Free She Wore Red Trainers by Na'ima B. Robert

all the superambitious plans you made last year? That you regret applying to study Law? That you just don’t know what you want to do with your life anymore? No, there isn’t.
    I knew that plenty of the guys I went to school with would be taking a gap year after our A levels. It was almost an obligatory rite of passage. But those guys had parents who could afford to indulge them and would be totally cool about paying thousands of pounds for their kids to go backpacking in India or something.
    That is not my dad.
    Dad is the kind of father who will look through the uni prospectus before you do and put a star next to the courses he is prepared to pay for. According to him, my options were Law, Engineering, Computer Science, Economics and anything in the medical department.
    I made a big show of collecting the plates and taking them to the kitchen. As I passed him on my way to the kitchen, Dad put his hand out and touched my arm. I looked down at him, trying to keep my expression neutral. It wasn’t easy.
    â€˜Son,’ he said, ‘I’ve been on this earth a long time and I know when someone is trying to avoid an issue. So I suggest you put those plates in the kitchen and come and sit yourself down and tell me what is really on your mind.’
    I swallowed and nodded. ‘Sure, Dad. Just give me a minute.’
    While in the kitchen, I mentally prepared what I was going to say, Dad, I would like to take a gap year to consider my options in light of our new circumstances . No mention of not being sure about studying Law. No mention about notbeing sure about what I want to do with my life. No mention of the fact that I felt the boys needed me at home because Dad was just too wrapped up in his own problems to really be there for them.
    When I was sitting in front of him in the living room, facing his armchair, my delivery was smooth and even. But he didn’t buy it. He peered at me over his glasses, a suspicious expression on his face.
    â€˜What do you mean “in light of our new circumstances”?’
    I squirmed in my seat. Please, Dad, don’t make me do this .
    â€˜Are you talking about the move, son?’
    That was an easy exit so I nodded vigorously.
    â€˜Well, I don’t see why that should make you change your plans. We already looked at the possibility of you living in halls of residence anyway…’
    I bit my lip. ‘That’s not it, Dad…’ I faltered. ‘It’s just that… with Mum being gone…and Umar… J…’
    Dad looked at me sharply. ‘What’s that got to do with it?’
    I became exasperated then. Why was he pretending that he didn’t know what I was talking about? ‘Dad!’ I raised my voice, just slightly, just enough to let him know that I didn’t want to play this game of Let’s Pretend Mum’s Still Here. Not anymore. ‘Dad, Mum’s dead. And I just don’t think I could cope with studying Law right now. Plus it wouldn’t feel right to go off to uni and leave you all…’
    â€˜Ali, you don’t have to worry about us, we’re fine!’
    â€˜Dad, please! Don’t talk as if Mum’s death hasn’t affected us. Umar is angry, J is confused and I… I…’ I tried to keep my voice level. ‘I’m still hurting, Dad. I’m still grieving. Can’t you understand that?’
    But Dad’s face remained a mask. ‘Son, life goes on – we belong to Allah and we will return to Him, all of us. Your mother – may Allah have mercy on her – would have wanted you to continue with your studies and that is what you will do. You’re so close now; I won’t have you giving up.’
    â€˜But, Dad…’
    No buts, Ali! I have said my piece. If you can’t make sensible decisions, you will have to allow others to make them for you; it’s as simple as that.’
    â€˜So that’s it then, is it?’ I