Moonshot [Part 18] – Half My Kingdom

Cryptocurrency is Deek’s last chance to succeed in life, and he will not stop, no matter what.

Previous Chapters: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13| Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16 | Part 17

“The example of those who spend their wealth in the cause of Allah is that of a grain that sprouts into seven ears, each bearing one hundred grains. And Allah multiplies ˹it more˺ to whoever He wills. For Allah is All-Bountiful, All-Knowing.” – Quran 2:261

Anonymous Gift

Deek went to the hospital gift shop, bought a t-shirt with an image of Yosemite Valley, changed in the restroom, and stuffed his dirty red shirt and suit jacket into a plastic bag.

On impulse, he took a rideshare to Masjid Madinah. It was not even close to Dhuhr time, but the musalla would be open. He made a generous wudu’, washing himself thoroughly. Wearing one of the backpacks and carrying the other, he entered the musalla. It was cool and quiet, with thick carpets, calligraphic paintings on the wall, and no sound but the turning of the ceiling fan. There was no one there except Imam Saleh, sitting in a corner, reading the Quran. Deek waved to him, then prayed. It felt good to lower his head before Allah.

When he finished his prayer, he handed one of the backpacks to Imam Saleh and murmured, “Donation for the masjid.” Not waiting for a response, he walked out.

As he stood in front of the masjid, swaying with exhaustion, Imam Saleh came hurrying out, carrying the backpack. He was a tall man with midnight-black skin, a sharp nose, and a fist-length beard, wearing a gray thobe, Arab slippers, and beige kufi.

“Brother Deek! Are you sure about this? It’s a lot of money.”

Deek gave him a weary look. “You’re not going to refuse it, are you?”

“That depends. Are you sure you can afford it? Your first obligation is to your family.”

“I guess you haven’t heard about my situation. Yes, I’m sure.”

Saleh smiled. “I don’t listen to gossip. Why, what is your situation?”

Deek sighed. Might as well tell him, why not? “I made a lot of money in the cryptocurrency market. More than I could have imagined. But I’m struggling a bit.”

Saleh nodded slowly. “Any rapid change in life can be disconcerting. But remember that there is one relationship that never changes.”

“You mean between me and Allah.”

“Exactly. No matter how much wealth you have, you are destitute before Allah. You need him now as much as ever. More, in fact. Keep to the deen, keep your salat. They will steady you and keep you on the lighted path. In any case, alhamdulillah. I’ll announce this donation to the community, it will fire them up and bring in more, inshaAllah.”

Deek nodded. “Don’t mention my name, please. Strictly anonymous.”

The Imam gave a half shrug. “MashaAllah. Good for you, akhi.” He looked up and down the street. “Do you need a ride?”

Deek gave a tired smile. “It’s okay.”

“Come see me,” the Imam said, “if you’d like to talk about anything at all.”

Atop the Covers

Back in his hotel room, he wanted to take a scalding hot shower, change his clothes, and make himself a big breakfast with the groceries he’d bought a few days before. But he had no energy to even order room service. Not even taking off his street-stained pants, nor the heavy knife that hung from his hip, he dropped the remaining backpack on the floor and collapsed into the huge bed, lying atop the covers. It was as if the bed were a grave that opened up to greet him.

Morro Rock

As he fell asleep, he heard the fountain splashing gently. It brought up a memory of sitting on the beach with Rania, listening to the waves lapping the shore. It was the first vacation they’d taken together. They’d been together for a year, and saved a little money, so they’d said goodbye to the sweltering Central Valley summer and spent a week in Morro Bay, where the sun shone gently and the cooling fog rolled in off the sea.

They rented bicycles and rode out to the amazing Morro Rock, rising sheer out of the coastal water like the head of an awakening colossus. They took a bay cruise and spotted sea otters and dolphins. Visited the skateboard museum, of all things. And enjoyed the king-sized bed in the motel room. That bed had been almost as comfortable as this one.

