Midnight (43 page)

“Definitely!” she said.

“But I don’t want you to fight,” I cautioned her. “I’ll fight for you. I promised. And when you grow up,
inshallah
, your husband will fight to protect and provide for you.”

“But what if you’re not there when it’s time for me to fight? And what if I’m not married yet?” she asked.

“You are never left alone,” I reminded her. “Someone who cares for you is always watching over you,” I said.

“But it’s not the same thing. No one can fly like you, except your friends,” she said, like she had thought about it and was so sure.

“Okay, good point. I will train you to defend yourself in certain ways,” I said.

“When then? When does my training begin?” she pressed.

“On Sunday, family day,” I promised.

She made a frustrated face and huffed, “Always only on a Sunday.”

We met Umma at her job ten minutes before midnight just to be sure.

On the train ride, I showed her the one hundred questions we needed to study to pass the test for our citizenship papers. I translated the information and pointed out how easy the test would be, simple questions like who was the first United States president, and who is the current United States president, and little things to recite and facts to remember.

“Don’t worry, we’ll study together,” I assured her.

“And I’ll test you every day,” Naja said in her sleepy voice.

At 1:30
A.M.
in our little Sudan, I confided in Umma as always.

“I have something else to recite,” I said to Umma. She sat waiting for me to explain.

“The
nikah
. I would like to take Akemi as my wife,” I said solemnly.

“Does she agree?” Umma asked.

“She does.”

“
Mubarak!
” Umma said, meaning “Congratulations!”

She got up from the living room floor where we were sitting and disappeared into her bedroom.

She emerged holding her silk scarf in her hands, the one she wore on the last night that our entire family was together in the Sudan.

Sitting down, she untied the scarf bundle, revealing the contents I knew were inside, her treasured and exquisite jewels, the ones she was wearing on her last night of seeing my father.

With the jewels in close view, glistening under Umma’s night lamp, the seriousness of my taking a wife sunk in even further. It was deeper than Akemi’s beauty and charm and intelligence and creativity and passion. If my mother sat poised to part with those items which my father selected and purchased specifically with Umma, his first wife and love of his life, in mind, then this was a huge responsibility and a very warm acceptance of Akemi into the fold of our family.

“Give her these,” Umma said as she separated the jewels that she would give away from the ones that she would keep to herself.

As I watched her pretty fingers maneuvering, I saw the uniqueness of each of her bangles, the engravings and designs, the careful attention to details, the specially selected charms that dangled from a particular one of them, the clear princess diamonds and trillions as they sparkled.

“I cannot separate you from your jewels, Umma.”

“Oh, you can give yourself to Akemi. She can give herself to you. Yet I cannot give her some jewels, when you are worth so much more?” She sat waiting for an answer. I didn’t say one word.

“I can be moderate, then. I’ll gift her four diamond bangles, four gold bangles, and my pair of earrings.” She re-arranged the jewels to match her words.

I looked at her beautiful enthusiasm. Umma was big-hearted. Her jewels were worth even more than the jewels that Fawzi purchased for his new wife. And, of Umma’s chest
of jewels that were left back in the Sudan, these pieces were the only ones she had with her here in America.

My father did not have to go through India to acquire authentic gold and clear diamonds. They were pure and original in Africa, buried in the soil, drifting in the waters, mined and sold in our shops.

“The bangles yes, but not four of each. Two diamond, two gold, and you keep these earrings for yourself. I’ll purchase some earrings for Akemi myself,” I told her.

“You keep the bangles and the earrings for her. Use your money to purchase a ring for her finger,” Umma insisted.

“You keep your earrings,” I said solemnly as we went back and forth over what were “pieces of my father.” Or at least, pieces of our memories of him, her deep love and my awesome admiration.

I had seen Umma refuse to pawn these same earrings once before when we were in Egypt. An Arab offered her ten thousand pounds for them, when they were actually worth fifty thousand pounds. I saw my mother pick them up from the counter, pleased that the Arab was unfair in his business. This way, she could keep the earrings for herself as my father had always intended for her to do.

