Lightness of Being…

“Yo sexy ladies want par with us
 In a the car with us
 Them nah war with us
 In a the club them want flex with us
 To get next to us
 Them cah vex with us
 From the day me born jah ignite me flame
 Gal a call me name and it’s me fame
 Its all good girl turn me on
 ’til a early morn’
 Let’s get it on
 Let’s get it on ’til a early morning
 Girl it’s all good just turn me on”

When he finally alighted some 45 minutes and a migraine later; Fuad couldn’t remember why he was there to begin with. He trudged on towards the water and text messaged his cousin Omar to come pick him up. He did not step foot in a matatu for a long time after.

{-} 

“I don’t understand….I mean she’s like perfect man!” 

Omar decided to enjoy “the view” for a moment, chilling with Fuad at the beach. While, his cousin was staring out to the distant horizon watching boats floating idly by; Omar was more interested in checking out the tanned bikini clad European tourists playing a rambunctious game of volleyball.

He was chewing the infamous “Gaat” or “miraa”; a semi-legal narcotic type of plant that was the most popular recreational “drug” amongst coastal people (although many did not consider it as a drug per se, it was very pervasive in his culture, a cherished relic of their Yemeni heritage).  

“Yeah I know she’s perfect…I’m not just in to her like that you know?” 

“Not really. You like someone else?” 

“Nah…” 

“So what’s the problem? You getting cold feet man?” 

Fuad was silent for a while. Omar had been his best friend for ever. They grew up in the same household as “cousins”; they were related in a number of ways through an intricate web of marriages and births within two extended family circles.

The smallness of Mombasa Island itself circumscribed by how many distinctly Arab/Yemeni families they were; guaranteed that almost everyone was an “uncle”/ “aunt”/ “cousin” to each other.  

Besides, on respect levels alone, youngsters were expected to address elders as “uncles”/ “aunts” or variations thereof regardless of their relationship; this always served to confuse some people on how they were related to each other. Suffice to say, Fuad and Omar were cousins of sorts; age-mates; room mates; and best friends since their earliest recollections of their earthly existence.  

Fuad still hesitated, could he trust him? What would he accomplish in telling Omar except maybe jeopardize his chances even more? How would Omar feel about him if he realized who he was? 

“Look man it’s quite normal…” Omar validating his own assumptions dived into a monologue  “I couldn’t do it either man. I am not ready to get buckled down with ONE woman for the rest of my life. That’s just crazy man…Look at them fine women out there” he pointed to the tourists now lying on their beach towels “Those are Ne’ema (blessings) from Allah. How are we supposed to let go of all the choices out there and settle for JUST ONE. Forever and ever?! Man that’s just not me.” 

“Well you can always marry four” Fuad’s tone was caustic but Omar didn’t get it. 

“Yeah sure that’s a thought. I guess, when you get tired of one you can always pick up another…hey that’s awesome. You gotta love our deen man.” 

They sat in silence for a while. Omar fantasizing about his four brides, somehow they were all in bikinis playing volleyball for his private viewing; Fuad was just feeling sick to his stomach. It was hopeless to try and confide in Omar. He would never understand. 

{-}  

SexyArabchic: a/a

Fuad78: Hey sup

SexyArabchic: OMG I thought you would never get on!

Fuad78: yeah sorry man I got caught up

SexyArabchic: it’s okay….soooo are you gonna tell me wussup?

Fuad78: nothing.

SexyArabchic: I know there’s something.

Fuad78: like what?

SexyArabchic: I don’t know…I get this vibe from you like you aren’t into it all you know?

Fuad78: No I am cool. Just overwhelmed I guess

SexyArabchic: It’s okay. We don’t have to get married just let them know

Fuad78: No, No, I want to…it’s not that.

SexyArabchic: What is it then? Come on tell me  

SexyArabChic has sent you a NUDGE! 

Fuad78: oh sorry. Look my sister needs to use the computer, we’ll catch up later.

SexyArabchic: oh okay  Maasalamah.

Fuad78: Allah isalimik.  

Fuad78 appears offline. 

Hanan stared at the screen for the longest time trying hard not to blink down the tears that were burning her eyes. 

{-} 

It was two in the morning when Fuad tired of tossing and turning finally decided to get up. He went to take a cold shower, took wudhu and went to an extra back room which no one was using for a change.  

He started to pray; going through the motions; yet not really paying attention to any of the words his lips were spilling. 

He finally just sat down and uttered a single prayer: 

“Help me.” 

His heart felt like it would explode; he just couldn’t contain the anxiety anymore. 

{-} 

His mom softly touched his cheek at Fajr (dawn); and he opened his eyes to find himself still sitting on the prayer rug. Her eyes were full of emotion. 

