said nothing more, the men turned back to the screen. The man drew close to Reza. âTough rally this afternoon.â
This time Reza deigned to look at him. The man adjusted his zanna cap, which had seen better days. The red and the blue and the yellow yarn embroided into it had washed out and there were strands of thread coming undone.
âYes,â Reza nodded.
âAll these people trying to cause trouble for the senatorâs candidate will be put to shame insha Allahu !â The man adjusted his old cap again. âDid you know they tried to disrupt the rally? If not for Allahâs favour, I tell you wallahi ââ
The account the man gave of the rally, embellished with choice onomatopoeic expressions for effect, could have been plucked straight from a blockbuster. Reza, despite being a principal actor in the whole melodramatic episode, did not remember it that way. He did not even exist in the manâs account. One of the other waiting men, probably as irritated by the manâs incessant chatter as Reza was, said it was time for prayers and rose. The others followed him out to the mosque.
âShall we go to the mosque then?â The man with the old cap stood uncertainly.
âYou go ahead. I will be along shortly.â Reza slid onto a leather seat one of the men had vacated and threw one leg across the other. He turned his face to the screen but out of the corner of his eye he could see the man hovering by the door before he eventually went out.
When the men returned, Reza did not give up the seat and the man who had been sitting on it before stood deliberately over him until he noticed the scowl on Rezaâs face. He moved away and perched on the armrest of another seat occupied by his friend.
Men emerged from the adjacent room periodically and, each time, a young man in a shirt and tie would poke his head round the door and scan the faces. He would then point at one of the waiting men and usher him in.
By the time the match on the TV ended, Reza had given up trying to suppress his yawns. They came at regular intervals, and each time he felt more exhausted and leaned further back into the seat. He thought of Hajiya Binta and her long gone clumps of ancient pubic hair, and her gold tooth. It was then he allowed himself to think about the woman who had ridden towards him on a scented breeze, whose gold tooth still gleamed in the dimness of reminiscence.
He had been seventeen in 2003 when he next saw his mother. He was playing football with the other boys on the plot down the lane when she came. Because the field was small with a huge rocky outcrop in one corner, they played âmonkey postâ, with four boys on each side trying to sneak the ball through a pair of stones placed three feet apart at both ends of the field. Rezaâs team was playing skin, their bare torsos glistening in the dimming sun.
She must have been standing there for a while, behind the rock where the other boys sat waiting their turns, because when Reza looked up to pass the ball, he saw her. It was the radiance of her flowing, silky white jilbab with sequins down the front, like little mirrors catching the sun, which first arrested his attention. Andthen he saw her face, and the pride beaming from it. He made the pass and stood indecisively.
She was smiling when he finally walked towards her, stopping by the rock to collect his shirt. The boys watched, and as soon as he walked past them, the whispers began.
She was as beautiful as she had been seven years before but the years had added crowâs feet around her eyes when she smiled. The fingers of musk wafted in his direction, drawing him to her. He resisted and stared down at his dusty feet.
âYou play well.â
He looked up and saw she was smiling and then looked down again at his feet, grinding his teeth.
âMy father used to do that a lot. Grinding his teeth like that when he was angry. You are not happy to see me, are
This time Reza deigned to look at him. The man adjusted his zanna cap, which had seen better days. The red and the blue and the yellow yarn embroided into it had washed out and there were strands of thread coming undone.
âYes,â Reza nodded.
âAll these people trying to cause trouble for the senatorâs candidate will be put to shame insha Allahu !â The man adjusted his old cap again. âDid you know they tried to disrupt the rally? If not for Allahâs favour, I tell you wallahi ââ
The account the man gave of the rally, embellished with choice onomatopoeic expressions for effect, could have been plucked straight from a blockbuster. Reza, despite being a principal actor in the whole melodramatic episode, did not remember it that way. He did not even exist in the manâs account. One of the other waiting men, probably as irritated by the manâs incessant chatter as Reza was, said it was time for prayers and rose. The others followed him out to the mosque.
âShall we go to the mosque then?â The man with the old cap stood uncertainly.
âYou go ahead. I will be along shortly.â Reza slid onto a leather seat one of the men had vacated and threw one leg across the other. He turned his face to the screen but out of the corner of his eye he could see the man hovering by the door before he eventually went out.
When the men returned, Reza did not give up the seat and the man who had been sitting on it before stood deliberately over him until he noticed the scowl on Rezaâs face. He moved away and perched on the armrest of another seat occupied by his friend.
Men emerged from the adjacent room periodically and, each time, a young man in a shirt and tie would poke his head round the door and scan the faces. He would then point at one of the waiting men and usher him in.
By the time the match on the TV ended, Reza had given up trying to suppress his yawns. They came at regular intervals, and each time he felt more exhausted and leaned further back into the seat. He thought of Hajiya Binta and her long gone clumps of ancient pubic hair, and her gold tooth. It was then he allowed himself to think about the woman who had ridden towards him on a scented breeze, whose gold tooth still gleamed in the dimness of reminiscence.
He had been seventeen in 2003 when he next saw his mother. He was playing football with the other boys on the plot down the lane when she came. Because the field was small with a huge rocky outcrop in one corner, they played âmonkey postâ, with four boys on each side trying to sneak the ball through a pair of stones placed three feet apart at both ends of the field. Rezaâs team was playing skin, their bare torsos glistening in the dimming sun.
She must have been standing there for a while, behind the rock where the other boys sat waiting their turns, because when Reza looked up to pass the ball, he saw her. It was the radiance of her flowing, silky white jilbab with sequins down the front, like little mirrors catching the sun, which first arrested his attention. Andthen he saw her face, and the pride beaming from it. He made the pass and stood indecisively.
She was smiling when he finally walked towards her, stopping by the rock to collect his shirt. The boys watched, and as soon as he walked past them, the whispers began.
She was as beautiful as she had been seven years before but the years had added crowâs feet around her eyes when she smiled. The fingers of musk wafted in his direction, drawing him to her. He resisted and stared down at his dusty feet.
âYou play well.â
He looked up and saw she was smiling and then looked down again at his feet, grinding his teeth.
âMy father used to do that a lot. Grinding his teeth like that when he was angry. You are not happy to see me, are
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