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

Previous Chapters: Part 1 | Part 2

“If you want to find out what a man is… give him power. Any man can stand adversity — only a great man can stand prosperity.” – Robert G. Ingersoll

“Anything I do to elevate myself in the eyes of others is hollow.” – Wael Abdelgawad

Tentacles Slithering Up

As he walked out of the hospital, the Jumu’ah prayer alarm sounded on his phone. Man, he’d forgotten it was Friday. The crypto world operated every moment of every day and night, so one day was no different from another. He’d often missed Jumu’ah when trading crypto, but he wanted to attend today. He felt like he’d been a prisoner in a tiny cell for five years, and had just been liberated. Plus, he owed it to Allah, to thank Him for this long-awaited success.

It was too late to go to Masjid Madeenah, where he usually attended. Instead, he caught an Uber to Masjid Umar, the mostly Arab masjid in north Clovis. He wasn’t fond of Masjid Umar. The community was insular and wealthy, and although Deek himself was Arab, he never felt like he fit there.

In the Uber, he checked his crypto wallet. Solana was up 15%, and New York Killa was up 29%. His net worth was now $80 million. If he’d kept the bulk of the New York Killa, rather than selling, he would have much more. But what did it matter? He would never be able to spend $80 million anyway.

On impulse, he cashed out some of the Solana and initiated another transfer to the joint bank account, sending $80,000 this time. His only regret was that these funds had not yet arrived in the account. He would have liked to go shopping before prayer, so he could show up wearing something snazzy. An Armani suit maybe, and Italian leather shoes. And perhaps some jewelry and a new haircut. As it was, he was wearing his same old jeans and Hawaiian shirt that he wore every day.

Deek was aware that all these thoughts – divorcing Rania, keeping the money secret, showing off for the people – were like tentacles slithering up out of a dark sea that swelled inside him. He was not a fool. He knew how Shaytan could whisper in a man’s ear. When he was a boy in Iraq, he’d learned the Quran at his father’s feet, as well as studying Hanafi fiqh with the local shaykh. He had a good understanding of Islam and had not forgotten it.

The Crusher

His family came to the USA when he was nine years old. He did well in school, but after high school, he rebelled and went to art college, and became a fine art painter, much to his father’s chagrin. He was talented, and put on a few gallery shows. But when he married Rania he gave that up and took a more respectable job teaching elementary school. Until, sick of laboring in the lower middle-class echelon, tired of being poor, he quit that in turn to risk everything on the crypto revolution.

His parents were both gone now, which was a blessing in a way, as they had not been around to see what a failure he had become.

He still remembered much of the Quran he’d learned as a youth. Obviously he still knew Juz ‘Amma, and could recite Surat Al-Humuzah:

Woe to every backbiter, slanderer,
who amasses wealth and counts it ˹repeatedly˺,
thinking that their wealth will make them immortal!

Not at all! Such a person will certainly be tossed into the Crusher.
And what will make you realize what the Crusher is?
˹It is˺ Allah’s kindled Fire,
which rages over the hearts.

It will be sealed over them,
˹tightly secured˺ with long braces.

The surah painted a stark portrait of an evil man hunched over his money, counting it obsessively. Someone who, perhaps, had accumulated wealth through the cheap labor and suffering of others, or a leader who stole the resources of his own people. Such people crushed the spirits of others in order to enrich themselves, and so Allah would crush them in turn.

That was justice. Deek did not consider himself such a person. He’d earned his money lawfully and through his own study, dedication, and sleepless nights. He hadn’t robbed anyone.

Yet still he was frightened. He had to find a way to avoid being eaten alive by this wealth.

The Blockade of Bani Hashim

Masjid Umar was encircled by tall palm trees, and as the Uber pulled up Deek saw that three of them had been torched. They still stood, but they’d been badly burnt. The whole area stank of charcoal and ash. He wondered what had happened, but there was no time to speculate, as he was late. He hurried into the masjid.

The prayer area was small and crowded. There was no room to sit, so Deek stood at the back. The Imam told the story of the mushrikeen’s boycott and blockade of Bani Hashim during the Makkan period, and the extreme hardship and even starvation it had caused. The Imam spoke about how this boycott ended. Namely, five of the disbelievers, who in spite of their rejection of Islam were fair men, agreed to speak against this injustice.

At the same time, the Prophet had a dream in which he saw that the agreement the mushrikeen had signed to impose the boycott had been destroyed. The document had been stored in the Ka’bah, and the Prophet saw that all of the paper had been eaten by ants, except for the words Bismillah.

