Jannah. [SEQUEL TO DAWUD]

Chapter 6 - Family Feud

In the name of God, the Most Gracious, the Most Merciful

If the time of prayer has been called and you haven't prayed before reading this, please do so.

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Warsan's P.O.V

I raced into the kitchen and grabbed a slice of french toast from my little brother's plate. He began to whine, pointing a finger at me. 'Mommy, Warsan took my food!' I said Bismillah and rolled my eyes with pleasure upon taking the first bite, relishing in the savoury yet sweet flavours. Opening my mouth to take a second bite, I noticed that my hands were empty.

'Hamza, how did you take that back so fast?' I asked my little brother, looking from my hand to where he sat grinning. He cocked his neck to my left, bringing my older brother, Junaid, into view. I watched in pain as he bit the last of the slice, licking his fingers for emphasis. I refrained from elbowing him right in the gut. 'I swear, if you weren't a six-foot-five basketball player, I'd slap you so hard-'

'Warsan.' My father scolded, setting the old newspaper down. I've been convinced that he reads the same paper everyday. I haven't seen the mailman in ages. 'That is no way a lady should speak.' He said. My brothers nodded in approval, bobbing their heads like minions. 'Ruqayah, what went wrong with this one?' My father pressed, gesturing towards me.

I rolled my eyes, taking a sip of Hamza's orange juice. He whined, calling for my mother again, who entered the kitchen holding his pressed socks. 'How can you blame her, Fawzan? She grew up with boys and now she has become one.' She said, patting my little brother's hair down. Junaid chuckled and so did I. The two of us grew tired of our parents and their constant bickering. He understood that they were unreasonable, especially when it came to dealing with me. Although, on some occasions like today he enjoyed watching me get a little scolding. 

The majority of my high school years were spent hiding behind Junaid as he defended me against their harsh and irrational principles. I know much of it isn't their fault. Culture played a huge role in the functioning of my family. And so as time went on, I grew immune to their harsh words. 'And when will she get married? Both Jannah and Muna have handsome husbands, and you? All you do is study and work at the hospital. You spend more time with your patients than you do with us.' My mother spat, kneeling down to slip socks on my brothers feet. I frowned, looking down at the floor. Now that... that was a low blow.

I couldn't help but stand there biting my tongue. I didn't want to say anything I'd regret, but tears were fast approaching. Junaid took the car keys that sat at the table and ushered me out. I was upset beyond words as I slipped my Nike shoes on. 'Relax.' He continued to repeat, attempting to cool me down. I slipped my backpack over one shoulder and stomped out the door.

The drive to school was quiet. Junaid attempted to make conversation but my one-worded answers were enough to send the message. I didn't want to talk. What could I possibly say of benefit when I was this angry? For sometime now, I've been practicing how to bite my tongue and control my anger when upset. The last thing I wanted was to make Allah upset with me. Jannah and Muna always tell me that I need to practice having patience and so I've been putting their words into action, keeping it a secret of course, hoping to find my reward with Allah.

I felt my brother's hand on my shoulder and looked up, realizing that we were now parked in the university's lot. 'Let's have a good school year, okay?' He whispered encouragingly. I gave him a small smile and opened the door, trying to disappear as fast as I could.

I walked into the entrance gate and found Muna and Jannah chatting to one another excitedly, almost engulfed in a sea of students. They stood out, wearing long black abayas and Nike shoes. I looked down at my feet and smiled. Just then, my mother's words played in my head again, loud and clear: Both Jannah and Muna have handsome husbands, and you? Excellent question mother. What about me? What will become of me if I don't find a man to slip a ring on my finger and tell me he loves me? Had it not been for my perfect vision, Alhamdullilah, I would have ran straight into them. I turned around and walked in the opposite direction. My class didn't start for another hour, so I took refuge under a thick pine tree half a mile off campus. There, I let my thoughts out.

I couldn't ignore the sadness I felt within my chest. I was well aware that Muna and Jannah were happy. I was happy for them too. It is them that I make duah for when I'm in prostration to Allah in my prayer. It's them that I remind myself of when times get hard. But negative comments constantly spilling from my mother's mouth make me feel empty inside. I wanted to get married. I would love to get married. But I'm waiting for the right man to come into my life. I'm not going to jump at every proposal knocking at my door. I'm going to take my time and think things through. I just wish that my mother understood this. In the span of 9 months, starting from January, I've been approached for marriage about six times. Not from anyone I know, of course. They've varied from oddly built thirty-year-olds to ill-intentioned forty-year-olds all growing hair as well as losing hair in places they shouldn't. And the most appalling thing of all was not the things they expected of me, but the support they received from my parents.