Chapter 3

 

 

Shaafici Mosque, Minneapolis, Minnesota

24 November 2016 – 1700 local

 

Most of Aya’s friends stayed after sunset prayers this evening. Her true friends, anyway. She knew that a few of them had families that actually celebrated the American holiday of Thanksgiving. A few even prepared turkeys.

Not her parents. They observed the Muslim holy days exclusively. The rest of the holidays were for infidels.

Although she would never admit it, Aya secretly wished her parents would try to fit in more, try to be more American. Her father rambled on about the good old days in Mogadishu, but he was never going back. He could barely finish a shift in his taxi without Zacharia taking over—his back was that bad. To make ends meet, her mother ran a small coffee shop in the Karmel Mall, the local marketplace for the Somali community. She pretended the earnings from the shop were actually her husband’s wages from driving the taxi. They all pretended, for her father’s sake.

“Aya, how’s Zacharia doing?” asked her friend, Caaliyah. “How is he handling Hamza’s death?”

They all wanted to know about her handsome brother, but no one asked about her. Inside she still seethed from that night.

“Death?” she spat back. “You mean Hamza’s murder? When Imaan took me away I was on the verge of being arrested—” She stopped when she saw the other girls exchange glances. They didn’t believe that she’d actually met Imaan. After a few days, even Aya had started to doubt her own memory of that evening.

Caaliyah looked toward the door and gasped.

“It’s good to see you again, Ayana.” Imaan herself entered the women’s prayer room and strode straight up to Aya. The singer kissed the girl on both cheeks. Not a stiff embrace, but a warm hug, like between friends. Her hand lingered protectively on Aya’s shoulder.

“I’m leaving tomorrow for Europe, but I wanted to see how you were doing before I left.” Imaan’s voice was rich and warm, making Aya blush. Her friends gaped at the international superstar—and Aya’s friend. Imaan’s hand tightened on her shoulder. “Maybe you could introduce me to your friends?”

“This is Caaliyah, Yasmin, and Leylo,” Aya said. “The rest of them went home for the American holiday.”

“But you all keep the old ways,” Imaan said, her eyes connecting with each girl. Every movement Imaan made seemed deliberate, elegant. “That is good. The Americans claim to separate politics and religion, but can you believe a country that puts ‘in God we trust’ on their money? Their Christian God is not ours, my Muslim sisters.”

The girls exchanged glances. A few even looked around to make sure Imam Nabil wasn’t listening. No one talked like that in this mosque. Aya felt a thrill of danger run up her spine.

“May I speak with you, Aya?” Imaan asked with a sidelong glance at the rest of the girls. “Privately?”

Aya’s heart nearly leapt out of her chest. “Of course, Imaan!”

The older woman raised her eyebrow. “Is there somewhere we can go that’s close by? Maybe a little more comfortable?”

“My mother runs a coffee shop. It’s only two blocks away . . .” Aya let her voice trail off.

“That sounds perfect.” She slid her arm into Aya’s. “Shall we, sister? It was a pleasure meeting you all.” Her voice left no doubt that they were not invited.

A chill November wind met them at the door of the mosque, but Aya didn’t mind—the cold made Imaan huddle closer to her as they walked. A bell tinkled overhead when they entered her mother’s coffee shop. Aya’s mother rushed from behind the counter to greet her important guest, her face flushed and sweaty under her hijab. Next to Imaan, her mother seemed old and dowdy, a peasant next to a royal. But Imaan seemed not to notice, greeting the older woman with a warm kiss on each cheek.

The shop was mostly empty and they settled into armchairs next to the gas fireplace. Aya’s mother bustled out with two cups of kahawa, her mother’s specialty coffee made with cardamom and ginger. Imaan smiled at her and thanked her in Somali.

“Your mother’s lovely,” Imaan said after a tiny sip of her drink.

“No, she’s not. She’s old and stuck in her ways—she supports our family mostly. My father often can’t work.” It was so easy to talk to this woman. Aya found herself telling Imaan all kinds of family details that even her closest friends didn’t know about her.

“You’re a brave spirit, Ayana. I saw the way you stood up to those FBI agents when your brother was arrested.”

Aya blushed. “I—I just felt such a rage at everything. Hamza—that’s my cousin, the one they killed—was a good boy, a good man. And then they put handcuffs on Zacharia . . . I just—”

“It’s okay.” Imaan slipped her elegant hand over Aya’s. Jeweled rings glinted on her fingers and her long nails were painted a dark red. “It’s not your fault. Your parents brought you to this country, but America failed you. They call this the land of opportunity, but only if you’re white and Christian. If you’re brown and Muslim, there’s nothing here for you. Only lies.” Her voice still held its warmth, but it was now edged with a tone of insistence.

“I know you see this, Aya. I travel the world and every time I come to America, I see it more and more.”

“But what can we do?” Without thinking, Aya slipped her fingers into Imaan’s and received a reassuring grip in return.

Imaan inclined her head toward the counter where Aya’s mother was fixing another cup of coffee. “You just told me your mother provides for your family, right?”

Aya nodded.

“Does she take credit for that act of generosity?” Imaan paused, her gaze intent on Aya. “No, she does not. Yet without her intervention, your family would starve.”

She raised Aya’s fingers to her lips and kissed them gently. “Sometimes women are called to take action, to sacrifice for the good of their family, their culture, their religious beliefs. I think you, Ayana Ismail, are one of those women.”

Aya’s heart was beating so loudly in her ears she could barely hear her own response. “I am, Imaan, I am. What do you want me to do?”

Imaan smiled at her, a radiant baring of beautiful white teeth, a smile full of promise, just like on the cover of her last album.

“Gather friends of like mind and study the words of Allah. I’ll be back in a few weeks.” Imaan stood, and her expensive clothes seemed to flow over her lithe figure. Every movement dripped with grace and ease.

“I have high hopes for you, Ayana.”