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Podcast: The Fiqh of FIFA | Mufti Hussain Kamani

Zeba Khan

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It’s estimated that 3 billion people play some sort of video game, whether on a computer, console, or smart phone.  For the millions of Muslims included in this number, what’s the halal and haram of this? Is gaming a good thing? When is gaming a bad thing?

“I know a lot of kids in our community who play Minecraft to develop skills. I respect that because it’s now a tool being used for their education.” -Mufti Hussain Kamani

In this podcast, Zeba Khan talks to Mufti Hussain Kamani, a hafiz, scholar, and -surprise!- gamer, about the Islamic perspective on gaming, entertainment, and the fiqh of FIFA loot boxes.

“Do loot boxes and their contents carry any value or not? Is there a monetary value to that Messi card? If it’s all ones and zeros then you can’t technically classify that as gambling, but I believe that’s too simplistic. We live in a world of cryptocurrency. There are things that carry value beyond physical objects.” – Mufti Hussain Kamani

Is gaming halal? Are lootboxes haram? Does Mufti Hussain Kamani play FIFA, and can I join his league? Click To Tweet
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Zeba Khan is the Director of Development for MuslimMatters.org and the producer of the newly launched Muslimmatters Podcast, as well as a writer, speaker, and disability awareness advocate. In addition to having a child with autism, she herself lives with Ehlers-Danlos Sydrome, Dysautonomia, Mast-Cell Activation Disorder, and a random assortment of acronyms that collectively translate to chronic illness and progressive disability.

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Day of the Dogs, Part 10: The Girl With the Golden Gun

Wide eyed, Ivana spun and extended the ojbect she’d been holding. Omar saw that it was not a pen, but a small, gold-plated handgun. Pointing straight at him.

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Could you be loved

See the Story Index for Wael Abdelgawad’s other stories.

This is chapter 6 in a multi-chapter novella.  Chapters:  Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9

“You going to rob me some more? Next time I shoot you for real!” – Ivana

Could You Be Loved

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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.

Could you be lovedOnce his family was settled at home, Omar showered and changed, prayed ‘Asr, then headed to the airport. He’d hardly driven a block when his phone began to play Bob Marley’s Could You be Loved, which was what he’d assigned to Fuad as a ringtone, because Fuad should be loved, but wasn’t.

Omar debated whether to answer. Occasionally Fuad just wanted to catch up. But more often he called when he was perplexed, in a funk, or outright despairing over Ivana’s antics. Which was part of what friends were for, but Omar didn’t have time right now. Hani and his mystery wife would arrive in an hour.

He answered anyway, and knew instantly that this was a bad one. Fuad was shouting, not at him but at someone else, in passable but heavily accented Spanish: “Cálmate mi amor! Por favor!”

There came in the background the sound of something being smashed or shattered.

“Fuad?” Omar said.

Now Fuad sounded angry. “Was that my Latin American Association of Epileptologists award? It better not have been, you Cuban werewolf!”

Ivana screamed something that Omar could not understand. Then another SMASH.

In the background, a moaning sound rose in pitch until it became a wail. Por Dios, what was happening there?

Fuad’s voice became pleading. “I apologize baby, you are not a werewolf, you are a luscious Caribbean mango, a juicy mamey sapote -”

“Fuad!” Omar said, more loudly. And again the loud moaning sound.

Ivana screaming. SMASH.

“No, mi amor, I know those are round fruits, I’m not saying that you are fat, I meant to say a sweet Cuban banana-”

“FUAD!” Omar bellowed.

Fuad finally heard him. “Oh, Omar. As-salamu alaykum brother. How is your day proceeding? All is well, I trust?”

Omar shook his head. “Is she drunk again?”

“No, she quit drinking.”

“Yeah, right.”

“It’s true! But she imagines I was regarding a woman at the mall with prurient interest, but I assure you, Omar, I-”

“I get the picture.” Approaching the on-ramp to the Corredor Sur, Omar ran one hand through his hair. “What do you need from me?”

“Well, I am locked in the bathroom. Ivana has a knife. It’s merely a kitchen knife, so I cannot speak to the degree of its sharpness-”

“You want me to call the police?”

“I cannot,” Fuad said in a reproving tone, “call the police on my own wife. Can you please come and calm her down? And disarm her? The door code is -”

“Have you changed it since last time?” Omar snapped. He didn’t have time for this.

“Eh, no.”

“Then I know it. Are you safe?”

“As I said, I am locked in the bathroom, so yes, but -” He was drowned out by another moan.

“What on earth is that noise?”

“Oh, that’s Taj Mahal. He’s trapped in the bathroom with me.”

Taj Mahaj was their cat. Poor creature must be terrified. “I’ll be there shortly. And try calling her sugar cane. Nice and skinny.” He hung up. Shaking his head in disgust, he put the pedal down and sped toward Costa del Este. Fuad and Ivana had been married almost five years now, but it was always the same. Fuad spending money he didn’t have, Ivana never satisfied, the two of them fighting like jaguars and eagles. A thousand times, Omar had been on the verge of telling Fuad to divorce the crazy drunkard and be done with it. But Islam taught that it was evil to come between a husband and wife. So the words had never escaped his tongue, not even once.

After all, it wasn’t like anyone was being beaten, or committing adultery. There were things, in Omar’s view, that were deal-breakers. Things that should rightfully end a marriage. But constant arguments, excessive greed… well, who was he to say? If Fuad loved her and could put up with that, then it was up to him.

The drama sure was a headache, though.

Throw Her Off The Balcony

Fuad lived in a luxury apartment on the thirty fifth floor of an oceanfront highrise called Torre del Cielo. He made good money in his practice, but he still hit up Omar a couple of times a year, asking to borrow money to pay off his credit cards.

Torre del Cielo was two exits south on the Corredor Sur – on the way to the airport, luckily. But what would Omar do when he got there? He didn’t relish the idea of taking on a knife wielding lunatic, even if she was the former Miss Cuba. He’d studied knife defense in karate, but had never attempted it in reality. And Sensei Alan had always said, “The first truth of knife defense is that you will get cut.” Being slashed by a beauty queen would be just as painful as being slashed by a Japanese samurai. Fuad’s fancy apartment wouldn’t look nice with Omar’s blood splashed all over it.

