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Pieces of a Dream | Part 2: Pieces of a Dream

That next Friday afternoon, Kadija called. Louis could not have been more surprised if she had leaped onto the roof of his cab and done a jig.


Golden Gate Bridge

You can read part one “Pieces of a Dream | Part 1: Cabbie” here


That next Friday afternoon, Kadija called. Louis could not have been more surprised if she had leaped onto the roof of his cab and done a jig.

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“I’ll be down in the doorway at 20 Jones,” she said.

Louis was there in a flash. “How are you today?” he asked once Kadija was comfortably seated in the cab, “I didn’t think you’d call me.”

“Well,” Kadija said, “I couldn’t let you go on with your silly stereotypes, could I?”

“Hey, I apologized for that,” Louis said.

“I know,” Kadija replied. “But you don’t get off that easy.”

Louis turned on the radio and the sounds of smooth jazz came flowing out like a cool stream. He imagined his cab was a kayak, working its way down the asphalt rivers of the city, leaving the past behind.

He drove in silence for a while.

It was October, and though fall in San Francisco could sometimes chill you to the bone, the weather was pleasant today. He didn’t need the A.C. He had the vent open, and the whisper of the cool air was the only sound in the cab, along with the occasional muffled car horn and streetcar bell. He was determined to sit back this time, and not pester his passenger.

When Louis was younger, his family had gone down to the animal shelter and adopted a cat they’d named Osiris Shiny Sides (his younger sister Gillian had been a budding Egyptologist). Osiris was a sleek black prowler with a white chest. But the cat had apparently grown up as a stray, and had never gotten over whatever terrors she’d experienced as a kitten. She was a great mouser, but skittish around people. If you approached her, she’d run away. But if you sat quietly and waited, Osiris would come and settle in your lap.

Kadija reminded Louis of Osiris. Not that he expected her to run to him and purr – he almost laughed out loud at the thought – but she had her guard up. So let’s see what happens if I sit and wait.

As they approached Stockton Street, Kadija said, “Can I ask you a question, Louis?”

“Sure,” he said. “Anything you like.”

“What was it like for you when you came back from the war? Were you depressed? Did you have nightmares?”

Louis paused. He didn’t like to talk about the war. He preferred to listen to easy jazz and old school R&B, and talk about cooking.

He worked long hours. At home he kept a journal where he wrote little vignettes about life in the city. Street scenes, overheard passenger conversations, and little poems sometimes. He had a CD player that he’d bought at Goodwill. He’d put on some Fourplay or Pieces of a Dream, or maybe the Isley Brothers or Bill Withers, and let everything slip away.

He didn’t have proper cooking facilities in his studio apartment – just a hot plate and a microwave – but he liked to collect recipes and save them in a binder. He’d flip through the binder, reading the recipes and imagining the flavors. Between the recipes and the music, he’d lose himself like butter on hot toast. He’d forget. And do you know how precious it is to forget?

“Sorry,” Kadija said. “You don’t have to answer.”

“No, it’s okay,” Louis said. The scars on his side itched badly, but he resisted the urge to scratch. “I’ll tell you something, and maybe it answers your question, and maybe not. Those three terps I worked with, the translators, I mentioned that, right?”


“Well, their names were Hassan, Adil and Riyadh. They were friends. I never met their families, but I knew the names of all their kids. They gave me birthday presents and Christmas presents, and I gave them Eid gifts. We were together almost every day for two years. They never spoke of their personal fears, but we all knew the danger. They drove different routes to work every day, they lied to their friends and even their families about what they did for a living, they checked under their cars for bombs before getting in. We – the U.S. government, I mean – promised them special visas to the States when the war was over. We said we’d get them out, and their families too. And we lied.

We betrayed them. The war is over, and almost none of the Iraqis who helped us, who put their lives on the line, have been given visas. I’m talking thousands of people. And many have been killed. Riyadh got waxed right in front of his house. His daughter saw it happen. Assassinated. Hassan arranged a janitorial job for his son on the base. The first day, the kid comes to the wrong entrance. Some idiot private, never been off the FOB, thinks the son is an insurgent and shoots him dead. And Hassan kept on working for us. He forgave the guy.

