She Wore Red Trainers by Na'ima B. Robert

don’t belong here, we belong at home, in Hertfordshire. Before we came, you said there was a chance we could go back before the end of the summer, but you haven’t mentioned anything since. Why is it taking so long to get everything sorted out so that we can go home?’
    At that, Dad sighed and wiped his face with his hand and said, in a tired, tired voice, ‘Boys, we need to talk.’
    I felt a chill run through me, as if my blood had turned to ice.
    We called Jamal from upstairs and he joined us in the living room. And it occurred to me that we hadn’t sat down for a family discussion since before Mum died.
    â€˜ Bismillah ,’ he muttered, before saying, ‘boys, I have something to tell you. I didn’t tell you before because I had hoped that I would be able to sort things out, to avoid… to avoid this.’
    Jamal’s eyes were wide and fearful. I put my arm around him. At least I knew that he wouldn’t push me away. ‘What is it, Dad? What’s happened?’
    â€˜It’s the house, boys. The house and the business. They’re gone.’
    â€˜Gone? Gone ? What do you mean “gone”?’ I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.
    â€˜That’s exactly what I mean, Ali. The house and thebusiness… I’ve had to put them up for sale. I’m sorry.’
    Sorry?
    I had no words to describe the sense of anger, of betrayal, of grief .
    No words.
    But Umar had enough words for both of us, for all of us. He started shouting, crying, saying it wasn’t fair, that Dad had promised we would be going back, that the move to London was just temporary. Dad tried to calm him down, to explain that he had tried everything, that he was applying for jobs all over, outside London, that this was fate, that we had to accept it, but Umar wasn’t having it. He sprang up out of his chair and rushed to the door, slamming it on his way out. I heard his footsteps, heavy, on the stairs and then another slamming door.
    I looked away from the door, avoiding Dad’s gaze.
    I didn’t know what to think, what to say. I wanted to man up, to rise to the challenge, like I had when Dad first told me about moving to South London for the summer, but this time I couldn’t find the strength.
    Now it seemed that all we had ever known was well and truly gone forever. The house, Dad’s business, and the family we once were. It was at times like this that I felt the need to pray, to wash with water and put my head to floor – and pray .
    Allah had willed this chain of events, after all. My job was to trust that there was good in it somewhere and that He would bring us through it, just like He had brought us through everything else.
    ***
    I went and looked in on Umar after I’d prayed. He was lying on his bed, looking up at the ceiling, with his headphones on. Seeking refuge in his music, as I had done so many times.
    I sat on the side of his bed. His eyes slid towards me then he looked away again.
    â€˜I’ve got a new Qur’an CD,’ I said, gently. ‘Totally relaxes me. Let me know if you want to borrow it, yeah?’
    Umar gave me a look.
    I held my hands up in surrender. ‘No pressure, man!’
    He didn’t say anything for a long time. When he finally spoke, his voice was hoarse. ‘When you were my age, Ali, did anyone try to tell you to stop listening to music and listen to Qur’an instead? Did anyone tell you to stop playing in that band of yours and join a Muslim youth group? Did anyone tell you to take out your earring and put on a kufi ? Did they?’
    â€˜Hey, Mum went crazy when I got my ear pierced!’ I was trying to lighten the oppressive atmosphere in the room, but Umar just looked at me, unblinking.
    â€˜Did they, Ali?’
    â€˜No, Umar,’ I sighed. ‘No, they didn’t.’
    â€˜I thought not,’ he said sourly, and turned to look out of the window.
    I swallowed hard. I had