Fuad never failed to surprise her with his quiet depth and innate spirituality. Unlike her other 3 sons and even 4 daughters; she never had to worry about him. When he was much younger he used to cling to her skirts everywhere she went.

He loved asking her questions on why she put Jasmine in her hair; and bukhoor scents in her clothes; why he couldn’t do that. He always asked for stories of when she was younger and the things she used to do.  

She was more than willing to entertain him, unleashing all her pent up creativity and theatrics to his pure delight, until his dad put a stop to it. Fuad was a boy; he needed to stop hanging around his mom so much and start playing with other boys his age.  

At five a cruel separation was imposed upon her little boy and Fuad started distancing himself from her. It broke her heart, but Asma (his mom) knew better than try to contradict her severe husband. Fuad still made it a point to check on her, giving her little gifts just because. And as he grew, he was the only one in the immense household who was sensitive to her moods and needs, and tried to plant a smile in her heart in the little ways he could.  

Truth be told, Fuad was her favorite child, not that she didn’t love the others but none of them mirrored his gentle soul.   

Fuad got up and kissed her on the forehead before heading out to heed the multitude of adhans (calls to prayers) pulsating in the still Fajr air.  

{-} 

As was his post Fajr routine, he went for a quick jog and morning work out routine at the gym. Then after his shower and scrumptious breakfast prepared by his mom just for him, he went to the neighborhood internet café to browse in peace before the place became packed with people. 

He always positioned himself in the most private corner, and would leave right after another person walked in. He took pains to erase his browser cache, history, temporary files and cookies. The café owner always joked that Fuad was really a spy; and was secretly frustrated that she couldn’t figure out why Fuad needed to be so secretive (she had her suspicions but needed that concrete proof).  

Google search: Gay Muslims and Coming out stories. 

Thousands of hits came up.  

The first link he picked was by a Singaporean-American Sheikh (undercover still) talking about how the Quran had always been interpreted by Heterosexual Scholars and that the People of Prophet Lut/ Lot (AS) were not condemned for homosexuality rather the arrogance and rape of men that was pervasive in their culture. 

Fuad inwardly scoffed at that “Good luck” he muttered.  

While the U.S. and other western countries had taken some strides in Gay rights, pride and movement;
Mombasa was still holding on with trembling staunchness to her traditional values and ideas on sexuality.  

“It’s unnatural!”
“Those people are worse than beasts!”
“They are disgusting! And you know that is why Allah sent AIDS to wipe them off the planet!” The fact that many straight men suffered from AIDS too was conveniently pushed off for the moment. 

Not that there aren’t any gay Muslims in Mombasa, there was a whole neighborhood comprised of openly gay Men, and an assortment of prostitutes and other “shady” characters; but good people stayed away from those places. The out and out gay men, would walk around in curlers and lessos (wraps) around their chest imitating women, instead of their waists the way “real” men do it.  

They also made the best tasting fried potato snacks, fluffiest sponge cakes (mikate ya mayai) and the softest Yemeni breads (mofa); but if anyone bought from them; no one would ever know.  

“Who would want food cooked by those dirty people” Women sneered but how everyone got to know about the reputation of their food; no one would ever know either. 

Lesbians were of a trickier variety. There were mostly undercover; women could point them out in gossip but those rumors could never be confirmed. For how could a woman swear and prove beyond reasonable doubt that so and so was a lesbian, without somehow implicating herself? 

In general lesbians were held in more contempt than their male counterpart. For that was even dirtier! At least some men had the excuse of being raped, or molested as boys which was really the only logical reason why anyone would turn out to be gay. But what reason could a woman have to indulge in such sordid affairs?  

Anyway, most of those women and men were from mixed and shady backgrounds. No respectable families produced those people.  

The only solace Fuad found was in his surreptitious internet searches. There were people who are Muslims and gay out there somewhere; presumably from “proper” backgrounds like his. The stories online were all of the same variety; the men would “come out” and face exile from their families/communities and most of those were from the west. What would his “coming out” be like; in a close shame based culture like his?  

His own father would murder him. No questions asked.  And his mother? He couldn’t bear to think of how devastated she would be. He couldn’t break her heart like that; anybody but her.

Fuad felt a foreboding chill run down his spine. He cleaned up his browser, shut everything and even restarted the computer just to be safe.  

With nothing else to do, the café owner was staring at him with disturbing intensity, like she was trying to divine his thoughts from his facial muscles. Annoyed, Fuad slapped a couple of bills on the counter and walked out.  

“Shoga mkubwa!” the woman muttered behind his back.  

(Huge gay guy is what she said, but of course terms like these loose their power of expression in translation).

 {-}