen and started to make an invitation list for Randa's goodbye party.

izza, Pepsi, chips and tomato ketchup. Cupcakes and ta'miyah. Samosas and chocolate eclairs from the GB. Sandwiches made of tuna, egg, sausage, white cheese mashed with tomato, white cheese with olives. Vanilla ice cream in small paper cups. I passed them round in the dark and ended up dropping plastic spoons in the flowerpots. Grey-dark on the porch, mauve shadows on the cars. We were all beautiful in the moonlight.

`Sorry guys, the generator just isn't working ...'

`I couldn't get the bloody thing to work.'

`Why are they cutting off the electricity in the middle of winter? What's wrong with these people.'

`Watch it, their father is the government.'

`Don't you have batteries for the tape recorder?'

`Batteries. Omar find batteries. Go.'

`I'll go buy some.'

`No ... no.'

`She's gone to Nairobi for the wedding.'

`Five minutes in the car ...'

`You have the most perfect white teeth, did anyone ever tell you that? I can see them in this dark!'

`You're embarrassing the guy.'

`This is my going away party. This?'

'Randa!'

`I'm glad I'm leaving you . . . if this is the hest you can do.'

`Look at that girl!'

Day after tomorrow, no power cuts. Civilization.'

`Have a sandwich! That looks like egg ... I can't tell. Smell it ... This one is sausage for sure ...'

At might come back ...'

`What wrong with your generator anyway? Why couldn't you get it to work?'

`Let's go ...'

No one is going anywhere. Don't you dare move. Savor ... You'll just spoil the party.'

`1f we just had the music ...'

`What's he doing? No, you can't go. Please don't go.'

`Samir, you can't leave us.'

The car light shone on Sarnir, on his Afro and new moustache. He sat on the passenger seat, one leg still outside, the door open. He looked down at the car radio, turned knobs and then there was the sudden blare of the tape recorder with Heatwave's 'Boogie Nights.'

He started to dance towards us. Randa laughed out loud.

`Samir you're a genius!' I shouted above the music.

`Put the engine on, man. Put the engine on . . . your battery will die out.'

I didn't feel well after they left. I sat on the porch while the servants cleared up. It was still dark because the lights hadn't come on yet, but by then my eyes had adjusted to the darkness and I could see the neighbouring houses and the swing in the garden. The party had been a flop. And now Omar and most of the others had gone off somewhere else. Randa had gone home to pack. She thanked me and said the party was great, but she didn't mean it. I could tell she didn't mean it. It was the power failure that spoilt everything. One minute we were indoors dancing with the music loud and the atmosphere just right. Next minute it was the dark silence of outdoors, the intimidating sky. The lights never did come on and the generator was useless. They would talk about this, say we were so rich and yet too stingy to have a generator that worked properly. I knew they would say this because I would have said it if I were in their place.

I thought about Anwar and how separate he was from the party. He did not know Randa or my cousin Samir. Now when I met him in university, he said hello and I said hello, that's all. Sometimes he looked at me as if he was going to say more, but he didn't. He seemed busy these days with a lot of Front activities. I still thought of the things he had told me, tried to make sense of them; why I felt frightened when he said, `The situation in the country can't last,' or when he said, `This system is bound to fall.' He had told me that his youngest sister was blind and if they had the money she would be able to go to Germany and get an operation. Every year we went to Europe, every summer we stayed in our flat in London or in hotels in Paris and Rome and did all our shopping. If one summer we stayed at home, Anwar could take the money we had saved and send his little sister to have an operation. When I was young, before secondary school, I used to get into serious trouble with Mama and Baba over things like that. I gave all my Eid money to a girl in my class. I gave my gold earring to the Ethiopian maid. The maid was fired and the girl got into trouble at school with the headmistress. There are rules, Mania always said, you just can't give charity based on whims - you will he despised, you will he thought a fool.

I learnt these rules. Only give away clothes you have worn. Give fairly. Give appropriately. Give what is expected. You can offend people by giving them too much. You can confuse people. You can embarrass people by giving them expensive gifts they will feel obliged to reciprocate. Never give one person something and ignore their colleague, their sister/brother. Think. Think before you give. Is it expected of you?

I stayed up until Omar came home. One of his friends dropped him at the gate and he walked slowly up the drive, stumbled up the steps to the porch, once nearly falling. He didn't see nie until I spoke out. On one side of our porch was a bench built in the wall. He lay down on it, staring up at the sky, his hand dangling to the ground. The smell came from him again, sweet and smoky, distinguishable from beer.

'You're in big trouble,' I said to him. He didn't even turn to look at Inc. '1 saw a packet full of powder in your drawer.'

'Did you take it?' He sounded calm but more alert.

No, but I'm going to tell Baba about it.'

Its nothing, Najwa.' His words were spaced out. 'It's only hungo. It's not addictive - a bit stronger than a cigarette, that's all.'

You think Raba is going to he happy his son is smoking hashish?,

'Will he be happy his daughter is going out with a cOllllliLllllSt?'

`It's finished between me and Anwar.'

`You just had a fight, you'll make up.' He shifted sideways, looked at me in the dark. `And when you do, do you know what Baba will do to hiln? Send him some thugs to beat him up. Make sure when he graduates, no one gives him a decent job.'

I breathed out. `You're talking rubbish - that stuff has messed up your head. Baba wouldn't do that.'

He laughed. `He'd do anything to protect his precious daughter.' He turned again on his back and we were quiet. He started to breathe steadily as if he was beginning to fall asleep.

You better go inside before they come back.'

He grunted.

`Here, take the torch.' I put it in his hand.

While he was heading inside, I saw the headlights of Baba's car coming towards the house. The car horn sounded and our night watchman got up to open the gate. There was the sound of the wheels on the gravel, then Mama's voice as she got out of the car. `How long have these lights been out?'

I went over to Baba and hugged him like I was afraid of something and he was going to make the fear go away. He smelled of grilled meat and supposedly banned whisky. I moved away from him. Mama looked tired, her shoulders stooped. Even in the moonlight I could see the mascara smudged around her eyes. We climbed up the steps of the porch. They didn't ask about the party and continued the conversation they'd been having in the car.

`He'll weather it out,' Baba said, `he's faced opposition before.'

I hope so,' she said. `Whatever hurts him will hurt us.'

I opened the door of the house. The lights came on and hurt nay eyes.

aba didn't often share his wishes with us but he did that day. We were at the farm and he was wearing a safari shirt. He was irritated a little because he did not like the family gatherings that my mother organized. He preferred meetings with business friends, useful contacts, to day-long picnics spent playing cards and eating nonstop. Leaning back on his deckchair, he looked up as a small plane flew past, spraying pesticide. `One day,' he said, `I'm going to have my own private jet. Three more years at the maximum - I've got it all planned!'

`Wow,' Omar and I said at the same time. We were sitting on a picnic rug on the grass.

`Think of your father, kids. I started out with nothing, not a father, not a good education, nothing. Now I'm going to have my own private jet.'

`I'll learn to drive it,' said Omar. `I'll take lessons.'

Baba looked at us over his gold-rimmed glasses and asked, `So how old are you now?'

`Nineteen,' Omar chanted.

`Nineteen, already? And you too, Najwa?'

`Yes,' I smiled.

He was teasing us. `I thought you were eighteen.'