And yes, I dream about all that, but I don’t dream about them getting dead. I dream that I’m having a dinner party in a beautiful house, and they’re all there. We’re sitting on the back patio, beside a yard full of fruit trees, and we’re eating kibbeh, these delicious Iraqi meat balls, and drinking Ceylon black tea. The birds are singing, and the breeze smells like oranges. Hassan is there, and Adil, and Riyadh, and Sergeant Hall; who got torn to shreds by an IED, and others who got waxed whose names you don’t need to know, and some who were just my friends, and we’re all there, telling stories about the suck and laughing, and having a good time… and I’m so happy, I feel like my heart is expanding to fill my entire chest… And then I wake up, and I realize it was a dream, and I remember that I’ll never see any of them again, and it feels like I’ve been shot in the belly. I’m sorry for telling you all this, because I know you didn’t need to hear it. I haven’t told anyone about this, actually. Not even the counselor they assigned me when I returned.”

Louis shrugged. He didn’t know why he had shared all of that. Though it was a long sniper’s shot from being the whole truth, it was true enough. He kept his eyes on the road. The scars burned like lines of fire on his skin.

Kadija was silent for some time, looking out the window. Louis wondered if he had said too much. Did she think he was a lunatic now? A dangerous, shell-shocked vet? Then she leaned forward in her seat and said, “I lost someone… He never spoke of the war. I’ve often wondered what was in his head at the end. Thank you Louis. You’ll find happiness again one day, don’t worry. I’m sure of it. God is good and He has good in store for you.”

She sat back in the seat. Louis felt curiously light, partly because he had shared one of his deepest secrets and partly because it had been accepted without judgment. There was something about this woman. If anyone can get me unstuck, she can, he thought, and immediately dismissed the thought as ridiculous. He took a deep breath.

“How about if we talk about something else?” he said. “How about cooking? Do you like to cook?”

“Why?” Kadija said, “are all women supposed to know how to cook?”

Louis laughed, and rubbed his eyes vigorously. “You are something else, ma’am,” he said. “No, I’m asking because I like to cook; and I like reading cookbooks.”

Kadija smiled. “Sorry,” she said, “we do seem to apologize to each other a lot, don’t we?”

“That’s alright,” Louis said. “Tell you what, next time you call me for a ride, bring an old family recipe – I don’t care what kind – and I’ll accept your apology.”

“I don’t know about that, Louis. My grandma would turn over in her grave if I gave her recipes to a stranger.”

“Come on, we’re not strangers,” Louis protested. “I know your name, you know mine. You know I’m a cab driver war vet, I know you’re a Muslim and… well, I guess that’s all I know.”

Kadija chuckled, “and what, that makes us besties?”

“You know what I do for a living,” Louis said. “How about you?”

“Fair enough,” Kadija replied. “I moved across the country to be a publishing editor. So far all I’ve managed is receptionist at a publishing firm. I can barely pay my rent, and I’m living on rice and canned beans, and the occasional bag of potato chips – my one vice. But I’m not going back to North Carolina. I’m here, and I’m going to make it no matter what, Insha’Allah – you know what that means, right?”

“Sure,” Louis said. “It’s what Arabs say when you ask them to get something done and they don’t ever plan to actually do it. And I thought you didn’t speak Arabic, by the way.”

Louis glanced in the rear view mirror and saw Kadija with her head tilted to the side and one eyebrow raised.

“Ha ha, very funny,” Kadija said. “It means ‘God willing’, but I suspect you already knew that. When I say it, it’s not a cop-out, it means I’m going to do everything in my power to make this happen, but the end is with God. And no, I don’t speak Arabic, but I know the standard Islamic phrases.”

They had arrived at Kadija’s stop. She handed Louis a twenty dollar bill. “Keep the change.” She began to climb out of the cab, then turned. “I’m sorry about what happened to your friends,” she said. “But I’m glad that you made it back. My brother fought in Iraq. That’s why I asked you about it. Maybe I’ll tell you about him sometime.” She got out of the cab and walked away.

Louis’ hand stole to his side, and he scratched until his fingers came away bloody.


After work, Louis visited a used bookstore in Bernal Heights, just down the street from his apartment.

The Heights was a working class district tucked away on the southern edge of San Francisco’s Mission District. Tourists never saw this part of the city. But Louis liked it because it was affordable, and was close to the Yellow Cab lot on Cesar Chavez.

