was in trouble, serious trouble, and we needed to do something drastic to keep the house. So that was why we were moving to London for the summer, to rent out our place to another family visiting from abroad.
‘I need you to understand, it won’t be a holiday, son. I’ll be working all the hours God sends so I will need you boys to be responsible and to look after yourselves, pretty much.’ Then he smiled hopefully. ‘The good news is that we’ve got somewhere to stay for a few months… just until we get back on our feet and business picks up again and we can come home…’ I saw the look in his eyes: he wanted me to believe him, to trust him to make everything all right, like he had always done. To be a superhero once more.
You see, when we were little, Dad used to tell us that he was a superhero with secret super powers. Of course, we were always begging him to show us his powers, and he always said that he could never show them to us, but that we would know them when the time came. I’ll never forget the day I realised that the powers he had been talking about weren’t about being able to fly at warp speed or turn into a ball of fire; his powers were much more subtle than that. But the effect was the same: just like Superman, he made us feel safe, like there was nothing that could touch us, that he was always there to shield us from the baddies, from the harsher side of life.
Until Mum died, that is. Because then our superhero lost his powers and fell to earth, broken. And there was no one around to shield us anymore.
When I think about it, maybe that was what led us to find Allah again: the realisation that there is only One superpower on this earth, only One who can protect us. La hawla wa la quwwatta illa-billah. There is no power or might except with Allah.
But that afternoon, in the kitchen of my beautiful family home in Hertfordshire, I let my dad be my hero again. I wanted him to believe in himself again, to see a stronger version of himself reflected in my eyes. ‘OK, Dad, that’s great. Alhamdulillah. Where will we be staying?’
‘Your Uncle Kareem’s leaving his place for a year to live and work in the Gulf. He said we can stay there. It sounds nice: three bedrooms, garden, close to the mosque… There’s only one problem…’
‘What’s that, Dad?’
‘The house is on a housing estate.’
My jaw dropped. ‘You mean it’s a council flat?’ Whatever I had been expecting, it wasn’t that! An image of our beautiful house here in Hertfordshire flashed through my mind and it was as if a knife had twisted in my heart. A council flat?
Dad must have seen the look of horror on my face. ‘No, Ali, it’s not a council flat. It’s a house and Uncle Kareem owns it. And it’s not a real estate; it’s in a compound with a gate so you don’t have to worry, it is really secure.’ I must have visibly relaxed because he smiled then. ‘And the best thing about it,’ he continued, ‘is that all our neighbours will be Muslims. That’ll make a change, won’t it?’
I smiled weakly, trying to process what he was telling me. A new journey was about to begin.
2
I woke up to the sound of Mum crying. It wasn’t loud or anything, but my ears had grown used to detecting the sound of her sobbing through the thin wall that divided our rooms. So that was how I knew that my brother Malik’s dad, my mother’s fourth husband, had left the night before, after their row.
I felt my insides contract, just a little. Must have been anxiety. Or the thought that I might actually get a peaceful night’s sleep again, a night where my body wasn’t on high alert. Abu Malik leaving may have pushed Mum to tears, but it brought me relief.
Some stepfathers are more toxic than others. Let me leave it at that.
Here we go again, I thought as I pushed my little sister’s sleeping body off my arm and towards the wall. I swung my legs over the side of the bed, the mattress creaking beneath me. ‘I wonder how long it will last this time.’ It wasn’t the first time one of their arguments had ended in a walkout.
I knocked on Mum’s door, knowing she wouldn’t want me in there, wouldn’t want me to see her crying. ‘Mum,’ I called softly. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’
I didn’t wait to hear her muffled response. I didn’t need to. I knew she needed a cup of tea. Soon, she would need me to give her her pills, too. Just to take the edge off the pain.
As I made my way down the stairs, stepping over piles of clothes, both clean and dirty, toys and books, I found myself growing irritated by the damp spots on the wall of the bathroom and the dust that had gathered in the corners. What with me spending so much time studying for my A levels, I could see that things had slipped around the house. I would need to whip everyone back into shape.
I put the kettle on and padded towards the back of the house, towards Zayd’s room. I knocked and waited briefly before sticking my head in. As usual, he was all tied up in his duvet, just the top of his head and his hairy feet sticking out, like an overgrown hot dog. I stepped in, narrowly avoiding the crusty glass and plate by the side of the bed.
‘Zee,’ I called out, giving him a nudge with my foot. He mumbled and groaned in reply. ‘Abu Malik’s gone, yeah. Just thought you should know.’
Zayd didn’t come out of his duvet sandwich. ‘Yeah, I know. I saw him last night, innit.’
‘Did you say anything to him?’
‘What’s to say, Ams? It’s the second talaq, innit, their second divorce. One more chance.’
I kissed my teeth and walked out of the door, disgusted. ‘Men,’ I thought to myself as I banged Mum’s favourite teacup on the chipped enamel counter. ‘They’re all the same.’
So, that morning, it was up to me to get my little brothers and sister – Abdullah, Malik and Taymeeyah – ready for madrasah at the mosque.
‘Taymeeyah, give me that hair grease… we’re going to have to take your hair out soon, those plaits are looking kinda tired.’
As Taymeeyah ran upstairs to find the hair grease in the bomb site of our room, I rolled Malik’s sleeves up. His eczema was getting bad again. I grabbed the pot of aqueous cream from the counter and began to rub it into the rough, reddened skin on the inside of his elbows. ‘You haven’t been using that soap with the bubbles, have you, Malik?’
He just nodded, his finger in his mouth.
I sighed and shook my head. ‘You know you can’t, babe. Not until your skin gets better. And no more milk, OK? You have to drink the soya, you know that…’
Malik made a face. ‘But I hate it, Ammie,’ he whined. ‘It’s yucky!’
Taymeeyah had reappeared. ‘It’s true, Ams,’ she said. ‘It is yucky.’
I poked her in the belly. ‘And how would you know, young lady?’
She grinned at me, a guilty look in her eye.
‘You drank the last bottle, didn’t you? Admit it, Tay.’
She nodded sheepishly and I gave her a look.
‘That’s not right, is it, Tay? Malik’s milk is expensive, y’know. And he can’t drink the regular stuff.