French dessertsAs he was about to jump onto the Corredor, he spotted a new French boulangerie that had opened in a small shopping center. Maison San Francisco. He’d taken his family there once, but had not repeated the experience because although the food was delicious, the prices were exorbitant. It gave him an idea, however. Ivana loved anything European and expensive.

He swerved across two lanes of traffic, eliciting a cacophony of blaring horns, and came in hot, screeching to a stop in the small parking lot. Inside Maison San Francisco, he ordered a box filled with half a dozen stunning treats: eclaire au chocolat, opera cake, tarte framboise, tarte au citron and more. Wincing as he paid the bill, he then hurried back to the car, and gunned it onto the Corredor.

He glanced at the car’s digital clock: Hani and his mystery wife would arrive in one hour. Hani didn’t seem like the type to take it kindly if Omar arrived late. He’d probably take it as a personal insult.

“Could you be loved?” sang Bob Marley’s voice from his phone. “Don’t let them change ya, oh! Or even rearrange ya! Oh, no!”

“I’m on my way, Fuad.” Omar said without preamble.

“Oh. Eh… you must promise me that you will not hurt Ivana. Just get the knife away from her.”

“No, Fuad,” Omar said dryly. “I’ll throw her off the balcony.”

“Please be serious, brother. She is so precious to me. I could not bear it if-”

“She’ll be fine if she hits the water in a streamlined position.” Though this was not true, of course. The coastal waters here were shallow. She’d break every bone in her body.

“Omar!”

“As-salamu alaykum, gotta go.” He ended the call.

Allah is One

Ten minutes later Omar pulled into the parking lot for the Torre del Cielo. Two young women carrying shopping bags with designer labels were heading into the building. One was a dark-skinned Afro-Latina wearing mirrored shades, the other a short blonde. Omar walked behind them. The barrel-chested doorman, looking like a preening dove in an ivory-white double-breasted uniform, opened the door and greeted them all with a cheerful, “Buenas tardes.”

The Afro-Latina gave the doorman a nod, but the blonde scowled as if to say, “How dare you speak to me?” Typical upper class Panamanian rabiblanco arrogance. On impulse, Omar opened the bakery box and gave the doorman a strawberry tart. What was one less? Five was as good as six. The man smiled from ear to ear. With such enthusiasm that one would have thought he’d just won a trip to Paris, he said, “Gracias señor Bayano.”

Omar shared the elevator with the two young women. They pressed the button for 30, and Omar hit 35.

“Good afternoon,” Omar said, merely being polite.

The blonde ignored him, took a tube of lipstick from her purse and began to apply it while gazing into the mirror on the wall of the elevator. Recognizing the lipstick, Omar smiled. It was made by Puro Panameño, but was part of the company’s luxury line, marketed under the name Printemps Paris, for all those wealthy Latin Americans who thought a Panamanian-made product was beneath them. This particular shade was made with a dye from muntingia calabura, a Latin American berry that was strangely known locally as the Chinese cherry. That little stick cost $139, Omar knew. The blonde could ignore him all she liked, but her money was still in his mother’s pocket.

Perhaps thinking he was smiling at her, the Afro-Latina removed her shades, flashed Omar a smile in return and said, “Hi, I’m Maria.”

Omar gave his name.

Maria nodded to the bakery box. “Sweets for your sweetheart?”

“A bribe for a knife-wielding Cuban psycho.”

“Sounds exciting.”

The blonde said, “Why are you talking to this moron? He could be a serial killer.”

Purely on impulse, only wanting to mess with the blonde a bit, Omar said, “Allah is One.”

The blonde gave a disgusted grunt. “See what I mean? A nut.”

“What does that mean?” Maria wanted to know.

Omar hadn’t actually meant to initiate a da’wah session. Aware that the elevator had almost arrived at 30, he kept it brief: “It means God is One God. No son, no saints, no partners. We owe Him everything: gratitude, love, worship. And we are all absolutely equal in His dominion.”

The elevator came to the 30th floor, and the doors opened. The blonde stepped out, but Maria held the doors open with one hand. Her face bore a strange expression of intrigue and wonder, as if she’d just seen a mythical beast prancing by. “I want to know more,” she said.

“Do you have a phone?”

Maria took out her cell phone, and Omar gave her the number of the Muslim Community Center. “Call that number after 6 pm. Ask for Fatima.”

As the elevator rose quietly to 35, Omar found himself moved by the look of wonderment he’d seen on Maria’s face. All because of a few sentences he’d uttered. He knew that he himself often took Islam for granted. It had always been a part of his life. But Maria had acted as if he’d just opened a door and shown her a glimpse of Paradise. While the blonde, on the other hand, had been utterly uninterested. SubhanAllah, the human heart was an astonishing thing. It made you wonder how many other people were out there, seeking a bit of truth, hungering for a ray of light to show them the way.

A Scene of Mayhem

Omar stood outside the front door. It was quiet inside. He’d come here in a frustrated, almost angry mood, ready to lay down the law with the crazy Cuban, even wrestle her to the ground if necessary. But after his experience with the young woman in the elevator, he felt suddenly humbled. He would reason with Ivana. For all her flaws, she was an intelligent woman. She’d always used her intelligence to manipulate others, or so it seemed to Omar. But maybe she would respond to kindness.

Fuad’s door possessed an alphanumeric keypad instead of a traditional lock. The code, Omar knew, was REINA, meaning queen – Fuad’s nickname for Ivana. This translated to 73462. Omar punched it in.

The door swung open onto a scene of mayhem. A sofa and chair had been slashed open, and stuffing was scattered across the floor. The ruined chair was Fuad’s favorite, Omar noted. He loved to sit in that brown leather recliner while watching cricket matches.

Some of Fuad’s awards had indeed been smashed. Shards of glass and china littered the floor. Curtains had been pulled down, and the curtain rod was snapped in two, lying on the marbled floor in front of the huge sliding window that opened onto a balcony and looked out over the Pacific. A floor-to-ceiling, built-in cubby shelf normally held a variety of items, including books (all Fuad’s), statues of Catholic saints (in spite of Fuad’s protestations), and numerous framed photos of Ivana, many of them from her Miss Cuba contest win. Omar noticed that Fuad’s books had been pulled down and thrown about the room, and some even had their pages torn out, while Ivana’s things were untouched.

