Lightness of Being…

“Did you hear…?” the whispers started before he stepped out of the small makeshift examination room. He couldn’t hear anything; there was a peculiar ringing in his ears which started emitting cotton ball waves into the center of his head preventing coherent thought and simultaneously making him woozy.

“There are of course many new breakthroughs, I am optimistic we can fight this…”The young prim doctor with a crisp British accent forced herself to continue talking. This was the worst part of her job; she could never get used to seeing such young hearts shatter.

“You haven’t heard about the son of so and so? It’s really tragic really.” The thin veneer of women’s voices remained somber; but just underneath simmered an unsuppressed excitement. That was of course also the last time his name was mentioned, from then on as custom dictates he would be referred to in the past tense. At the very best his name would be substituted by “mgonjwa” (the sick one).

Omar’s gaze was fixed on his dark, long, remarkably hairless fingers for his gender and people. His fingernails were chipped. He worried about the little hangnail on the side of his index finger. I should stop biting them, he thought and then almost laughed out loud. He recognized the absurdity of his train of thought; he was reaching for every bit of reality to keep him grounded and sane.

 “Do you have any questions?” Her soft voice was gently caressing him back into reality and somehow reminding him of his mother. He closed his eyes and tried to banish the image of his mama’s eyes from his mind. He could see the anguish mingled with the confirmation of the disappointment she felt for him rising from the deep recesses of her soul to stare at him.  I can’t deal with this now. I just  can’t.

Later his father (Abu-Omar) would turn all his fury, frustration and disbelief towards his mother. It is your fault? How could you let this happen? And now of all times, do you know I am completely ruined now? It’s over! Khallas! His dad was about to seal the deal of a lifetime. Omar’s impending marriage to a pretty little girl from a wealthy family was set to open countless opportunities for both fathers involved. This was the merging of two power-broker families the ultimate sealing of trust that takes place between distinguished self-made Hadhrami men; “we are now family” her father had told Abu-Omar at the engagement party with tears glistening in his eyes “I will lay my life down for you.”  Abu-Omar replied with an equally exaggerated but genuine sentiments nonetheless.

The tests were a matter of course; a new bill signed into law dictating that for any two people to receive a marriage license a clean certificate of health needed to be provided. It helped trap the unmarried carriers; but never the married ones or the confirmed bachelors for life, who continued sleeping around. Not that Omar slept around, all his friends had kept alive a running joke about his prudish tendencies. He did it once. Just once under extreme pressure from all his friends and the girl involved. Had he walked out of that prickly situation, they would have all labeled him as a shoga (gay) and who could live that down?
 

A short interlude of tumbling, sweaty, mildly disgusting and highly thrilling moment turned into this fatal blow to his life.

Of course no one admitted it was that. Even the women were kind enough to talk of those contaminated needles and whatnot; who could trust the doctors nowadays anyway? Everyone knew they recycled the needles (especially on young Arab and Muslim men) and didn’t he suffer from Malaria just a couple months before?

His mother didn’t pull her hair, beat her chest, or weep inconsolably (severely disappointing the ardent messenger who went to offer her “pole”/ condolence even when she knew Umm-Omar hadn’t received the news yet). Her eyes simply glazed over and she kept murmuring to herself “Qadara Allah, Qadar Allah.” (Fate/Destiny/ the Will of God).

Qadar is a hard concept to explain from a theological standpoint, but it was all that Umm-Omar needed to sustain herself from day to day. She pinned all her failures on Qadar, all her squashed dreams and futile life. When her husband married a second, then a third younger and more vivacious brides she sighed “Qadar Allah.” When her mother died in the hospital due to an overlooked tumor, she couldn’t muster enough indignation for a malpractice lawsuit “Qadar Allah” sufficed. When she had lived through hard times with her husband she didn’t even bother opening the windows of her dingy, dark home “Qadar Allah” lit her way around. Her husband finally broke into the highly lucrative transportation business by opening a fleet of luxury buses equipped with all modern day conveniences to travel the oft-frequented routes of Mombasa-Nairobi and Mombasa-Malindi and they accordingly moved into a luxury villa. His expanded means of course, also allowed him (and some insist necessitated him) the privilege of another wife or two on the side.

She only had two children Omar and his unmarried older sister. She had pinned all her hopes for grandchildren on him; as everyone knew the clock was ticking too fast for Samira and at 29, her prospects of ever getting married were almost nonexistent. Everyone knew of course that a woman ages much faster than a man; and there is also the issue of healthy progeny. Abu-Omar’s youngest bride was on the cusp of 18; firm, slender, and most importantly her personality was still malleable to the liking of her groom. At 29, women tend to be a bit crusted over in their ways and this of course was yet another obstacle on Samira’s path to marital bliss.

