Free Born on a Tuesday by Elnathan John Page B

used to pinch me and I would cry and nobody would believe me when I would say what he did. When I used to be angry that the twins got anything they wanted and my father hit Umma, Maccido and me, but never them. When I heard Umma screaming and the midwife who came to help her give birth came out with a bag that my father eventually went to bury. When the midwife came again after less than a year and my father had to make that trip to the burial ground a second time. When in Bayan Layi, Malam Junaidu flogged a boy who couldn’t remember his Quranic verses with his tyre whip and the boy threw up blood, was taken away and never came back.
    The memories dance around in my head like my image dances around when I look at myself in a pool of water that isn’t still.
    Sheikh comes into the room himself, waking us up earlier than usual. It is Thursday and like him we fast on Mondays and Thursdays. He has brought in hot koko, kosai, some bread, dates and slices of watermelon and pineapples. I am wondering what the occasion is. Usually this type of feasting is reserved for Ramadan. He squats to sit with us on the mat between my flat mattress and that of the other boy. I get up.
    â€˜Sit, sit,’ he says.
    The other boy scratches his red eyes. He looks at the food spread out before us like he was going to jump into the plates. Yesterday he refused to eat or drink.
    Sheikh speaks to the boy kindly, in English. I don’t know what Sheikh says but by the time he switches to Hausa, the boy is looking down like someone who has done something wrong. I hate the fact that I do not understand what has just been said.
    â€˜Please, let us eat,’ Sheikh says to both of us.
    I am surprised that Sheikh has even brought bowls with water for us to wash our hands in. Reluctantly, like a child receiving a gift from a stranger, the boy washes his hands and joins us. I am too shy to eat in front of Sheikh. He fills up the room and it is hard to breathe. He has never spent so much time here before.
    â€˜This fan needs repairs,’ he says, ‘it shouldn’t make so much noise. Please remind me, Ahmad. There is someone coming to fix the one in my house tomorrow. He will fix this one too.’
    He stares at the photo of Sheikh Inyass by my bed. I tell him it is mine when he asks. He eats some more before he starts speaking again.
    â€˜Have you ever heard of shirk? Do you know what it is?’
    â€˜Yes ya Sheikh,’ I reply, ‘it is joining of any other thing with Allah subhanahu wa ta’ala.’
    â€˜Interesting. And is that a good or bad thing?’
    â€˜A horrible thing, ya Sheikh.’
    â€˜And bid’a?’
    â€˜Creating new things that are not in the Quran or Sunna.’
    â€˜Good?’
    â€˜Horrible, ya Sheikh.’
    â€˜Do we make photos of Allah subhanahu wa ta’ala?’
    â€˜Never, ya Sheikh. Never.’
    â€˜What of photos of his Prophet sallallahu alaihi wasallam?’
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜Do you know of the one thing that Allah subhanahu wa ta’ala will not forgive?’
    I remember the answer from Quranic school, and from my father when he used to speak against Shiites:
    Innallaha la yaghfiru an yushraka bihi wayagfiru ma duna zalika liman yasha’u waman yushrik billahi faqad iftara ithman ‘aadheeman.
    Allah forgives not that partners should be set up with Him, but He forgives anything else, to whom He pleases; to set up partners with Allah is to devise a sin most heinous indeed.
    I feel ashamed. I remove the photo from the side of the bed, fold it and stuff it in my bag. Sheikh’s gaze upon me is heavy. He is smiling and I can feel his eyes looking through my head and my chest for the things I am feeling and thinking. Suddenly, the food is hard to swallow and the koko is tasteless in my mouth.
    Sheikh gulps down what is left of the water in his steel cup and rises to his feet. He turns to the boy and asks if he would like to go for a stroll