A minibar that stood against one wall, opposite the wall with the built-in-shelves, was bare. Omar wondered what had happened to all the bottles of wine and rum that normally stood on it. He’d told Fuad many times that he should not allow that poison in his house, but Fuad had complained that he could not stand up to Ivana.

Speaking of the devil, Ivana sat in an antique French chair carved from mahogany and upholstered in white suede. It was her favorite chair and was undamaged of course. She had not heard Omar come in. She sat in profile to him, facing the huge sliding window. An elegant, sleeveless green dress glowed against her dark brown skin, and swept its way down to her ankles. One arm was draped over the back of the chair. With her other hand she tapped her teeth softly with something Omar could not quite see – a golden pen? Her thick black hair was disheveled, and she appeared flushed. A large carving knife lay on the French side table beside her.

Carrying the box of desserts, Omar greeted her with, ¡”Acere, qué bolá”! Maybe the Cuban phrase – meaning, hey buddy, what’s up – would draw a smile and help calm her down.

Gold plated gun Wide eyed, Ivana spun in the chair and extended her arm, holding the object she’d been tapping on her teeth. The midday sunlight streaming through the picture window caught the object, glinting off its smooth metallic lines, and Omar saw that it was not a pen, but a small, gold-plated handgun with an inlaid pearl handle. He might have admired its beauty, if it had not been pointing straight at him.

His karate trained in and he sidestepped to the right. He didn’t even think about it. “Getting off the track,” it was called in karate, and Omar had drilled it a million times in response to punches, kicks and simulated knife attacks.

It may have saved his life.

The Girl with the Goldie Gum

“CRACK!”

Omar had never heard a gunshot up close. Only distant reports in his neighborhood at night, back when he was young and they lived in Panama Viejo. In the movies, gunshots sounded like the roaring of cannons, or the clapping of thunder. But this gun made a very sharp, flat sound, like the cracking of a whip. A hot pain branded his left shoulder with fire. He grunted in surprise, dropped the box of sweets, and ducked behind the shredded sofa.

“Ivana!” he shouted, and his voice sounded strange to him in the muffled silence following the shot. “Are you crazy? It’s me, Omar!”

He heard a clattering sound – the gun being dropped? – as Ivana screamed, “Ay Dios! Why do you sneak into our house like a burglar?” She had that throaty, growling tone of voice that nearly all Cubans had – Omar never knew why – but it was tinged with panic at the moment.

From inside the bathroom, Fuad shouted, “What’s happening? What was that sound?”

He risked a peek over the top of the gutted sofa, and saw Ivana standing, looking angry and afraid. The gun rested on the table beside her. Picking up the box of sweets, and thinking how idiotic it was to do so, he stood. His shoulder still burned, and now something tickled his skin, like an insect running down his arm. He looked and saw a rivulet of blood streaming to his hand and dripping to the floor.

“You shot me,” he said to Ivana, half accusing, half dazed.

Ivana’s hands shot to her mouth, and her eyes went as wide as Havana Harbor. She bolted for the bathroom door, pounded on it. “Mi amor, come out! Omar has been hurt.”

The bathroom door opened instantly and Fuad dashed out, right past Ivana, and Taj Mahal streaked by on his heels, flying past in a silver blur and disappearing into a bedroom.

“Don’t let the cat out!” Ivana cried – nonsensically, Omar thought, since the front door was closed.

Fuad’s mouth fell open as he took in the condition of the apartment, then he saw Omar and said, “Oh my God.” Running to him, Fuad studied Omar’s shoulder. In that instant, his entire demeanor changed. Whereas Fuad in his personal life often seemed irresolute, hapless and frustrated, at that moment he transformed before Omar’s eyes. He stood straight, and his gaze took on a sharp focus. He pressed a hand firmly to Omar’s wound, and in a commanding voice, said, “Reina! Fetch my medical bag from the hall closet. Immediately!”

Ivana ran and returned with a large, brown leather bag with a handle and a brass clasp.

“I brought you some French sweets,” Omar said stupidly, still holding the box, which was smeared with blood now.

“That’s nice,” Ivana said matter of factly, and took the box.

“Open my bag and remove the scissors,” Fuad said. At his direction, Ivana began to cut Omar’s shirt from his body.

“Great,” Omar complained. “This shirt was a birthday present from my mom. And I’m supposed to be at the airport in half an hour. What’s the matter with you, Ivana? Why did you shoot me? Are you drunk?”

“No,” Ivan said defensively. “I quit drinking. See?” She waved a hand at the empty minibar, nearly taking Omar’s eye out with the scissors. “Because I want to be a good wife to my beautiful love Fufu.”

“Fufu?” Omar tried to laugh, but his teeth were chattering too much. Why were his teeth chattering? He said, “Why do you have a go – golden gun? You think you are some kind of Bo-Bond villain? The guh-girl with the goldie gum?” Wait, what had he said? That didn’t sound right.

“Stop talking,” Fuad said. “You’re in shock. Ivana, wrap the emergency blanket around him, but leave this shoulder bare.”

As Ivana wrapped some kind of space-age silver blanket over Omar’s head and one shoulder, Fuad activated a small digital voice recorder, set it on the table and treated Omar’s wound quickly and efficiently, narrating the whole time.

“The wound is a shallow elliptical furrow on the outer left deltoid, approximately four centimeters long, and less than a centimeter deep at the center. The proximal corner of the wound presents a crescentic margin of abrasion. The edges of the wound have small diagonal lacerations radiating away from the initial point of contact.”

To Omar he said, “It is merely a graze, brother. Not deep. You don’t even need hospitalization. I can capably treat it immediately if you have no objection. I’ll apply lidocaine to numb it, then suture it.”

Omar nodded his head. He felt warmer and had stopped shivering. The shoulder would hurt but not intolerably. He knew why Fuad did not want to take him to the hospital. The doctors would report the incident to the police, and Ivana would get in trouble. Personal firearms were illegal in Panama. Why did the crazy woman even have a gun? But he trusted Fuad. If the brother said he could treat him effectively right here, Omar believed him.

Antique wall clock As Fuad cleaned and then treated his wound with Ivana’s assistance, Omar’s eyes wandered to the antique clock that hung on the far wall. It was white, with Roman numerals and a floral pattern on the face, with roses marking twelve and six. He saw with alarm that it was 2:20. He was supposed to be at the airport in fifteen minutes! With Hani’s temper and suspicious attitude, what would the man think if Omar was late, or didn’t show up at all? He’d take it as a deliberate snub.