This was a family neighborhood, a humble urban village hidden from the bustle of the city, and that suited Louis fine. He wasn’t a partier. The club scene struck Louis as small and meaningless. Silly people in artificial worlds. The real world was unpredictable and unforgiving, and all that mattered was protecting yourself and the people you loved.

At the bookstore, he found himself drifting to the religion section. He picked up an English translation of the Quran. In all his years dealing with Muslims, Louis had never thought to actually read their holy book.He had heard it recited of course.

Some of the mosques in Iraq had broadcast their prayers over loudspeakers, and Hassan had been quite religious, especially after his son was killed. He used to carry a small Arabic Quran with him, a sacred and mysterious pocket-sized book with a green leather case and a zipper, and he’d read it on his breaks. The sound of the Quran had captivated Louis from the start. It was like a strange but holy symphony, with dips and crescendos, and certain notes repeated over and over. Louis understood very little of it – it was nothing like the colloquial Iraqi Arabic that he had learned – but the sound of it was deeply soothing.

Still, he had never seen a copy of the English translation. And he didn’t know why he was suddenly interested. Okay, maybe I do know.

He opened the book to the first page:

“All praise is due to God, Lord of the Worlds. The Compassionate, the Merciful. Master of the Day of Judgment…”

Huh. No fire and brimstone. And nothing about killing unbelievers. What did that mean, “Lord of the Worlds”, Louis wondered. Did that mean other planets, like aliens? Or maybe it just meant different cultures, as in, “We’re from different worlds, you and I…” And we are, aren’t we? His mind abruptly made up, Louis took the book to the register.

At home in his tiny studio apartment, Louis put on a CD, and sat in the stuffed chair that was his primary piece of furniture. The only other furnishings were a cheap writing desk, an old office chair patched with packing tape, a bookshelf that doubled as a CD tower, and a futon on the floor. The bottom drawer of the writing desk held his army medals, his old uniform, and a handful of photos from Iraq. The army had wanted to promote him again – they had plans for him, they said – but Louis had been done, done, done.

The chimes and beats of Mt. Airy Groove by Pieces of a Dream came marching into the room, surrounding him and carrying him along. Like a parade, he wanted to say, but instead he thought of a funeral procession.

He’d had a sour taste in his mouth ever since telling Kadija about the war. He’d omitted a lot from his self-righteous little rant, hadn’t he?

Those first two years as a platoon leader – before the brass had noticed his aptitude for languages – going house to house and mosque to mosque through the warrens of Baghdad, killing insurgents, arresting suspects, terrorizing innocents, losing friends. Blood and death, jokes, alcohol, hardening himself like baked clay, but baked clay shatters, doesn’t it? Pieces of a dream indeed, he thought. Like his own dreams – what had they even been?

Something about writing a best-selling novel. Getting married, having a couple of kids. Now the thought of being touched was repulsive. He thought of Kadija, then shook his head quickly. She was out of his league in every way. Still, he thought of her hazel eyes, and the small mole beside her mouth.

He’d given up the alcohol because he knew he’d drown himself to death if he didn’t.  It hadn’t been as difficult as he’d expected. It seemed he had some undiscovered resources. Jazz, work, writing and cookbooks had kept despair at bay, at least partly. But alcohol wasn’t the only way to die. Pieces of a dream, he thought, but even the pieces had been shattered beyond repair.

Lying to Kadija had bothered him, which was strange because lying had become second nature. Louis put his palms on his temples and squeezed until it hurt. He hardly knew the woman, and she had no right to his past; and talking about the war had brought everything up, like bodies rising from flooded graves.

His eyes wandered to the spine of the book he had bought earlier that day, sitting now on his bookshelf. He was strangely reluctant to read it.

Did that book have answers?

Did anyone?

Could it tell him how to put his dreams back together, or how to make new ones?

You can read Part 3, “How’d You Get That Scar?”, here.

Wael Abdelgawad’s novels – including Pieces of a Dream, The Repeaters, Zaid Karim Private Investigator, and the upcoming Uber Tales – are available in ebook and print form on his author page at

Keep supporting MuslimMatters for the sake of Allah

Alhamdulillah, we're at over 850 supporters. Help us get to 900 supporters this month. All it takes is a small gift from a reader like you to keep us going, for just $2 / month.

The Prophet (SAW) has taught us the best of deeds are those that done consistently, even if they are small. Click here to support MuslimMatters with a monthly donation of $2 per month. Set it and collect blessings from Allah (swt) for the khayr you're supporting without thinking about it.

