Free Minaret: A Novel by Leila Aboulela

asleep with a finger against his cheek, as if he is serious and thoughtful. I push his hood away from his head. His hair has recently been shaved, but it is growing thick again, straight and black. I run my finger over it.
    `Ya habibi ya Ahmed,' I say to him. I feel that I know him. I've known him since Shahinaz was pregnant, I saw him at the hospital the day he was born. Every week I see the changes in him.

    `Ya habibi,' says Shahinaz rummaging in her bag, `you Arabs always say that.'
    `Wait till Um Waleed comes,' I say, `she says it more than me.' Um Waleed is our Syrian teacher. Everyone is `ya habibi' or `ya habibti' to her. Even the Prophet, peace be upon him, is, `ya habibi ya Rasoul Allah', said in such a heartfelt way.
    `I smell of oil, don't I?' Shahinaz sniffs at her sleeve. `I was frying and there wasn't time to change.'
    `No, you don't, you're imagining it.' I am mesmerized by her baby. I hold his hand and his fist curls around my finger. He is so deeply asleep. `His hair is growing.'
    `I know. We didn't really give him a close shave. A zero with the hair clippers.'
    Un1 Waleed bustles in now with her twins. She always looks alarmed, I don't know why. I've stopped expecting her to impart any dramatic news, as her excitement seems to come from within her or from perhaps a turbulent domestic life I know nothing about. Her twin daughters are neat, pretty-looking girls, their brown hair fashionably cut. They copy their mother and automatically hold out their cheeks for me to kiss. I am taken aback at how businesslike they are.
    `Two of you only for the class - where are the others? What am I going to do? What happened to them?' Um Waleed glares at the two of us as if the absence of the others is somehow our fault.
    Shahinaz rolls her eyes.
    I shrug my shoulders. `It's still early.'
    `No, it isn't early. This is the time. And I'm in a hurry thinking I'm late.' She starts to take her notes and hooks out.

    Suddenly five young ladies stroll in.
    'Masha' Allah,' beams Um Waleed, transformed. 'I thought you'd never come'.
    The next few minutes are taken up with more kisses and laughs, squeals of admiration for Shahinaz's baby. He is taken from my arms and passed around. One of the young girls, who is still holding her car keys, says sonle- thing about 'pass the parcel' and laughs. Another conl- ments on the new way Unl Waleed has tied her headscarf. Always the teacher, she unties and starts to demonstrate. 'The usual square folded into a triangle but when you put it over your head leave one end longer than the other. See. You pin it under your chin. Then you take the longer side - hold it like this under the pin, lift it sideways over the pin and tuck it under your ear.'
    'It's that simple?'
    'It's how the Hizhullah women tie their scarves,' says Um Waleed. 'I see them on the satellite.'
    'Cool,' says the girl next to tile. She has rosy cheeks, drearily eyes. I like the way she wears her hijah, confident that she has the kind of allure worth covering. Usually the young Muslims girls who have been horn and brought up in Britain puzzle me though I admire them. I always find myself trying to understand them. They strike me as being very British, very much at home in London. Some of them wear hijah, some don't. They have individuality and an outspokenness I didn't have when I was their age, but they lack the preciousness and glamour we girls in Khartoum had.
    I leave the gathering and go downstairs to the bathroom because I need to renew my wudu. Sitting on the row of stools that face the taps, there are a few women whom I never met before. They look Malaysian but one looks like she is Sudanese. She reminds me of a girl I once knew in Khartoum University. A girl who was not my close friend, but only a mild acquaintance, someone I said hello to as we passed each other to and from lectures. She was cute, with dimples. I don't know if I ever told my father how much I loved the university he chose for me. I don't think I spoke to