Fuad bandaged the wound, then prepped a syringe, tapping on it. “Giving you a broad spectrum antibiotic. I’ll transmit a prescription to Farmacia Arrocha, you can pick it up anytime.”

Omar averted his eyes as the fat needle slid into his flesh. He’d had enough of things piercing his body for one day.

As soon as Fuad was done, Omar stood up. A wave of dizziness hit, but passed quickly. “I have to go. I have to be at the airport.”

“Not so fast!” Fuad gripped Omar’s good arm to steady him. “You are in no condition to drive. And I need to put your arm in a sling, to stabilize it so you don’t tear the sutures. I have one here somewhere.”

“I have to pick someone up. Like, now. It’s not open to debate.”

Fuad sighed. “Very well. Ivana will take you.” Ivana began to protest, but Fuad silenced her with an uncharacteristic glare and a chopping motion. “Not a word, Ivana. We will talk about all this later. Take Omar where he needs to go.”

He turned to Omar, and in a soft, halting tone, said, “I’m sorry, brother. This is all my fault. I bought the gun for her, because there was a home invasion in the building, and she was scared, staying home alone when I work late. She was supposed to keep it in the home safe. Please forgive me.”

Omar waved this away with his good arm. “Like you said, we can talk later.”

The Road!

Ten minutes later, wearing one of Fuad’s expensive dress shirts, and with his left arm snug in a shoulder sling, Omar sat in the passenger seat of Ivana’s cherry-red Renault Laguna as they sped up the Corredor Sur. Ivana could have demanded a Mercedes or Porsche and Fuad would have bought it for her, but she preferred the Renault because it was French. This was  Ivana’s definition of high culture. If it was French, she wanted it.

The car was comfortable, with a smooth, soft ride. Omar had heard that Renaults worked like a dream for the first three or four years, then started to break down in major ways. No doubt Fuad would buy Ivana a new one when that happened.

Ivana was driving dangerously as she always did, swerving around slower cars, but for once Omar did not complain. He was definitely going to be late to pick up Hani, and was feeling anxious. And the steady throbbing in his shoulder did not help.

He knew he should let Ivana focus on the road, but he couldn’t help himself. “If you’re not drinking anymore,” he demanded, “then why did you shoot me?”

“I’m sorry, okay? It was an accident. You surprised me and the gun went off. It’s your fault for sneaking like a burglar.” She waved a manicured hand dismissively. “Besides, you heard what my beautiful love said. It’s only a scratch. Don’t make a big deal.”

“What were you even doing with a gun? And you made a huge mess of the apartment, Ivana. This is not a way for normal people to act!”

Omar knew right away he’d made a mistake. Fury twisted the Cuban’s face. She rounded on him, jabbing a finger. “You should know, mister ‘no mas’ Omar.”

Omar frowned. “What do you mean, no mas?”

“I know what you tell him. No mas Ivana, leave her, divorce her, send her back. You are lucky I did not kill you on purpose!”

Traffic had slowed, and they were about to crash into the car in front of them. “The road!” Omar cried. “The road!”

With only a glance at the traffic, Ivana swerved around the slow-moving cars, onto the narrow shoulder – kicking up dust and gravel, speeding a hand’s width from the concrete wall on the side of the Corredor – then, after flashing past a long line of cars, cut back into traffic when it was moving fast again.

“I was going to kill myself!” she shouted. She slapped a hand against her ample breast once, twice, three times. “Right in my heart. He cannot divorce me! I will not go back to Cuba! I swear I will finish myself first.” She looked at Omar and her tone became suddenly soft and pleading. “You think I am using him. But I swear I love him. He is the world to me.”

She began to cry, and this was worse than anything because while Omar didn’t believe she actually would have killed herself, he had never seen her cry, never seen her vulnerable in any way. Tears ran down her cheeks, streaking her mascara. “I could not bear it, Omar. Please don’t make him leave me.” She put her head on the steering wheel and began to sob loudly, not even looking at the road. Not only did she not reduce speed, the car actually sped up, just as traffic began to slow for one of the periodic toll booths that studded the Corredor.

“Stop the car,” Omar shouted, bracing his one good hand on the dashboard, and pushing into the floor with his feet. “Ivana! STOP!”

Ivana looked up and slammed her foot onto the brake. The tires squealed, the rear end fishtailed violently, and Omar gave a wordless shout as they careened toward the back of a stopped 18-wheeler big rig. With a huge shudder, the car came to a halt only a breath away from the truck’s fender, the engine stalling and dying.

“Alhamdu-” Omar began to say.

“BAM!” Something crashed into their rear, driving them in turn into the back of the semi. Omar’s head jerked and hit the headrest, then bobbed forward. He turned and looked. An old Datsun the color of a withered lime, dented and weatherstripped, had run into them from behind.

“Oh no,” Omar moaned, clenching a fist and pressing it to his forehead. He’d never get to the airport now. “No, no, no.”

Negotiation

He and Ivana exited the car and performed the mandatory survey of the damage. The front of the Renault was badly dented, and one headlight was smashed, but the damage was cosmetic. The overall structure was intact. In the back, the rear fender was skewed, tipping to one side, but that was it. As for the other vehicles, the truck in front was totally undamaged, not even a scratch, and the little beater behind merely had a shallow dent in its fender.

Almost immediately the other two drivers were out of their vehicles and shouting at Ivana and Omar.

“Look what you did to my car!” Ivana screamed at them in return. “This is a Renault, not some piece of junk like yours.”

The driver of the big rig, a small man wearing a baseball cap with BOYD SHIPPING printed on it, waved his arms perfunctorily, going through the motions for appearance’s sake, it seemed to Omar. As if getting angry and making a scene were a social requirement in these situations.

The Datsun driver, a squat, gray-haired woman in a cheap pantsuit – the traditional uniform of the Panamanian female working class – seemed genuinely upset, though Omar could not imagine why. The Datsun already looked like a pineapple.

Ivana, not one to be outdone, hurled insults so foul they could have curdled milk.