He had a vague thought that there was something he was supposed to do today. But darkness crept in around the edges of his mind, and he could not remember. The bubbling of the fountain was a siren song that pulled him down. Soon he fell into a mile-deep sleep, even as the sun rose high in the sky outside, casting sharp-edged shadows through the curtains.

Pain and a Pant Suit

Rania Al-Rashid stepped out of her house and took a breath, letting the late morning sun warm her face. She pressed a hand into the hollow of her aching lower back and rubbed it in circles. It helped a little. But the ache never went away entirely. This time, the pain had been activated the day Deek left, when she fell on her tailbone in the driveway.

This morning, she’d rolled out of bed and fallen onto her hands and knees. Desperately swallowing two naproxen tablets, she waited until the agony retreated, like a hyena knowing it would not make a kill this day.

Nevertheless, she looked good, and she knew it. She wore a gray rayon pant suit with a four-button waistcoat and a two-button silk-lined jacket, atop a white dress shirt. Her gray hijab was tucked into the shirt. Her low-heeled black cabaret loafers were comfortable yet professional.

She’d parked her gold colored Honda Accord on one side of the driveway, in case Deek came home and wanted to park his Porsche in the garage. She walked to it and swiped a finger across the roof. The car needed a wash.

She had a complicated relationship with cars. You couldn’t function in a widely spread country town like Fresno without a car. But driving made Rania nervous.

The Accident

Her mind went back – as it had so many times, whether she wanted it to or not – to that day when her father had let her borrow the family Camry to drive her younger brother, Hasan, to his soccer game. It was a Saturday morning in spring. She was seventeen years old and had just gotten her license a month before.

Hasan sat in the passenger seat, chewing sunflower seeds and spitting them into a paper cup. The windows were down. She was listening to music on the radio and dancing in the seat, obeying traffic laws but not really paying attention, not scanning her mirrors or looking right and left as she’d been taught in driving school. The light turned green at Maroa and Ashlan, and Rania started forward immediately. She never saw the pickup barreling through the red light until the screech of tires split the air and the rear of the Camry lifted like a kicked can.

She remembered the sound—like a steel drum splitting in two. Then pain, like a white flash in her lower back. Not sharp, but deep, as if something important had been torn or jarred loose. There was no blood—only sunflower seed shells on her face and in her hair.

Hasan was shaken, but fine. Rania was hospitalized for two days, and then released with instructions on how to care for her back. Exercises, rest, ice, and medication only when she needed it.

The pain receded for a while, then returned like a stalker—during college finals, during shifts on her feet, during pregnancy. Now it was a familiar companion, flaring under stress then fading, but always waiting.

There were moments when she thought she couldn’t take it anymore and would go mad. Then there were times when she was grateful for the pain, wallahi, she welcomed it, because it was teaching her. It humbled her, and reminded her of what mattered in life. It kept her dependent on Allah.

She could be annoyed by a thousand things, from a colleague who chewed gum noisily to not having eggs in the fridge; but when she was in pain, all she wanted was for the pain to disappear. Nothing else mattered.

So when the pain disappeared for a time, she found herself deeply grateful, and aware of the beauty that permeated the world. The neighbor’s cat, sunning itself on her back patio, was a living miracle. The taste of raspberry yogurt, the weight of Deek’s hand in hers, Sanaya and Amira’s good health, all these things were monumental blessings, and Rania was all the more aware of them because of her constant, nagging teacher, whose name was Pain.

To this day, she could not stand sunflower seeds, however.

Looking for Signs

She got in the car and headed to her meeting. Her daughters were meeting Deek for lunch in just a little while. Rania had not been invited, but might have tagged along anyway, just for the opportunity to talk to her husband. But this meeting with the architect was important.

She had done a tremendous amount of research in preparation for this meeting. She had $100,000 to spend to build Deek his own full-sized home office and library. It would be fully equipped with its own bathroom, a hardwood desk, split AC and ceiling fan, leather sofa, and wall-to-wall bookshelves. The $100K was all the money that Deek had left her. She could not spend a penny more. It would have to be enough.

