Wedding day
I cannot remember the physical details of the march up the aisle towards Yomna. With each step through the mosque, my mind went back a hundred, until I’d gone back to before I was born. This is called having your life flash before your eyes, and I knew it was not traditionally something that happened unless you were dying.
Before I knew it, though, I was reading the vows and exchanging the rings with Yomna. I sat on the chair, alone in a tux, before close to a thousand segregated onlookers. Yomna had been wheeled back to the women’s section by the time I realised I was married.
People read the Fatiha for us; some even smiled. I had made my atonement, and had been forgiven. I had been married. I was a man.
People lined up to offer their congratulations. Abu Ghazi, the mosque’s resident octogenarian, kissed my cheeks three times and used the distraction to slip a pill into my hand.
"One hour before bed," he whispered through the gaps in his teeth. "The rocket will launch and keep launching."
After Abu Ghazi was one of the white friends I’d made in the library. "Big f***kin’ turnout!" he exclaimed. "S**t, I’m not meant to swear in a mosque."
"No."
"But your mob don’t speak English, do they?"
All around him was evidence to the contrary: mosque members, openly glaring.
"Holy f**k," he whispered. "So no alcohol, right?"
"No," I replied, deep in my own thoughts.
"So it’s just beer? How do you guys do it? Anyway, should go say hi to your old man. What do I call him? Your Holiness?"
And then there was dancing. Freestyle Arab—think hip-hop but clumsier. And then the cars honking, and Yomna and I were shoved into the limo.
Moe Greene was our driver. He smiled over his shoulder. "Not bad, bro. Beautiful bride. Sick car. You done well. Congrats!"
Osamah Sami, award-winning author of 'Good Muslim Boy' Source: Hardie Grant
Our eyes met for a second, and we used that second to say more than we could possibly vocalise.
The car crawled out of the courtyard, inching us towards our new home. Yomna’s father had found us a place directly behind his own; he’d taken care of our bond and our first month’s rent as a bonus. I’d maxed out my credit card filling this home with the necessary appliances. My tux was stuffed with cash from guests at the wedding, but we still couldn’t afford a real honeymoon.
I kept forgetting Yomna was in the car. I noticed she was grabbing my hand, and idly realised this was the first time we’d touched each other. Each red light only delayed the inevitable; I was about to have sex with a stranger. I prayed for the lights to last longer, but they never lasted long enough.
"Where are you, policemen? Come arrest all these law-breaking Muslims. They’ve all got their heads stuck out the window and they’re not wearing seatbelts, for God’s sake!"
I dug into my jacket pocket, down past the money, and found Sisi’s email I had printed out. I clutched it. Where was she? What if she was getting married right now? We could share the gold medal for Synchronised Arranged Weddings at the Muslim Olympics. I let loose the tattered laugh of a madman, causing my wife to let go of my hand and Moe Greene to glance over his shoulder.
Three dozen hoon-mobiles tailed us to the house, horns honking, music blaring. I’d seen the cops often enough at just the wrong moment that I prayed they’d show up right now.
Where are you, policemen? Come arrest all these law-breaking Muslims. They’ve all got their heads stuck out the window and they’re not wearing seatbelts, for God’s sake! Moe Greene was actually unlicensed, and had an abiding, much-publicised love for the smell of burning rubber on a rental. I couldn’t call the cops myself—he was my little bro—but I could pray for some racist Aussie to report the bunch of rowdy Moozlemz on the road.
No racist Aussie came.
We were rapidly closing on our happy new home, but everything was slowing down. The theory of general relativity had vexed me in high school, but everything finally clicked. With every second, I felt my skin cells aging. The world muted, save for a dark, constant droning—the same one you hear late at night when a TV channel is no longer broadcasting.
My head filled with strobe lights, popping and flashing. I asked Moe to pull over at the 7-Eleven, a strange one where I didn’t know any of the employees.
"Bottle of water," I croaked. Moe Greene imperceptibly nodded.
He found one, and pulled over. The long train of community members was doing its best to pull over too.
I opened the door, gulped the fresh air, looked at the cars and looked back at Yomna.
The oxygen hit me, exploding through my lungs. It was a starlit, hot December.
I jumped out of the car, but held the door open.
"Yomna," I said.
Yomna looked worried.
"I’m sorry for everything," I said.
I closed the door and a strong spell was broken.
I sucked in another deep breath and took off running.
'Good Muslim Boy' by Osamah Sami is published by Hardie Grant. Production of the film version is underway.
'Good Muslim Boy' by Osamah Sami Source: Hardie Grant
