She Wore Red Trainers by Na'ima B. Robert Read Free Book Online Page A

up.’
    No response.
    I decided to change tack. ‘Just get up and make wudu – you’ll feel better, y’know…’ But the covers stayed firmly over Umar’s head.
    I sighed and tried again, ‘Remember, prayer is better than sleep,’ I called out, just like the adhan of Fajr .
    â€˜Yeah, right,’ was the response.
    I gave up then. What was I supposed to do if Umar refused to wake up? I had my own salah to worry about.
    At the other end of the hall, I knocked lightly on the door and pushed it open. ‘Jamal,’ I called out softly. ‘It’s time to pray…’
    Immediately, a tousled head poked out from under the duvet. Jamal sat up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes.
    â€˜Have you prayed yet, Ali?’ he asked.
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜Good.’ Jamal swung his legs over the side of the bed and stretched. ‘Don’t you pray without me, OK, Ali?’
    â€˜Sure, Jay, we’ll wait for you, inshallah.’ I turned to go.
    â€˜Oh, Ali?’
    â€˜Yeah?’
    â€˜D’you think you could make pancakes today? I had a lovely dream about them last night.’
    I laughed. ‘No problem, Jay, I’ll make you pancakes today.’
    â€˜With chocolate sauce and ice cream?’
    I chuckled as I nodded my head. ‘Yup, with chocolate sauce and ice cream – if there’s any left!’ I shook my head again as I watched my nine-year-old brother scamper to the bathroom. That boy sure loved his food!
    And Islam. When Dad and I started making changes to our lifestyle – prioritising our faith, the prayer in congregation, Jum’ah , and all that – Jamal was totally on board. It was as if this was what he had been waiting for. Not so Umar.
    As I walked down the hallway, I saw Dad standing in thedoorway to Umar’s room, a frown on his face and a hard edge to his voice.
    â€˜Umar!’ he barked, his fist tight on the doorknob. ‘Get up !’
    â€˜All right !’
    I could hear Umar rising violently, no doubt throwing off his covers. In a moment, he had pushed past Dad, a scowl on his face, and the bathroom door was slammed behind him.
    After the salah I sat making dhikr . Dad had said that Umar would soon calm down and fall into step with all of us but, from where I was standing, he seemed to be getting more and more rebellious, more resistant to us.
    â€˜Oh, Allah,’ I prayed, ‘please guide him to the straight path. Don’t let him forget who he is, what Mum taught him.’
    I was worried about Umar. After Mum’s death, he had withdrawn into himself. I was hurting so much myself, I didn’t have the emotional energy to try to break down his walls. So he barricaded himself behind hostility, resentment, and silence.
    He resented everything: losing Mum, renting out the house, moving from Hertfordshire. And he resented our efforts to revive Islam in our lives. He wanted to ‘live free’, in his words, ‘find his own way’. And every time Dad told him to pray, or accompany us to the mosque, or take off his headphones, he bristled.
    â€˜It’s my life!’ he would scream and then he was gone, out of the room, out of the house. There were times when I thought he would storm through that front door and just not come back again.
    So, every time he did come home, no matter what state he was in, I breathed a sigh of relief.
    Because Umar was Mum’s favourite, I had always known that. No matter how much she tried to hide it, I could tell that she had a soft spot for him. And she made me promise to always look out for him.
    â€˜He needs you, Ali,’ she would say in the aftermath of another row. ‘And he does look up to you, even though he doesn’t show it. He’s a good boy. Don’t you give up on him, OK?’
    So I had to hang in there. For Mum’s sake.
    Unpacking our things was the start of a new era for us. Besides, Dad had assured us it would only