Thirty-Five

Clara Addas






By the time I arrive at the mosque, there isn't an inch of the floor unoccupied. It seems like everyone who knew Papa has come to say their last goodbyes.
I pull myself together. It wouldn't do me any good to break down in front of all these people. To crumble to the little pieces Papa leaving has reduced me to. I know that at the first sign of trouble, Ali and Dahab will escort me out and I'll be banned from ever attending a funeral again for the next year. A lot can happen during that time. Yeah, they take Islam that seriously.
I take a minute to breathe. To convince myself I'm strong enough to say goodbye to my father.
Inside, the sea of sad faces reminds me of why I'm here. I can't recognise half of the people here. The social butterfly Papa was, he even made friends with, Cooper or maybe he's here on official detective work? I see my whole class here. Everyone loved him. A legend of sorts. Who wouldn't? He didn't touch a life so that he'd be forgotten the next day. He didn't give anyone a choice. You had to love him.
As I continue down the aisle, I see the pity and sympathy in their eyes. I see the sad way they eye the ring shining in my finger. The ring that served as a promise to him. I'd promised I wouldn't embarrass him by losing virginity outside of marriage. As a token of my love and devotion (to Allah). The same ring he had to fly to America for because I'd seen a celebrity wearing it. A ring he made sure I got.
Because as he'd say "You're special, Kadre. And Papa only wants the best for you. There's nothing I wouldn't do for you, you know that right?" he'd be quiet for sometime and then he'd meet my eyes and say, "You have a good heart. I as a father will only accept the best from you. Get a good education, the perfect job and then I can think about looking for a husband for you, okay?"
I'd bat my eyelashes at him, all the while smiling, so that I don't say something that'd send him to an early grave because:
A) I don't want to get married.
B) He'd never approve of the job I really wanna do.
And C) I don't ever want those soul-sucking demons called kids. I have enough problems as is without having some slimy booger eating thing calling me mom. Depending on me. The thought makes me shudder.
I continue to the front where I spot my family: Aunt Dahab and her husband are sitting in the front row. This shouldn't be how it's done. But whatever. Dahab isn't crying now but her eyes are red and swollen and I know she's been crying for days but here, with all these friends and strangers alike looking, she can't shed a tear. She is clutching her husband's hand so hard that both their hands are white with lack of blood.
If Ali is feeling pain he doesn't show it. The only suffering I can see on his face is the hopelessness he must feel. He is desperately clinging to his wife as badly as she is to him. And I know he's the only thing keeping her together because her eyes... Her eyes say all the things she isn't allowed to say here. They cast the blame she can't utter. They tell about the pain our family is enduring. She isn't crying but I know inside she's a mess and I'm not so sure she'll ever recover from this. That her husband will ever be the same again. I suspect they both will feel as empty as I feel.
I gulp and force myself to look away. And with dread, I focus my eyes on the black — he hated black, this is all wrong — kafan, sitting in the front. The whole hall is decorated in white and beige, colors he couldn't stand. This is all wrong. He wouldn't want this. Blue should be on the walls. His kafan should be brown.
I'm frozen for a second. I don't know if I have the strength to go any further. I'm not strong enough for this. The walls are moving around me, the floor is shaking. An earthquake. An earthquake. But then I hear Papa's voice. Musical in quality. "Breathe, kid, just breathe."
I take a huge breath and everything stops. But the pain doesn't. I now realise I am hyperventilating. I deliberate. Go back? Continue forward? I can do this, I try to convince myself feebly. I have to. I have to be strong for Papa, he'd be strong for me. I exhale sharply and then continue towards the front in slow movements. With each step I take the people behind me disappear. They become a blur until it's only me and the wrapped body in a vacant space.
"Noooo." I scream. "You can't do this to him." And I'm frantically moving my hands over his swollen body: his skin has toughened up. I'm trying to peel the robes away, the kafan. "No."
I cling to his chest. The calming sound of his heartbeat is vacant.
"Come back," I chant.
I'm angry at him. I'm angry at the police for not protecting him. I'm angry at him for leaving me. I realise one never really knows the true meaning of pain until a parent dies. You are never old enough to lose your father.
The longer I lie here, the harder it is to breathe, the painful it is to look away, to stop holding onto him for dear life. They don't let me have a moment longer with him. As I blink, I see the guards carry me away.
There are two of them, dressed in their usual Muslim uniform, as if they have more right to be here than I do. He was theirs when he was still alive. Why do they take him away from me even in his death? How can they be so cruel? Each one grabs my elbow on either side of me, heads shaking in disapproval. An embarrassment to the Muslim community. A cold sensation begins, in the hollow pits of my stomach.
I don't fight them, I don't scream, I don't kick, I don't thrash, I don't bite. The vestige of energy I have left allows me only the luxury of sanity.