it’s only until the end of the summer, inshallah…’
‘Don’t we get to have a say about anything in this house anymore? It’s become more like a dictatorship than a proper family!’
He had turned and stormed out, shrugging on his jacket. His sleeve had caught the edge of the lamp on the side table. It toppled, then fell onto the hardwood floor. I bent down to pick it up as the front door slammed: a crack had appeared in the base. The lamp had been one of Mum’s favourites, a memento from her and Dad’s visit to Venice. I was sure I could fix it somehow.
I needn’t have bothered: Dad made me leave that in storage, along with all Mum’s other things.
The steam from the kettle scalded my wrist. My eyes were stinging with unshed tears.
That was when I heard the revving of a motorbike engine. I leaned over and peered into the parking lot to see a rider getting off the back of a huge, glossy motorbike, with yellow and blue flames painted on the side. He took off the massive helmet he was wearing, looked up, and waved. It was Usamah.
The rider in front got off and took off his helmet, revealing short, black hair and a neat, curly beard.
‘This is my main man, Yusuf,’ Usamah said after I had let them into the house, still shocked that they were actually there.
‘As-salamu ‘alaykum, bro,’ Yusuf smiled and shook my hand.
‘Wa’alaykum as-salam, brothers!’ Jamal piped up, determined to be part of the conversation.
‘I’m not a kid anymore, Ali,’ he had said to me just that morning. ‘I’m nine – almost ten! You have to stop treating me like a baby. If I’m old enough to have to pray, I think I’m old enough to get a little respect around here!’ And he’d puffed out his puny chest at me.
‘Respect, huh?’ I’d teased him. ‘How about you start with those dishes sitting in the sink, waiting for a little respect?’
‘Oh, no,’ he’d laughed, dancing off into the bathroom. ‘I said respect, not responsibility!’
But now, here he was again, wanting to play with the big boys. ‘Ready for some responsibility now, eh, Jamal?’
He stuck his tongue out at me just as Dad came in, rolling up his sleeves. Usamah and Yusuf greeted him. ‘As-salamu ‘alaykum, what do you want us to do, sir?’ Usamah smiled. ‘We’re at your service.’
‘You boys don’t need to do that,’ said Dad. ‘We can manage. What do you think I’ve got these strong lads for?’
Usamah chuckled then turned to me, ‘Yo, where’s Umar?’
I made a face. ‘He’s still asleep. I thought it would be best to just let him sleep while we get on with it.’
‘Yeah, I remember when I was that age – I would have slept all day if my mom let me!’ We all laughed.
Just then, Umar stomped into the living room, rubbing his eyes and yawning. He took one look at the mess and all of us standing with boxes in our hands and growled, ‘What’s going on here?’
‘Umar!’ Dad’s voice was sharp, edged with embarrassment. ‘Is that any way to greet people? Where are your manners?’
But Umar’s response was simply to kiss his teeth and stalk back out of the room, muttering under his breath.
‘Umar!’ Dad quickly followed him and, a few moments later, we all heard his raised voice, going back and forth with Umar’s monotone. Everybody pretended not to hear anything and, a moment later, Usamah was asking for a dustpan and brush and Yusuf was kneeling down in front of Jamal.
‘And how old are you, bro?
Jamal drew himself up to his full height. ‘Almost ten.’
Yusuf’s eyes were wide. ‘Really? Subhanallah, I thought you were at least 12! Since you’re such a big guy, you won’t mind helping me shift these boxes, will you?’
Jamal shook his head and followed Yusuf to the far side of the lounge where the full boxes were stacked.
With everyone – except Umar – working together, it didn’t take long for everything to be unpacked and put away. I put the kettle on again and Yusuf took a tin foil package out of his bag.
‘Chocolate cake,’ he said by way of explanation. ‘My sister made it. She thought we might like something sweet after all that hard work.’
‘Mashallah,’ said Usamah, hurrying to the sink to wash his hands. ‘May Allah bless your sister. She’s always got a brother’s back.’ Then he turned to me. ‘Yusuf’s sister, Sister Yasmin, can bake the hind leg off a giraffe!’
Jamal giggled as he took a bite of the rich, gooey chocolate cake. ‘You always say such funny things, Usamah!’
‘Well, Allah made me funny, little brother. What can I say?’
‘Yusuf,’ I said, turning to him, ‘what’s this all about?’ I was pointing to his leather jacket, and the embroidered insignia across the back. It said ‘Deen Riders’.
‘Oh, that?’ Yusuf grinned. ‘That’s our Muslim biker club.’
The look on my face must have said it all.
‘I know, it sounds crazy, right?’ Usamah shook his head. ‘But these brothers are for real – good, solid brothers. And their bikes are amazing, man, straight up!’
Yusuf smiled modestly. ‘A group of us met at a motorbike show – the brothers with the beards are kind of easy to spot, y’know. And we decided to make a club of our own, with our own insignia and everything.’
I was puzzled. ‘But riding bikes isn’t haram, is it? Why bring the deen into it?’
Yusuf looked at me. ‘We would go on these weekend rides’ he mused, ‘and I would think, yeah, this is the life. It can’t get much better than this. But then I realised that, although I loved riding, it wasn’t necessarily helping me deen-wise, y’know? I didn’t feel like there was much benefit in it, in terms of my Islam. So we started thinking about how we could make our love for bikes into something that benefitted us and others. And Deen Riders was born.’
‘Wow, that is so cool.’ Jamal’s face was bright. ‘Brothers on bikes!’
‘Hey!’ Yusuf hit him lightly on the back. ‘That’s a great name, bro! Why didn’t I think of that?’
‘Little brother got there first, bro. Stay in your lane!’
Yusuf looked over at me. ‘So, Ali, have you ever ridden a motorbike?’
I shook my head.
‘Would you like to ride out with us one day? There are some great roads outside South London, clear and fast. And we’ve got a rally coming up in a few weeks, too. Funds going to charity.’
I smiled and shook my head. ‘Nah, bro, I think I’ll have to pass. I’m not much of a risk taker.