Gold bracelets “I don’t time for this,” Omar muttered. Stepping between the three, he shouted, “Shut up! Listen.” He pointed a finger at Ivana. “This woman’s husband is a lawyer. He’s a shark. It doesn’t matter who’s at fault, he will sue you both-” here he pointed dramatically at the little truck driver, then at the woman, who shrank back – “and take everything you own. Or-” Omar smiled and softened his tone – “to avoid delay, we could give you each something, and all be on our way.”

The two drivers nodded vigorously, liking this idea.

Omar pointed to Ivana’s wrists, on which she wore – as usual – an impressive collection of gold bracelets. “That’s 22 karat gold. You each get one bracelet. That’s a lot of money.”

“Are you insane?” Ivana shouted. “It wasn’t my fault. If you think for one second I’m giving anything to these larcenous, dirty, low-class-”

Omar rounded on her and pressed his nose almost to hers, whispering fiercely. “It was your fault, fool! Now do as you’re told, or wallahi-” he touched a finger to his lips, then shot it into the air – “I will press charges against you for shooting me. You’ll be deported.”

Muttering angry curses, Ivana removed two bracelets and handed one to each driver. They departed with smiles. The gray haired woman in particular looked practically giddy with joy.

Back in the car, Omar said, “Pull onto the shoulder for a minute.”

“Why? You going to rob me some more? Next time I shoot you for real!”

“You did shoot me for real. Please, just pull over. I have something to tell you.”

Continuing to curse, Ivana pulled over. “I am not a fool,” she said, glaring at Omar.

Omar took a breath, let it out. “I know. But you do act foolish sometimes.”

“You are talking to a member of the royal family.”

“Oh, brother.” Several years ago Fuad had run a DNA test on Ivana to make sure she didn’t carry the genetic marker for epilepsy, since both parents having the gene for epilepsy increased the chances of the children having it. As it turned out, she did not have the marker, but the test revealed that she was distantly – very distantly – related to the Spanish royal family. And Ivana never let anyone forget it.

“You better show some respect, Mister Omar, or-”

He held up a hand, silencing her. “Stop. I swear by Allah, I never told Fuad to leave you. Not even a suggestion. I thought it, sure, but I never said a word. Fuad would never do it anyway. He loves you madly. He’d cut off his own hand first. So calm down, please. And by the way, I’m glad you gave up drinking, that’s a wonderful step.”

With her head tipped to one side, Ivana studied him. “You swore by Allah. I know Musulmanes don’t do that lightly, so I believe that you never told him to leave me. But I know he is planning to!” Her lower lip trembled, and her eyes welled with tears. “I saw him looking up lawyers on the computer. He closed it when I came in the room, but I saw it.”

“Ohhhh.” Omar shook his head. “He was looking up malpractice attorneys. He told me about it last week. A patient is suing him for a million dollars. From what I gather, the suit has no merit, but Fuad didn’t want you to worry. That’s why he didn’t tell you. Trust me, he would never divorce you.”

Ivana covered her face in her hands and began to weep loudly. Not knowing what to do, Omar patted her shoulder. Her skin – for she still wore the sleeveless green dress – was hot, and he snatched his hand back as if he’d been burned. Opening the glove box, he found a small pack of tissues, and handed a few to Ivana. “It’s okay,” he said lamely. “Everything’s okay.”

Ivana blotted her face with the tissues, and her crying slowed. “Alhamdu-” she stuttered, her breath catching, “Alhamdulillah.”

Omar raised his eyebrows. Since when did Ivana use Islamic phrases? “How about letting me drive the rest of the way?” Omar suggested. “I still have one good arm. And I really, really have to get to the airport ASAP.”

“No, I’m fine.” Ivana gave him a bleary smile. Another first: a smile from the Cuban princess. “We can go now.”

“No more dramatics?”

She shot him a look. “Don’t push your luck.” She put the car in gear, and, blaring the horn in a long, insistent command, pushed her way into the line for the tollbooth.

Next: Day of the Dogs, Chapter 11:  Reunion

Reader comments and constructive criticism are important to me, so please comment!

See the Story Index for Wael Abdelgawad’s other stories on this website.

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

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Podcast: David’s Dollar | Tariq Touré and Khaled Nurhssien

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We often preach about our children learning the importance of money, group economics, and developing healthy spending habits. How awesome would it be to have a fully illustrated picture book that explores how a dollar travels from hand-to-hand?

Join Khaled Nurhssien and award winning poet and author Tariq Touré as they discuss Tariq’s new children’s book David’s Dollar. In this Interview they touch on art, Islam’s approach to community and Tariq’s creative process.

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Day of the Dogs, Part 9: All We Have To Do

The driver whistled. “Waow. You some big politico? So watchu gonna do about the foreigners snatchin’ our jobs? The Chinos?”

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Corredor Sur, Panama

See the Story Index for Wael Abdelgawad’s other stories.

This is chapter 6 in a multi-chapter novella.  Chapters:  Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8

“Policia Nacional!” – Omar

Broken Window

Tocumen International Airport
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Tocumen International Airport

Back in Panama, pulling his wheeled suitcase along behind him, Omar walked out to the long-term parking lot at Tocumen airport. It was a hair past noon, and the sun poured forth its fire as if the earth were a morsel of meat it wanted to cook for lunch. Knowing the weather in Panama, Omar had changed his clothes in advance in the airport bathroom, putting away the linen suit and slipping on a pair of knee-length basketball shorts and a t-shirt. He was glad he had. After the chilly skies of Bogota, being back in Panama was like stepping into a sauna.

When he came to his car, he found the driver’s side window shattered. He shook his head in disgust. Why would anyone break into his car? It was a five year old silver Toyota sedan with no frills. It didn’t even have a CD player, just a basic AM/FM radio. He could have afforded better, but he drove this old beater for exactly this reason: it didn’t look worth breaking into.

Searching the car, he found nothing missing. There hadn’t been anything worth stealing anyway. Just the manual in the glove box, a little LED flashlight, a pack of cinnamon chewing gum, and some napkins. Oh, wait – they’d taken the Quran CDs. Arabic recitation with Spanish translation. Maybe the thieves would listen and be guided.

When he inserted the key and turned it, he got nothing. Not even a click. Opening the hood, he discovered the reason: the thieves had stolen his car battery. So that was what they’d been after. Now he was angry. Where was airport security?