“How about this ring?” I asked, selecting something much more modest.

“This is small enough to fit Naja’s finger,” Umma said. “But, it is not suitable as a wedding ring.”

“I know, but if you don’t mind, I’ll take it,” I said.

“And what of Akemi’s uncle and family?” Umma asked.

I thought for some time before answering. I recalled Akemi not exactly answering this same question earlier this afternoon in the ice cream store when I asked her.

“They may not agree,” I said truthfully. “But she will agree,” I said confidently.

“If I could speak any of their languages, I would go and
talk with them. It is better when families have agreement, but as a woman I can tell you that Akemi will follow her man. As a Muslim, I can tell you that you and she are both of age. She agrees and you agree, recite the
nikah
, three witnesses and Allah agrees.” Umma crushed her hands together lightly, a gesture which meant, “and it is done.”

As an afterthought Umma said, “And if the
nikah
were not recited and the marriage left undone, the love and desire would still be there. A child would come and the adults would be guilty of forbidding and breaking what would have been a complete family, as Allah requires.”

Umma left and returned with her Holy Quran and her calendar. We both looked at the dates on the page of this month, and selected Saturday, April 26th, as the evening Akemi and I would recite the
nikah
and be married.

Umma smiled, her slim finger resting on the calendar date. “This is sixteen days from now. You can use this time to prepare yourself.
Inshallah
we will find a good house to buy at least to begin the process of moving away from this place. In this time you will become an American citizen, which may work out better for Akemi as well. But son, do not go into her until the
nikah
is recited and the wedding is complete.”

“I plan to see Akemi tomorrow. I promised to take her out,” I admitted.

“The proper thing is to wait. Even Muslim men who are older than you have to stew in anticipation of their bride. They don’t go about dating her. The more you see her before the
nikah
ceremony, the more you increase your chances of slipping up. Allah requires that things be done in proper measures,” Umma said.

“To marry is a sacred thing,” Umma said. “Your entire life together with your wife will be a constant discovery. The Americans want to know everything of their mates before they marry. The American fiancé takes full knowledge of his
woman’s body before she becomes his wife, if she ever really does become his wife. But they exhaust, drain, and use one another before even their wedding day.

“By marrying young, you are not doing a wrong thing. You will be fascinated every day for a long, long time. You will share something with your wife that you have not shared with anyone else. Each thing she reveals to you will excite and amaze you more and more. You will learn her. She will learn you. You will both teach and learn. You will grow together, struggle together, celebrate together, suffer together, create, and guide new life together,
inshallah
.

“You two will lock out the distractions of Satan and this world, and the temptations of the liars.” Umma was dropping bombs and our living room was a scene of constant fireworks in the black of the early morning.

“Tomorrow I’ll write a letter to Akemi’s father. I think it is the right thing to do,” I confided. “I am not asking for his permission, because the Quran does not require this. But I want him to know who I am, how I feel about his daughter, and that he can be certain that I am a good man with a true intention to secure her and be her husband for a lifetime.”

Umma spoke of the ceremony she would set up. We both agreed to keep it short and very simple. As her lips continued to move, my mind drifted towards the reality of the inevitable fight, Akemi’s uncles and her male cousins. I knew they would come to snatch the jewel from me, as I had somehow snatched it from them. It was not how I wanted it to be. It’s just how it was.

On our estate my father once said to his friend in a gathering of men where I was seen and not heard, “You will know that you love a woman when you will do anything to woo her, win her, and keep her, when you would even protect and defend her honor with your own life.”