Would this bring Deek back to her? Allahu a’lam. There was no way to know. But she knew Deek; he was always looking for “signs.” Before they had married, he once asked, “What if I wanted to move away from here, would you be okay with that?” And she replied, “I would go with you to Nepal, Antarctica, or the Burmese jungle. As long as we are together.” He later told her that was the sign he was looking for.

More recently, after he’d put in a few years of work on the cryptocurrency thing with no success, Rania had occasionally suggested – gently – that perhaps it was time to go back to teaching. But Deek insisted he was waiting for a sign.

This office would be his sign, as well as a concrete expression of her regret for doubting him, and for the five years he’d spent working in the walk-in closet. Deek was a highly intelligent man, and she should have trusted his ability.

During these days apart, she had missed his embraces, and the way he always lightened her mood after a long day at work. She missed his back massages, so helpful when the pain flared up. She missed his lame jokes (Why did the cell phone see a therapist? Because it kept feeling drained). She even missed his well-intentioned -though clumsy- help in the kitchen.

She didn’t care about the money, truly. He could keep it all for himself, or give it all away, and she would not utter a peep. She just wanted her husband back, the father of her children, the man she loved.

Design Negotiations

The architect’s office was located in a stylish building with a metallic facade that swept up into the shape of a sail. Rania stepped into the sunny conference room clutching a slim binder. She ignored the pain in her back, which was tolerable at the moment – merely an annoying and insistent reminder of the steady grind of time and age. Overall, she felt calm and professional, even if the film of sweat on her forehead said otherwise.

Across the glass table, Mr. Lewis—her architect—spread out a set of glossy renderings for the new office/library addition. He gave her a warm smile.

Mr. Lewis was a big, broad-shouldered man with close-cropped red hair. He looked more like a football player than an architect. But, she told herself, that wasn’t fair. People judged her on her appearance every day. She shouldn’t do the same to others.

“Looks great, Mrs. Al-Rashid,” he said. “To hit these design goals—built-in walnut shelving, clerestory windows, radiant-heated stone floor—you’re looking at about $160 a square foot once permits, engineering, contractor fees, and finishes are rolled in.”

Rania opened her binder. “That’s over my budget,” she said evenly. “And over the standard rate. I’ve reviewed the California Residential Cost Data. Fresno averages are closer to $130 per square foot for mid-range builds. So you can deal with me fairly, or I’ll find someone else for the job.”

Mr. Lewis smiled thinly. “I assure you I was not trying to cheat you, if that’s what you’re implying. You wanted walnut shelving and radiant stone flooring. Those are premium features and cost more. But if you switch to painted MDF and simple porcelain tile, we could shave 15%. I can get you down to that $130 target. You just have to work with me and trust me. I’m an honest businessman.”

Rania nodded, feeling chastised. “Very well. I’ll need an itemized spreadsheet. And since I’ve already applied for our Fresno permit, include any plan-check resubmittal fees.”

Mr. Lewis grinned. “You’ve done your homework. You sound like a pro.” He began typing on his laptop.

After twenty minutes of discussion, reviewing options, and note-taking, Mr. Lewis rapped on the table. “Okay. With the adjustments we’ve made, we’re at $130 per square foot. That’ll leave you room in your $100,000 budget for furniture and lighting.”

Rania offered a small, satisfied smile. “Perfect. Let’s move forward.”

She stepped out of the office already sketching a new quilt pattern in her head. This quilt would go on the wall and would be the perfect finishing touch to Deek’s dream workspace.

Masjid Treasures

Zaid Karim pulled up to Masjid Madinah just in time for Dhuhr prayer. His assistant Jalal sat in the passenger seat.

He’d spoken to Aunt Faiza that morning and learned that she’d talked to Jamilah late last night, California time. Jamilah had narrated the dream of a Palestine in Jannah, and Munir’s presence there.