Car with shattered window

Drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, he considered who to call. He needed someone to bring him a battery. His wife didn’t drive. Fuad didn’t drive either, because he never knew when he might have an epileptic attack.

Fuad’s crazy wife Ivana did drive, but Omar didn’t want to deal with her. If Fuad somehow convinced her to come out here, she would either want to be paid, or would expect Omar to take her and Fuad to the most expensive restaurant in Panama. Ten times! Omar laughed at the thought.

He could call Nadia Muhammad, his old friend from IIAP. She was married and sometimes came to visit with her husband and two kids. She was a goofball, always telling jokes and making his son Nur laugh. But even though they were just buddies, and his wife thought nothing of it, he didn’t want to push the boundaries of trust by spending half a day driving all around Panama city with her.

It Burns!

Deciding that there was nothing left to steal, and that it wouldn’t hurt to leave the car alone for a while, he trudged back to the taxi stand in front of the terminal. Ignoring the touts who snatched at his sleeves, desperate to put him in a limo or town car, he found a 60ish, balding taxi driver with forearms like German sausages. The man sat disconsolately in his cab, filling out a crossword puzzle. The two of them negotiated a price of $40 for the whole business, and took off.

As they headed into the city with the windows open and hot air whipping through the car, Omar reclined his head against the seat and closed his eyes.

Apparently not noticing or caring that Omar was trying to rest, the driver called out, raising his voice to be heard. “Oye, jefe. You some kinda tuna fat foreigner?”

“I’m Panamanian.” Omar opened his eyes and studied the road, and was dismayed to see that the driver had taken the slow midtown route. Avenida Domingo Diaz was an interminable road lined with auto shops, plant nurseries and love motels – known as pushbuttons in Panama, because all you had to do was drive in and push a button. You never had to see any clerk or staff face to face. “Hey, why did you go this way? I would have paid the tolls on the Sur.”

“Well I din’ know that, no?” The man’s sped-up slang Spanish marked him as having been raised in Colon. Omar could barely understand him. “Just because you a tuna fat Colombian. You might be a biter. You ahuevao foreigners is welcome if you bring some flus. Otherwise we don’ need you.”

Ignoring the fact that the man had just called him stupid – he’d understood that much – Omar, repeated, “I’m Panamanian.”

“Then where the president live?”

“Palacio de Las Garzas. I’ve been there.”

The driver whistled. “Waow. You some big politico? So watchu gonna do about the foreigners snatchin’ our jobs? The Chinos?”

There were a lot of Chinese in Panama, true, but they didn’t take jobs. Just the opposite. They opened stores, restaurants, internet cafes and electronic shops, and employed Panamanians. Omar explained this.

“Then the mascabola Venezuelans! Ñangara Comunistas!” The driver hawked and spit on the floor of his own car. “They spray the word taxi onna side of a car and steal my fares, don’ even have licenses.” He pounded the dash with a meaty fist. “It burns!”

“I see how that’s bad for business, but they’re our neighbors. We have-” Omar stopped talking as the driver abruptly swerved across two lanes of traffic and pulled up beside a love motel called Lady Finger.

“Get out!” the driver demanded. “Ain’t drivin’ no mascabola Communist-lover. And I ain’t votin’ for you!”

Omar pursed his lips. It would be hard to find another taxi out here. He considered offering the driver more money, but the guy was a nasty piece of work. As much as the man wanted Omar out of his cab, Omar wanted to be done with him too.

He collected his luggage and paid the driver a quarter of the normal fare, which under the circumstances he felt was generous. The driver cursed at him and peeled out with a squeal of burning rubber.

Allah blessed him. Omar had only begun to contemplate his options when another taxi pulled up to the Lady Finger. A 60ish man in a business suit and a young woman in a skin-tight dress headed into the pushbutton. Omar called out to the driver and half-ran, pulling his bag behind him. A minute later he was on his way – again – with a driver who kept the windows rolled up, the AC on and a Cuban jazz CD playing softly. Alhamdulillah.

Do the Right Thing

Three hours later, with a new battery in his car, Omar navigated his way out of the airport parking lot. He noticed several other cars with shattered windows. Useless airport security officers walked around making notes, and two cars were being lifted onto tow trucks.

Corredor Sur, Panama

Corredor Sur, Panama

He headed home along the Corredor Sur, the express toll highway that led along the Pacific waterfront. The area bordering the highway had once been an expanse of impenetrable mangrove swamps, but now it was Costa del Este, the most expensive seaside neighborhood in all of Panama. Two-hundred meter skyscrapers glittered in the tropical sunshine, their glass sides reflecting sky and sea, while construction cranes marked the sites of future towers.

These million dollar apartments were occupied by business people, wealthy expatriates and even crime cartel bosses, mostly hailing from neighboring (and less stable) countries like Venezuela, Colombia, and Ecuador. And, of course, by Fuad, who – pushed by his Cuban beauty queen – had purchased an apartment he really could not afford.

The mangroves that had been drained and filled to make Costa del Este possible had been one of the richest wetland habitats in Panama, home to dozens of endemic species. Such was the way of his country. No one valued nature, nor even old things of human make. It was all about what was new and sleek.

At least people like Naris Muhammad were out there fighting to protect what was left. Naris, the serious-minded member of the Muhammad triplets, was one of the most prominent environmental activists in Panama.

He exited the freeway into the leafy district of San Francisco. It was an upper middle class neighborhood with tree-lined streets, mostly consisting of gated homes, all bordering Parque Omar, the largest urban park in Panama.

Passing by Parque Omar, he eyed the spot where, last year, he’d intervened to stop a man from beating a woman. He’d been out for a morning jog and had seen a tall, thin man with hollow eyes punching a young woman in the face.

For a good portion of his childhood he had been the one beaten while the person who should have protected him stood by helplessly. He’d always promised himself that he would not be that impotent bystander, allowing someone to be abused before his eyes.

So when he saw the man punching the woman, he instantly ran forward, wrapped the man’s neck from behind and pulled him off the woman. The woman, instead of thanking him, screamed, “Leave my boyfriend alone!” She picked up a broken tree branch and struck Omar on the head, and the pair of them dashed off. Omar went home with his scalp bleeding, expecting a tongue lashing from his wife. But she cleaned the wound, kissed him and made him one of his favorite foods: an apam balik pancake filled with banana slices, sesame and sugar.