Not that she did care, which only served to mystify her detractors more. Samira was too engrossed in her own life’s work to worry about what people were saying. She was an Art teacher who focused on nurturing children’s latent artistic talents into a culture that really couldn’t give a hoot about something as impractical as art (at least not fine art since music, with all its controversy, was still huge in her culture). She continued working with the youth and held exhibitions that were patronized mostly by benign tourists looking for authentic cultural buys. She held talent competitions and celebrated each budding artist with bubbling enthusiasm “as if it has any meaning in real life” some women scoffed.  “Art washes from the soul the dust of everyday life” Samira countered passionately to her earnest students. The more irritated of the self righteous lot exclaimed back “It is the work of Shaytaan; no less!” but finally they left her alone when she refused to engage them in a manner that would elicit a juicy story.

When she heard the news about Omar (from another third party); Samira had to stifle a momentary triumphant feeling. What else did they expect? Although she loved her brother to death, growing up she had to deal with the huge double standard her culture upheld when it came to raising boys and girls. Omar was allowed the freedom to go anywhere and come home at any time with no questions asked. Even at 29 she still had to suffer the indignity of standing before her father to ask for permission to stay out later than Maghrib (sunset was the absolute deadline for “good reputable” girls).

When she was younger she asked for permission through her mother; who would wring her hands and spend about three hours leading up to the issue at hand. For major decisions including every step of her educational career (which ended at a local teacher’s college) a delegation of well meaning uncles had to be dispatched to convince her dad of letting her continue (the delegations began at 8th grade). Although she had near top marks, he never allowed her to attend university, because it was in Nairobi and that of course would ruin her reputation.

She grew up churning her well of bitterness into abstract paintings full of raw emotion; or segmented into beautiful pieces of symmetrical arabesque. She had a light touch, elegant and magical and could transform empty canvasses into riots of colors and layers of meaning. She encouraged her students to find their creative voice; which was really strange for most of them, for the idea of having a unique voice was not one they were particularly familiar with. In school they were only expected to repeat what their teachers told them; and at home to abide by the cultural norms. Samira, without having stepped a foot off her island, had developed grandiose ideas about the world that her father had categorically stated “were not healthy for women.”

Omar on the other hand, was not particularly interested in school or art or anything really. After escorting his peers through high school; with dismal results; it was pretty clear that academia was not his forte. His father wasn’t worried about books and all that nonsense; since the business clearly needed extra hands. But when Omar didn’t show too much of an interest in the running of the budding empire he was about to inherit; Abu-Omar was furious. After many fights, sullen silences and pleas; they compromised on having Omar at least supervise the runs up and down Central and East coast of Kenya (which he didn’t really mind since it gave him a chance to get away a bit). Omar had always been a morose kind of kid with only a handful of good friends. He wasn’t big in stature; his face was a little on the mousy side; in addition he was a bit too tall and gangly and his natural awkwardness meant he couldn’t really play ball (soccer) or charm his way into popularity. He was extremely loyal to the few friends he had; and in his little ways did what was necessary to remain part of the clique. He liked his sister Samira (the few times they actually hung out); couldn’t stand his dad; and his mom made him vaguely uncomfortable for her muted aspirations for him and the way he always managed to let her down. Not that she ever yelled at him or even laid out her expectations of him; she had perfected the art of insinuation and the melodrama of self satisfied victim hood. It never bothered him much, for his state of family affairs was not really abnormal among his friends. He drifted aimlessly through his “work”, hung out with his friends excessively, and not that he was particularly philosophical but the thought that God had wasted His time creating someone (so purposeless) like him had crossed Omar’s mind more than once.

When Omar came home that fateful night; Samira was waiting for him in his room. She didn’t say anything to him aside from offering him a cup of tea. They sat down in silence. She allowed him the space to grieve and he let himself to break a little. There was a side of him that was still in disbelief. But three blood tests later and he was still positive. Positively condemned; positively on death row; positively peerless; and a pariah; Omar felt like he was being cornered into nonexistence.

None of his friends dared to look him in the eye after that. One of them mustered a vague apology; the girl was not even a hooker; how could they know she had it? She grew up in their neighborhood and was known to be “speedy” (euphemism for a slut).  Besides who was so dumb as not to use protection? At least two of his friends promptly left for Azhar (world renown Islamic educational institution) to study the “deen”/religion because they were sure the fate that befell Omar was really an ominous sign for the rest of them. The rest meticulously avoided him and when they did bump into him the conversation was stilted. Omar tried to steer away from the public eye as much as he could.

The girl, who had disgraced her honorable name Aisha a long time ago, was now indirectly exposed by Omar’s sensational news. Although everyone insisted on the contaminated needle theory; under the surface they all knew. She wasted no time in trying to deny anything; with a fierce attitude she walked down to Fort Jesus in broad day light and put up a huge poster with a list of names of all the men she had slept with. The list created an instantaneous uproar in their little island. Men swarmed the area to check their names; even ones that didn’t sleep with her but had desired her from afar, just in case it could be transmitted through impure thoughts.

Households crashed under the sheer magnitude of the scandal that hit them. The lines outside of health clinics went for miles as everyone became worried about their status; even at the expense of proving the rumors running eagerly around.Some pranksters for the love of drama added names that weren’t on the original list and everyone who is anyone became implicated in the infamy of it all. Wives indignantly turned on their husbands and elders called (in vain) for a calm analysis of the situation. The mosques were flooded with men and women praying for repentance and salvation from the horrors that could befall them.