“I’ve been telling everyone about the dream,” Faiza said. “It gives people hope, including me. It is spreading quickly.”

When Zaid told her that he was sending her thirty thousand dollars, she said, “Allah bless you Zaid, but what I truly wish is to see you. I need family by my side.”

Zaid could not say no to that, and had booked a flight to Amman immediately. He would pray Dhuhr and be on his way, leaving the car with Jalal.

In Masjid Madinah there were a dozen people gathered for salat, including men and women. Zaid knew most of them:

Faraz, the Bangladeshi facilities manager, was obsessed with cryptocurrency. Bayyinah, a Syrian hafiza with a gentle voice, was a mother of seven but always had time to teach Quran. And of course, Imam Saleh, tall and traditionally dressed as always. He was highly educated and was the kindest man Zaid knew.

These people were regulars. Deeply faithful, productive individuals, all of them carried their own special lights, shining in a color like no other, serving the community in a way that no one else could. Each of them was a treasure, and a representation of what a Muslim should be.

It was wonderful to visit grand masjids in other countries, but there was nothing like praying in your local masjid, because it was your second home, and home was the place that always took you in. It didn’t matter whether it was fancy or bare-bones, because you were standing in front of Allah, Master of the universe, Who at the same time knew and cared for every crawling ant, every plant stretching to the sun, and every man or woman weeping in the dark.

A Favor

After salat, Zaid sat cross-legged in front of Imam Saleh.

“I’m leaving for Amman. Make dua’ for my trip to be successful, and for my Aunt Faiza, as her son Munir just returned to Allah.”

Imam Saleh put a hand atop Zaid’s hand. “Of course, akhi. May I ask a favor? Will you have time for a side trip?”

Zaid was surprised that the Imam would have anything for him to do in the Middle East, but if there was anyone in the world he trusted fully, it was this man.

“We have a relationship,” the Imam explained, “with a Palestinian refugee camp outside Amman. It’s called the Gaza Camp. You may know that Gazan refugees in Jordan have trouble obtaining services like education and healthcare. And many are hungry.”

Zaid was surprised to hear this. “No, I didn’t know.”

“Could I give you money to deliver to the camp? You can give it directly to the UNRWA administrator, his name is Hamid Sabah. He’ll use it to buy food aid and health care supplies. Or if you’re in any way uncomfortable, you can rent a truck and buy flour, rice, and beans yourself, and deliver it.”

“I’m fine with delivering the money to Hamid. I’d be happy to.”

Imam Saleh opened a backpack that had been sitting against the wall. It was stuffed with cash. The Imam counted out one hundred thousand dollars and put it into a plastic bag for Zaid.

“MashaAllah! Where did this come from?”

“Anonymous donor. Just this morning, actually.”

Zaid gave a sly smile. “Is the anonymous donor tall like you, with curly hair, and named after a rooster?”

Saleh lifted his eyebrows in genuine surprise. “You truly are a detective. But as I said, it’s anonymous. I cannot confirm or deny.”

As Zaid left the masjid, he asked Allah once again to bless Deek Saghir. The man was like a blind and good-hearted elephant, crashing through the forest, knocking down trees and injuring himself, but in the process opening up paths and sowing the seeds of growth.

Half My Kingdom

Deek dreamed again that he was a treasure hunter, but this time he had finally found the treasure!

The desert burned like a sea of molten glass, but the weight of his haul—ancient coins, velvet sacks of gems, golden statuettes—was a crown of impending power. Riding slowly across the desert, swaying atop the camel’s back, he could already hear the clink of payment, feel the gazes of admiration, taste the gratitude owed to him. The wind carried the echo of plans: new houses, debts erased, favors bought, and most of all, vindication.

He barely noticed his lips cracking, the river of sweat down his spine, the cottony roughness in his throat. His waterskin was empty, but no matter. Water could be found.

The desert betrayed him. The familiar wells on the caravan maps were bone-dry, as if the earth had swallowed its own mercy.