He returned his eyes to the road. He couldn’t be responsible for the choices people made. But he could do the right thing.

As he approached a large, sky-blue home fronted by a high brick wall and a steel gate, he hit a remote control and the gate slid open. The house had a circular front driveway that curved around a bubbling Islamic style fountain shaped like an eight-pointed star, covered in green tiles. The crisp water sparkled as it poured out of an upper bowl and into the larger basin below.

Nur liked to play in this pool, while Omar’s wife enjoyed sitting beside it after sunset, listening to the Quran on a little cassette player. Omar had offered to buy her a portable CD player, but she said she couldn’t tell one side of a CD from the other.

Tall trees flanked the front yard, with a pair of mango trees anchoring east and west. Around them grew passionfruit trees, guava and berry bushes. Nur often came out here with his mother and ate the berries straight from the bushes, until his cheeks and chin were red from the juices.

Something For Everyone

When he opened the door, Nur came running. Omar dropped to one knee to catch the boy. He was a handsome tyke, with sturdy limbs, a strong nose and square face. His eyes were dark and his black hair was straight, like his mother’s. Omar’s love for him was a deep river that would never run dry.

He found his wife in the kitchen standing at the stove, garnishing a red snapper for the oven. The split AC in the corner hummed, its cool air circulating the scents of lemon and parsley. The space was large and comfortable, with a cooking island in the center, and teak cabinetry all around. A matching rustic teak table occupied one side, beside a low, molded concrete bench that extruded from the wall and was covered with cushions. The family spent a lot of time here.

His heart surged at seeing his wife again. Her face was dewed with perspiration from the heat of the stove. Even so, she looked beautiful, with a slender, strong form, and her long black hair tied back in a ponytail. He went to her and she turned to embrace him, saying, “Careful of the stove.”

Putting his arms around her, he could feel the muscles in her shoulders and arms. The two of them ran five kilometers every morning in Parque Omar, and two evenings a week he taught her karate in an upstairs bedroom they’d turned into a training studio.

Labrador retriever He felt something cold touch his hand and looked down to see the dog, Berlina, nuzzling him with her wet nose. She was a young labrador retriever, well trained as a guide dog. She was a gentle creature, intelligent and good with Nur as well.

He reached down to scratch Berlina’s head. Her tail thumped happily against the kitchen cabinet. Nur grabbed his other hand. “What did you bring me, Papá?”

Standing in the middle of the family mob, Omar laughed. “I have something for everyone, okay?”

They sat at the kitchen table and Omar parceled out the gifts: for his wife, a pair of silver earrings shaped like crescent moons and fashioned in the uniquely Colombian “momposina” style, with finely woven silver threads. For Nur, a set of coloring pencils with a small leather carrying case.

“What about Berlina?” Nur wanted to know.

In answer, Omar stood, grabbed the plastic jar of beef jerky sticks from the top of the refrigerator, and tossed one to the dog. Berlina caught it in mid-air, settled down and went to work, her wagging tail brushing the floor.

Drawings

Later that evening Omar sat at the kitchen table with his son, watching the boy draw. He could hear the shower running upstairs.

Papers were scattered across the table, covered with drawings of ocean waves, leaping dolphins, a squid brandishing a scepter, and a mermaid wearing a crown. Nur had always been fascinated by the ocean and all its creatures.

Nur held up a picture of a tsunami arching over a small town. He’d even drawn tiny cars on the roads and stick figures of people. “Do you like it, Papá?”

Omar raised his eyebrows. “It’s drawn very well.” He leaned close to his son’s ear. “But let’s not tell Mama that story. We don’t want her to be sad for the people.” Nur’s mother could not see the drawings, so normally Nur would describe them to her in detail, telling the drawing’s story.

Nodding, Nur tucked the sketch beneath a pile of others as his mother came down the steps, tying a towel around her hair. Omar was always amazed at how confidently she moved. A stranger would never guess she was blind, at least not here inside the house, where everything was laid out precisely in its place. Though her vision was not 100% gone. She could sometimes make out broad outlines and colors.

“Sad for what people?” she asked.

“Nothing, just drawings.”

Omar’s wife sat on his lap, resting an arm around his shoulders. She ran a hand through his hair, playing with the curls, taking care to stay away from his mangled ear, as he was sensitive about that. He kissed her on the cheek, happy to be home with the loveliest woman he knew. He was blessed, alhamdulillah.

A Scarcity of Friends

“I missed you,” his wife said. “But I’m glad you found your friend Hani. You don’t have many friends.”

It was true. He had Mahmood, Fuad, and Nadia. That was about it. Nadia’s sister Naris could have been a friend if she weren’t so engrossed in her work as an environmental activist. As for Nabila, she’d moved to Los Angeles to capitalize on her Youtube stardom, and ended up becoming a documentary filmmaker.

Was this scarcity of friends the reason he’d been so excited to see Hani again? And why he had overlooked the brother’s disconcerting negativity?

“What’s his wife’s name, by the way?”

“He never told me. She works as a house cleaner.”

“Do you think it’s wise to invest with him? He sounds unstable.”

Omar pulled her hand out of his hair. It was too close to his ear, and was making him nervous. “Does he?”

“The way you describe him.”

“Hmm.”

She ran a hand over his face – her way of reading his expression. “You’ve already decided to give him the money, haven’t you?”

“I guess.”

“Then why make him write a business plan?”

“For his own benefit. To help him succeed.”

“I think you just wanted a reason to see him again.”

As a reply, Omar pulled his wife close and kissed the side of her head. Her black hair smelled of the papaya shampoo she favored. She knew him too well, and never failed to let him know it.

He watched his son working on a new drawing of a squadron of flying fish. Each fish wore a beret and had a cigar in its mouth. As the boy drew, he chewed on his upper lip.

Nur was an intense child, but was he happy? Omar thought back to his own early childhood, training in martial arts with his father, watching football games, attending the masjid for Jumah prayer; and going on hikes with his mother, or visiting that amazing ice cream shop on Avenida Central that sold a giant scoop of mango sorbet for a quarter. They had been poor, but Omar had been happy because he was loved by his parents, and what more did a child need?

That’s all we have to do, he thought. Love him. He reached out and stroked the back of Nur’s neck. The boy did not even look up. “All we have to do,” Omar said out loud.