It was a fascinating story, and was yet another example of how Allah never abandoned the believers. Though the Prophet and his family and followers had gone through a period of extreme hardship, Allah the Most High engineered events that brought them out of hardship, though not immediately, as the most terrible blows of all still awaited the Prophet . His wife, Khadijah, and his protector, Abu Talib, both died. With Makkah having become unsafe for him, he walked to Ta’if to preach to the leaders there, but they rejected him and ordered him stoned.

It was only after all of this that the people of Madinah began to embrace Islam, and the hijrah began – finally ending the oppression of the Makkan period.

To Be Sincere

Deek felt that it was destiny that he had come to this particular masjid today, as he needed to hear this message. Problems end, he thought, but not immediately. Sometimes you go from the frying pan to the fire, and only then, if you are patient, do you escape to the garden and the cool river running through it.

I must do better, he thought. I must not let the wolf eat me alive. I mustn’t lose myself. I have to do good with this money. I have to be sincere.

These thoughts were like an intellectual exercise, however, or like trying to solve a problem of color or texture with a painting. Wasn’t it all subjective? He had no idea what it meant to be sincere with money, since he’d never had money. All he could think of was that he should donate. Donate to the poor, orphans, the masjid, and so on.

The opportunity presented itself sooner than expected. The salat ended, and people began to file out of the masjid. Deek found a chair to sit in to put his shoes on. He’d gained a lot of weight during the crypto years, and it was difficult to bend over enough to put on socks and shoes. When he was finally ready to go, most of the crowd had dissipated.

A Detested Countryman

Outside, a group of five middle-aged brothers stood beside the burnt trees, gesturing and talking animatedly. Two of them he recognized immediately. One was Dr. Zuhair, a classically handsome Egyptian engineer with a thick mustache, who looked like he could play Gamal AbdelNasser in a movie. Zuhair sat on the boards of many local Islamic organizations and was said to be very wealthy.

The other man he recognized was Dr. Ajeeb, the former principal of the Islamic school Deek’s children had attended for many years. The tall, thin Iraqi wore a loose black suit with a white shirt and red tie, which made him look like a flagpole from which the Iraqi flag hung limply. His face was thin and brown, while his teeth were cigarette-stained.

Deek remembered now. Ajeeb had been fired from the principal job a few years ago and was now the program director for this masjid. He was not a medical doctor, but rather had a PhD in Islamic Sciences from the Islamic University of Najaf in Iraq.

In spite of being countrymen, Deek and Ajeeb had never gotten along. Back when his kids had attended the school, Deek had complained many times that the Islam, Quran, and Arabic programs were hidebound by Middle Eastern tradition. Everything was rote memorization, and the teachers were recent immigrants who could barely speak English. Some still thought they could discipline students by shouting or hitting their hands with rulers. It was disgusting.

Furthermore, the only organized sport at the school was soccer, rather than the baseball, basketball, or American football that were more popular in this country. It was as if they had used a thousand cranes to lift a school out of the Middle East and drop it into the USA. Deek would have pulled his children out, except the thought of sending them to public school terrified him. He himself had attended an American public school, and he knew what a moral cesspool it was.

Deek had actually gone to the board and complained about Ajeeb, but they hadn’t been interested. Deek was poor and could barely pay the monthly school fees. He certainly was not a financial supporter or donor. His opinion carried little weight.

He’d been happy when Ajeeb was fired, but disappointed that one of the local masjids hired him.

An Offer To Help

Deek walked up to Ajeeb and put a hand on his shoulder. “Doctor,” he said. “What happened here?”

Ajeeb turned and smiled thinly. “Brother Deek. Someone tried to burn the masjid.”

“Who?”

“We don’t know.”

“Doesn’t look like they tried very hard. These trees aren’t even close to the building. Someone wanted to make a statement, maybe. Or kids.”

Ajeeb made a tut-tut sound with his tongue. “This is very serious, brother. It’s not for joking.”

“Why,” demanded a portly Egyptian with curly hair and thick glasses, “aren’t there security cameras?”

“We have been meaning to do it,” Ajeeb replied. “We didn’t have the funds.”

“I could help with that,” Deek offered. “I’ll cover the whole thing, cameras and installation.” It felt incredibly strange to say these words. A voice inside him, representing a persona still stuck in the past – and in his case, the past meant yesterday – protested, What are you doing? You can’t afford that! Rania will kill you. Having money was a strange sensation, like being alone in a room for forty years, then suddenly finding a beautiful woman sitting on the bed with you. It would take him a while to believe it was true.