He staggered on. The treasure grew heavier by the moment. His throat was a hot chimney full of ashes. He dropped to his knees, the soft sand giving no comfort.

Then she appeared.

Queen Latifa’s robes were the color of weathered stone and twilight. Her eyes held the quiet depth of a well that had never run dry. She carried a single waterskin, ordinary in shape, and held it out with both hands.

“Latifah,” he croaked. “I’m so happy to see you. I need water.”

Her gaze didn’t flicker. She didn’t smile. She asked, simply, “What will you trade?”

“But you’re my friend.”

She withdrew the waterskin, hiding it in her coat.

“Half!” Deek gasped. The words came fast, his thirst overriding all considerations. “Half of my treasure.”

She handed him the waterskin, and he tipped it back and drank. Coolness slid down his throat like a balm. He tipped it back further and drank more, and yet more, greedily, until the skin was empty and his belly was full. He was saved.

A deal was a deal. He began unloading his packs, dividing everything in half.

Soon, he felt the need to relieve himself. He had drunk too much too fast. He continued to divide the treasure until the job was done. Hoisting her half onto impossibly strong shoulders, Latifah walked away.

Deek’s need to relieve himself was urgent. He walked behind a large rock, but release would not come. The pressure in his bladder became sharp and unrelenting. He doubled over, his breath catching in bursts. Any moment, his bladder would burst, and he would die. He stumbled to his remaining treasure and plunged his hands into a pile of coins. They were worthless.

Latifah appeared as if she had never left. She watched him with the same still weight.

He looked up at her, eyes wide. “What do you want? I cannot answer nature’s call. I am dying.”

“What would you give for release?” Her tone held no scorn, only the quiet truth of arithmetic.

“The other half. Take it all.”

“You are free.”

Deek stumbled behind the stone again and relieved himself, weeping in relief. When he returned, having cleansed his hands with hot sand, Latifah was still there. She studied him closely.

“What is a treasure worth,” she asked, “If you would give half to take water in, and the other half to let it out?”

Deek had no reply. The treasure lay dully on the desert floor, for Latifah had not taken it. Deek’s chest heaved. He felt smaller than the grains of sand, and the desert’s vast emptiness felt like a reflection of the hole inside him.

Latifah grinned, and suddenly she was his old friend again, the one who sang, acted, dispensed wisdom, and ate mac ‘n cheese at two in the morning. “Catch you on the flip, brother Deek. Last word: Be a good husband and a good dad.” She walked away, vanishing into a mirage.

Her words seemed to echo: “Dad… Baba… Dad…”

Surprise Visitors

“Dad!”

“Baba!”

He tried to open his eyes, but they were crusted shut. Reaching up, he found a bandage on the left eye. That’s right… He was blind in that eye. Rubbing the crust out of the right eye, he opened it.

He was in the hotel room, lying face-up on the rumpled bed, one arm dangling toward the floor, still wearing the filthy suit pants he’d had on when he was attacked and fell in the gutter. The knife was still in its sheath, but had twisted beneath him, causing his belt to tighten uncomfortably around his waist. His red shirt and jacket spilled from a plastic bag at the foot of the bed.

Sanaya and Amira stood above him. Their eyes roamed the palatial suite, then returned to him.

“Baba?” Amira whispered. She reached out, gently touching his shoulder. “What happened to you? You look like you’ve been in a war.”

Deek blinked his right eye blearily. “Girls?” His voice was husky, throat thick. “What are you doing here? How did you get in?”

“We have a lunch date!” Amira protested. “We got the maid to let us in.”

“What happened to your forehead and your eye?” Sanaya demanded. She placed her fists on her hips, just as her mother did when she was angry. “Why are you wearing a knife? What on earth is going on here, Dad?”

* * *

[Part 19 will be published next week inshaAllah]

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.

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.

Related:

Trust Fund And A Yellow Lamborghini: A Short Story

If Not You, Then Who?