Wael Abdelgawad's novels can be purchased at his author page at Wael is an Egyptian-American living in California. He is the founder of several Islamic websites, including,, and He teaches martial arts, and loves Islamic books, science fiction, and ice cream. Learn more about him at For a guide to all of Wael's online stories in chronological order, check out this handy Story Index.



  1. broAhmed

    December 13, 2012 at 12:35 AM

    Write part 3…now!

    Seriously, I’m loving this series!

    By the way folks, I’m assuming by FOB the author meant “forward operating base” and not “fresh off the boat”.

    “Still, he had never seen a copy of the English translation. And he didn’t know why he was suddenly interested. Okay, maybe I do know.” I actually laughed out loud at this! Keep it up!

    • Wael Abdelgawad

      December 13, 2012 at 1:14 AM

      Thanks, broAhmed. Indeed, FOB means “forward operating base”.

  2. Zari

    December 13, 2012 at 2:48 AM

    Waiting for more! Love the writing, the imagery is perfect. I hope there won’t be too many parts, can’t wait that long!

  3. Amanda T

    December 13, 2012 at 3:50 AM

    MashaAllah! I enjoyed both parts immensely. Again, looking forward to the next installment.

  4. Amy

    December 13, 2012 at 7:42 AM

    Favorite metaphor (for the entire story, actually): the kayak in the asphalt rivers.

  5. Sadia

    December 13, 2012 at 12:17 PM

    I’ll be looking forward for part three!!

  6. nousheen

    December 14, 2012 at 2:12 AM

    MashaAllah nice piece of writting,i luv to read this nd will be waiting for nxt part,

  7. Muhammad1982

    December 14, 2012 at 5:09 PM

    Really liked the part II as much as part I, can’t wait for part III. Hoping, you won’t keep us waiting for long iA:).


  8. Ahmad

    December 15, 2012 at 10:25 AM

    Jazakallah kayr Bro, please, don’t keep us waiting for long!

  9. Rabia

    December 15, 2012 at 3:14 PM

    Loved it—-cant wait for part 3. Tick tock

  10. Fozia

    December 15, 2012 at 3:53 PM

    Loved it…but I would so like to read it as a whole paperback book with an image of Kadija exiting Louis’s cab with a backdrop of the setting. I’d flick through the book and smell the new pages first as I always do with books (haha) and then read it between seeing my passengers at work – as I do!

    Looking forward to part three Chief in’sha’Allah! ;O)

    • Wael Abdelgawad

      December 15, 2012 at 9:18 PM



    December 17, 2012 at 12:37 AM

    Part 2 was very nice Mash’Allah. I have a question about Louis, does he suffer from PTSD? If so, then it’s interesting to see him already living a good, clean lifestyle even after all the terrible experiences he’d been through during the war. Usually sufferers of PTSD go through bouts of anger, anxiety, depression, alcohol and drug (both legal and illegal) abuse, etc. Looking forward to part 3.

    • Wael Abdelgawad

      December 17, 2012 at 1:27 AM

      Yes, the doctor at the veteran’s hospital diagnosed Louis with PTSD. You’ll notice that he doesn’t like to be touched, and he tends toward depression when he’s alone. He used to drink heavily but he gave it up. He has a strong instinct for self-preservation, and some good coping skills.

  12. Pingback: Pieces of a Dream | Icesabel


    December 17, 2012 at 11:06 AM

    I see, that explains a lot. Thanks!

  14. Sara

    December 21, 2012 at 3:32 PM

    I really enjoyed this article, it certainly left me trying to figure Louis out. Why does he lie so much? He obviously seems to be searching for something in his life. I think that there is more to him than he seems – he seems to be a very complex individual and I am looking forward to learning more about him and his journey in putting the pieces of a dream back together in part 3 IA!

  15. ismawati

    May 1, 2013 at 3:44 AM

    just found out this story, and i love it.