Ajeeb turned only partway to face him and held up a hand. “This will take more than your $100 donation, ya Deek. But thank you.”

The portly brother snickered. A few other men in the group smiled. Only Dr. Zubair did not share their amusement. He frowned disapprovingly at Ajeeb, but said nothing.

An Incident From The Past

Deek felt himself go cold with rage. Ajeeb’s mocking comment was a reference to an annual school fundraiser several years ago. It was a banquet, with almost 500 local Muslims in attendance. Ajeeb had the microphone and was asking for $5,000 donations, having worked his way down from $25,000. Teenage boys and girls walked the floor with pledge cards, ready to take pledges. Deek, who was there with Rania and the girls, waved a girl over to his table. Most donors filled out the pledge cards with promises of large donations. Deek couldn’t do that, but he always tried to give something, so he handed the girl a hundred dollars in cash.

Apparently the girl was confused, not knowing what to do with the cash. Dr. Ajeeb said, “I’m looking for one more $5,000 donation. Ask yourselves what you can spend for the future of your children and this community.” At that exact moment, the girl, still standing beside Deek, raised her hand and called out, “One hundred dollars?” A few people laughed, while Ajeeb waved an irritated hand toward a table beside the dais, where three college students were collecting the pledge cards.

It was humiliating. Later, as he drove the family home, Rania rubbed his shoulder and assured him that the girl had not intended to embarrass him. But as she said it, she smiled. Deek never forgot that smile. He could forgive people their trespasses against him, though not easily. But he was not the type to forget.

A Dark Fantasy

Deek stood beside the burnt trees, beside these men, but not among them. The men stood in a circle and did not move to admit him. The nonverbal message was clear: You are not our equal. Let the important people talk. A vision came to Deek’s mind. Ajeeb would be walking at night, perhaps out for an evening stroll after dinner. Deek would steal up behind him and sedate him with a chloroform-soaked cloth. He would drag Ajeeb into a van, drive him down to the San Joaquin River, and drown him. The river would carry his body away, and it would never be traced back to Deek.

It was only a dark fantasy. He’d had such thoughts many times, about various people, but would never do it. But what could he do in the real world to spoil things for Ajeeb and make his life harder? He was a man of resources now. Money talked, and BS walked.

The Dashing Dr. Zuhair

He approached Dr. Zuhair and took his arm. The man’s muscles were firm beneath Deek’s hand. MashaAllah, Zuhair was probably sixty-five years old, yet Deek could picture him in a camo vest and carrying an AK-47, pursuing bandits in the Sinai. Deek led the handsome man away from the group and toward the back wall of the parking lot, which butted up against a residential neighborhood on the other side. Orange and lemon trees stretched their branches over the wall.

Deek said, “Doctor, are you on the board of this masjid?”

“Yes,” Zuhair replied cheerily. “I’m the board president. Why?”

“I’m serious about paying for the cameras. Actually, I want to make a large donation to the masjid.”

“Pardon my frankness,” Zuhair said, “but how can you afford that? Don’t take me wrong, I respect everyone regardless of financial status, but you are not known to be wealthy.”

Deek pursed his lips, considering. If he wanted to be taken seriously, he would have to give something up.

“Are you familiar with cryptocurrency?”

“I own a little Bitcoin. I am far from an expert.”

“Well, I am an expert. And I have done very well with it, alhamdulillah.”

“Okay… How much would you like to donate?”

Deek licked his lips nervously. “One million dollars.” Even to his own ears it sounded like a jest, so he was not surprised when Zuhair laughed, punched Deek’s shoulder, and said, “Okay, you got me brother. That was a good joke.” Zuhair reached up to one of the overhanging branches, snagged an orange, and began to peel it.

Providing Proof

“How is your family these days?” Zuhair asked as he popped an orange wedge into his mouth. “You have two daughters, yes? They attended school with my daughter when they were young.”

“They’re good, alhamdulillah.”

A pigeon landed in the parking lot and strutted by, cooing.

“I’ll show you something,” Deek said. “Give me a minute. But I need your word that this stays between me and you.”

“Okay, no problem,” Zuhair said, eating more of the orange. “I give you my word. This orange is amazing, mashaAllah. You should have one.”

“Aren’t those the neighbor’s trees?”

“Yes, but the branches are on our side. They can’t pick them over here.”

Deek took out his phone and held it at an angle where Zuhair could not see the screen. Opening the Phantom app, he saw that Solana was holding steady, but Killa was up a bit more. His balance was 81 million and change. He quickly created a new wallet and transferred $3 million in Solana to it. There was no point in letting Zuhair see the full extent of his wealth. That was not for anyone to know – not the government, nor even his wife.