“Do what?” his wife asked.

“All we have to do is love each other.”

His wife settled into him, resting her back against his chest. “Yes. That’s all we have to do.”

Put Your Hand Down

Karate class “I KNOW YOU WANT TO EARN A BLACK BELT ONE DAY,” Omar said as he strode up and down in front of the line of kids. One girl – an especially enthusiastic eleven year old green belt named Tabina who was always asking when she’d get her next promotion – raised her hand frantically. Some of the kids nodded their heads.

“Put your hand down, Tabina. It wasn’t a question. Fix your stances.” His own son Nur was leaning too far forward in his horse stance, and Omar showed him by giving him a slight push, which nearly toppled him. Technically Nur was not old enough for this class; it was for kids aged six to twelve, but being the instructor’s son had privileges. Not that Omar went easy on the boy. Just the opposite. He demanded much from him.

Omar loved these kids at the Centro Islamico, which everyone called the Centro. He volunteered twice a week, teaching this class and another for teens.

“There are three things you must do,” he went on, “if you want a black belt. One, come to class. Two, practice at home. Three, don’t quit. If you do these things, week after week, month after month, year after year, I guarantee you will get your black belt eventually, inshaAllah.”

He cast a glance at the clock on the wall. It had been a month since his return from Bogotá. Hani and his wife were supposed to arrive today. In three hours, actually.

“Line up,” he ordered the class. “Respect Allah, your parents and yourselves.” With a command of, “Sensei ni rei!” he bowed the class out. “Domo arigato gozaimusu,” all the kids intoned in Japanese.

His own wife was teaching a Quran memorization class in one of the upstairs rooms. He called Nur over and kneeled to give the boy a hug. “Run upstairs and tell Mamá we have to go.”

Refugees

As the three of them exited into the audacious Panama sun, unmitigated by any trace of cloud, they saw a scene unfolding in the empty lot across the street. A group of refugees – Venezeuelans no doubt – were camped in a large weed-ridden field, which was muddy and spotted with litter.

One family hunkered in the shade of a patched-up tent, while a thin woman with frizzy hair in a ponytail sat beneath two pieces of corrugated metal that had been leaned against each other and covered first in cardboard, and then with a tarpaulin. Her two small children kicked a deflated soccer ball in front of the shelter. A toothless old man with a cane sat on a plastic milk crate, out in the open, with only a gray baseball cap to shield his face from the sun. There were about a dozen people altogether, mostly women and children. They were a doleful, dejected group. It broke Omar’s heart to see such scenes, but Venezuelan refugees were everywhere in Panama these days.

Now, however, a group of young Panamanian men and women – in their late teens or early twenties, perhaps – had pulled up to the lot in two tricked-out Japanese cars. They began shouting at the refugees, telling them to go home, and calling them leeches and scum. The well dressed youths, consisting of five boys and two girls, exited their cars and began throwing stones at the refugees.

Omar had witnessed scenes like this before. With over one hundred thousand Venezuelans in Panama, resentment was rising among those who chose to scapegoat the refugees for all of Panama’s problems – like the taxi driver.

The little boys who’d been kicking the soccer ball ran to their mother in the lean-to. The old man with the cane yelled at the youths, who shouted insults in return.

“Papá,” Nur said in alarm, “why are they doing that?”

“What?” Omar’s wife wanted to know. “What’s going on?”

Omar gave his wife’s shoulder a squeeze. “Kids misbehaving. Go back inside the Centro with Nur.” She did not have Berlina with her, as dogs were not welcome in the Centro, not even guide dogs. It was a bad policy, but one that Omar had not succeeded in changing. But she had her cane, and of course she had Nur.

He strode across the street, mindful that if these youths chose to fight he’d be badly outnumbered. An idea came to him. Taking out his wallet, he opened it and held it above his head. “Stop!” he commanded loudly. “Policia Nacional! You’re all under arrest.” He did not have a badge of course, but the kids were several meters away and probably would not notice.

Indeed, the youths scattered, dashing back to their cars, jumping in and peeling out, tires squealing.

Omar strode across the muddy field to the refugees, who all looked frightened. “Easy,” he told them, making a calming motion with his hand. “Are you okay?”

A woman in her forties, her brown face weatherbeaten and lined, stepped forward. “It’s nothing new,” she replied bitterly. “But thank you anyway.”

Omar looked the group over. He wanted to do something, say something, but what? In the end all he said was, “Do you have enough food?”

“No,” the woman replied bluntly.

Omar’s wallet was still in his hand. He took out $60, which was all the cash he had on hand, and held it out to the woman.

Her eyes flicked to the money, then to Omar’s face. Her mouth was a grim line. “We did not ask for anything.”

“I know. But you’re my neighbors. Maybe Panama will be in trouble one day, then I’ll come to your country and need your help.”

The woman’s mouth quirked upwards into a smile. “I don’t think so. You are rich, and you don’t know it.” But she took the money.

When Omar went back across the street, his wife and child were still there, to his consternation. “I told you to go inside,” he said.

“Excuse me?” She was annoyed. “Number one” – counting on her fingers – “Nur wanted to see. Number two, you don’t tell me to go inside like I’m a child.”

Omar wasn’t the type to give orders, and he knew it was her blindness that brought out the protectiveness in him. But sometimes his wife had to trust him to lead. He tried to explain this, and saw her growing angry. It might have turned into an argument, but Nur spoke up.

“Papá,” the boy said solemnly. “You lied.”

Omar twisted his mouth to one side in embarrassment. “Yeah,” he started to say, “I know, but-”

“It was cool!” Nur broke in. “Did you see how those bad kids ran away?” He held up one hand, pretending to be Omar holding up his wallet, then marched in a circle. “You went, ‘Policia!’ and they went, ‘Oh no!’”

“Okay, okay.” They walked to where their car was parked a half a block down the street. As they drove home, his wife patted his knee. “You did good, mashaAllah. I’m proud of you.”

Next: Day of the Dogs, Chapter 10:  The Girl With the Golden Gun

Reader comments and constructive criticism are important to me, so please comment!

See the Story Index for Wael Abdelgawad’s other stories on this website.

Avatar

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

Support Our Dawah for Just $2 a Month

MuslimMatters has been a free service to the community since 2007. 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.

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