•   •   •

On Friday I mailed a three-page letter that I wrote in the passion of the late night, to Akemi’s father. After the introduction, I put it plain and simple: “I respect your daughter and I thank you for bringing her into and bringing her up in this world . . .” I maintained a humble tone, as I believed I should have. I explained about my faith and its requirements and our love. I explained that we planned to marry according to my faith. I told him about our boutique company, “small but profitable and expanding every month.” I assured him that I could and would take care of Akemi and that furthermore, I would enjoy doing it. That she and I would continue to grow and learn together as husband and wife. I invited him to write back and share his thoughts. I told him that we would both love his well wishes and that the State of New York wanted his permission. That Akemi and I were not planning a big ceremony, just a simple exchange of vows.

The next day I placed the marriage form and the letter in an envelope and posted it to Akemi’s father.

“Even though our first game is just a scrimmage, we need to go in there and set the tone of dominance. We got home court advantage. The game will be right here on the outdoor courts, new nets, but everything else is the same.” Vega was squatting while we were sitting on the gym floor after a serious and thorough practice on Friday night.

“I’mma run down the starting lineup, but y’all already know the deal. You know who the strongest players are. If you’re not one of them I don’t want no back talk, just get your game up,” Vega said.

He ran down the top five, started with my name and then Panama’s name and on down the line. By now, Vega had all twelve team members’ names by heart, and had even given a couple of dudes new names.

“You seven who ain’t in the starting lineup, this is no time to chill. You might hear your name called next Friday night at the game and if you do you better hustle hard like you one of my top five, got it?” Everyone agreed.

“We gon’ practice every day next week,” Vega ordered. The team groaned. “Whatever else you into, you gotta put it on pause. Get into this. You gotta make me look good,” Vega said, like he had something big riding on the game.

“We playing the red team,” Panama said.

“Red vs. Black,” another player said.

“Coach, you gon’ have to wear all black next Friday night
’cause every time we see you, you got something red on,” Braz said. “You can’t be repping for the other side.” The team agreed.

“I’mma be in pocket. You make sure you young ones is in pocket. And let’s get some paper in our pockets!” Vega pressed.

“Word up,” everybody said.

“What about these fucking police? Seem like they be just wanting something to jump off when we be leaving the practices some nights,” one player asked.

“What you expect? We the black team!” Vega said. “And look at Midnight, Panama, and Jaguar. I mean we really the black team!” Everybody laughed. “When they first showed me y’all I said, ‘Ah shit they set me up.’ I knew the police was gonna keep fucking with us,” Vega joked.

“Yeah, but we pull the girlies,” Panama hit back. “Most of y’all yellow niggas can’t hold ’em.” He reversed it on Vega.

“Seriously, fuck the police. We ain’t giving them nothing to go on. We ’bout this here basketball hustle right now. Just move together as one team, and when you see them motherfuckers don’t say shit. Keep it moving and keep your mouths closed. Got it?” Vega said with a dead serious looking face. I thought to myself, that’s exactly what Vega did last time, walked right past his own car and away from the police. He kept it moving and didn’t say shit until we was all down in the train station.

In the men’s locker room, Panama pulled a flyer off the wall. “High School Jam,” he read. “Yo, listen up, check this out. There’s a party next Saturday night right here in the gym. After we smash those red boys on Friday, our whole team should show up to this Saturday joint and scoop all the honeys up. Let these niggas know who runs this motherfucker.”

Cho hit me with my cash on Saturday. His store was mad busy from early morning so he was caked up. We worked his spot like we been together for years, served each customer swiftly and moved them right out. At 3:00
P.M.
when my shift ended, a next wave of customers showed up. I stayed and grinded with him until it all lightened up and cleared out.

He counted out $180 and put it in my hand. It was the most I ever drew in one day of work at the fish spot. It amounted to $20 an hour on a 7:00
A.M.
till 3:00
P.M.
shift, plus one hour overtime.

Akemi showed up. I saw her through the window. Cho saw her too.

“Japanese girl looking for you,” he said and flashed a rare funny smile, closed lip and revealing none of his teeth, the corners of his mouth pushed up.