The whole process took only a minute. Then he turned the phone to show Zuhair the screen.

Zuhair gave a long, low whistle. “You made three million dollars in crypto. That is very impressive, brother. You should teach me how to do that!” A sly look crept across his face. “Tell the truth. Is this a prank? Am I on a hidden camera show?”

“It’s real. And I want to donate one million dollars.”

Two Conditions

“Allahu Akbar!” Zuhair tried to clap his hands but ended up clapping the orange. “This is wonderful. You are giving one-third of your wealth. That is so generous.”

“Yeah. I guess so.”

“Allah barik feek, may Allah bless you. There are many things we can do with this money. We have been wanting to build a proper basketball court for the youth, and an outside wudu’ area for when the main building is locked, and -”

“I have conditions, though.”

Zuhair lifted an eyebrow. “Most people do not impose conditions. They donate fee sabeel-illah.”

“Most people don’t donate a million dollars.”

“True.”

“I want a seat on the board, and I want Ajeeb fired.”

Zuhair shook his head and waved his hand dismissively. “The position on the board is not impossible for a donation of this magnitude, but as far as Doctor Ajeeb, this request is beneath you. It is inappropriate. Even if I already wanted to fire him, I would not do it for money.”

“I’m giving you a million dollars.”

“You could give a hundred million, I would still say no. It’s a matter of integrity. We simply don’t do things that way. Please. Just donate the money with a pure heart, with no conditions. It will bring you great rewards from Allah.”

Deek glared. He was pretty sure that if he gave a hundred million, Ajeeb would be out on his skinny behind in a hot minute. Everyone had a price. It sounded like Zuhair already wanted to fire the man anyway. So what was this talk of integrity? As if Deek was trying to corrupt him somehow.

The Traits of the Noble

“What if I make it a million and a half?”

“Wonderful, ma-sha-Allah.” He pocketed the orange peels and reached up to pick another. “SubhanAllah. These oranges are so juicy.”

“But,” Deek said pointedly, “with the same conditions.”

“Then no.”

Deek’s voice rose. “What if I buy the whole masjid then? I could do whatever I want after that.”

Zuhair laughed softly. “You’d need a lot more than three million for that.”

“I have a lot more than three million.” As soon as he said this, he chastised himself for letting his ego get the better of him.

“Ah.” Zuhair wagged a finger at Deek. “It’s clever to be discreet with your assets. But still no. The masjid belongs to a non-profit organization. You cannot buy a non-profit org, there’s no provision for it under the law. It’s an interesting intellectual problem, though. You could try to buy the organization’s assets if they were willing to sell. As I said, you could perhaps negotiate for a seat on the board if you donated enough. Or you could always start your own masjid.”

“That’s not the point. Ajeeb is not a good person. He’s not good for the community.”

Zuhair sighed as if Deek were a recalcitrant pupil, then ate another orange wedge. “There is a poem,” he said between bites, “by Mufti ʿAbd al-Latif bin ʿAli Fathallah. He was a Lebanese poet from the eighteenth century. He wrote:

العَفوُ مِن شِيَمِ الكِرامْ

وَالصّفْحُ مِن شَأْنِ العِظامْ

وَأَخُو الشَّهامَةِ مَن عَفا

عَن قُدْرَةٍ عَلَى الانْتِقامْ

“That means -”

“I understand it,” Deek broke in. He recited:

“Forgiveness is among the traits of the noble,
And pardon is the mark of the great.
The truly gallant is he who forgives
Even when he has the power to retaliate.”

Zuhair nodded, impressed. “Very good.” He reached up and plucked another orange from the tree, and held it out to Deek.

Forgiveness did not come easily to Deek. His homeland was a nation of ancient feuds and brutal dictators. Even though he’d come to America quite young, the scorching blood of his people blew through his veins like the desert winds. Or maybe that was a cop-out. Maybe he was fully capable of being a better man. But did he want to? He wasn’t sure. Money was what he had always craved, and he had it now.

Without a word, and without taking the proffered fruit, Deek turned and walked away. He’d tried to do the right thing. He’d tried to give away a million and a half dollars, and they didn’t want it. How was he supposed to use his money for good when the people on the other end wouldn’t cooperate? He was done with that. It was time to think of himself and his own needs. Everyone else could get out of the way, or get run over.

***

[Part 4 will be published next week inshaAllah]

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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.

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Pieces of a Dream | Part 1: The Cabbie and the Muslim Woman