  16. Kawthar

    January 16, 2014 at 7:57 PM


    I realize that for every piece Islamic fiction written there is always criticism from readers who are more strict than the author.Sometimes these readers will make downright backward comments. However, I have an objection to make to this piece of writing that I hope you will listen to. I don’t think that Khadija has any business getting chatty with the taxi driver. I don’t think it’s right of her to be giving away her cell phone number either. Also, I don’t understand why she has to go with the same taxi driver every time. It can easily lead to a relaxed relationship with him(which is what happens here) and that is forbidden in Islam, because it can just as easily lead to bad situations. Situations that will result in dabbling in sin. In this case, Louis and Khadija get married, but that’s a bit of an idealistic way of viewing things. I’m not saying it doesn’t happen. Of course it happens. But putting things in that light is just inappropriate. This is apparently the story of how a non-Muslim man and a Muslim woman who helps him convert, then they get married. However, in order to get him to convert(although it’s never certain that this was her intention in the first place) Khadija carries on unnecessary conversation, voluntarily touches him, indicates they will be talking to each other again and in effect breaks several gender barriers in Islam that are there for a very good reason.
    I love that meeting Khadija encouraged Louis to pick a translated copy of the Quraan and finally discover Islam. But in view of my objections above, I don’t think I can suggest this piece of writing to other Muslims.

    • Wael Abdelgawad

      January 17, 2014 at 1:06 PM

      Kawthar, wa alaykum as-salam,

      Kadija is not trying to get Louis to convert. She has no ulterior motive. He’s simply a cab driver, and someone she calls for help when her apartment is broken into and she has no one else.

      Cab drivers often print business cards and hand them out to customers, hoping for repeat business. It’s a tough business. Some days you barely cover your costs. You take any edge you can get.

      As for customers, one can sometimes stand on the street corner for twenty minutes trying to flag a cab. And in some neighborhoods that’s unsafe. Also, a woman has to be careful who she gets in a car with. It’s not unheard of for cab drivers to come on to women, or even try to get physical with them. So it’s helpful to have a driver you trust and can call personally for a pickup.

      It’s true that it was Islamically inappropriate for her to put her hand on his shoulder. I think in that moment she felt deeply sad for him and wanted to reassure him. He reminds her of her brother. That’s why she asked him about the war: she was hoping to get some insight into what her brother was thinking and feeling before he killed himself. But of course it’s still wrong in Islam for her to touch him.

      Are you perfect? Do you never make mistakes, or commit sins? Does that mean your story does not deserve to be told, or that there is nothing to learn from your experience?

      “This is apparently the story of how a non-Muslim man and a Muslim woman who helps him convert, then they get married.”

      Actually, none of that exists in the story. Either you did not read the story with any care, or you came to it with certain assumptions that you imposed.

      • Blueportal

        January 18, 2014 at 7:34 PM

        Asalam u alaikum,

        I just want to point out that even if Khadija felt sorry for Louis and that “he reminds her of her brother,” I still think that some people might think it is okay for a Muslim women to do that or they might think that’s how it should be.

        Even if someone is not perfect, and even though their story does deserved to be told, I think that should be for non fiction where in the end, the person does admit to his/her actions in the past being wrong while agreeing with what is right.
        In fiction, the writer can control the aspects from the beginning till the end. Things that can cross the boundaries in the real world should be avoided in my opinion. After all, many youths take aspirations from fantasy which includes stories, games, etc. Then when they step in the real world, they don’t like the rules. What would be better in a story would be someone who has faults in their character but who doesn’t cross the boundaries.

        When Kawthar said, “This is apparently the story of how a non-Muslim man and a Muslim woman who helps him convert, then they get married.”, even if this didn’t take place in the story written by the author, it still is very close to the real life scenarios that lead to the situation described by Kawthar. Some people reading this will associate the story with what Kawthar pointed out because lets be honest, in which situation will the interactions between Khadija and Louis take place in the real world?

        Overall, the story is beautifully written.

        • Blueportal

          January 18, 2014 at 7:38 PM

          I realize I didn’t write my sentence correctly in the first paragraph. What I wanted to say is that people might think that it is okay for a Muslim women to touch the opposite gender if they are feeling sorry for them which is not.

        • Wael Abdelgawad

          January 19, 2014 at 1:02 AM

          Blueportal, I have changed that detail of the story (Kadija touching Louis’ shoulder). Thank you for your input. Jazak Allah khayr.

  17. Zahra bint al Qalam

    March 11, 2014 at 3:19 AM

    . . . And it gets better

  18. illhaam

    March 19, 2014 at 1:19 PM

    Shukran for sharing your stories with us, the characters` flaw, ‘ struggles and desires are realistic and inspiring through their journey to Allah ta ala

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