I am Muslim and Shaytan 2002

“Still not eating, drinking or smoking, eh?” Ibrahim inquired before Zainab sat down to not eat with him.

“Ugh. Yes. I have never been so happy to get my period and so miserable to see it go. I have to make up those fucking days before the NEXT Ramadan too. Oh, mother fucking joy!”

Ibrahim tried not to chuckle as he shoved a fork full of amazing looking salad into his mouth with Zainab drooling at the sight. “Well, you could eat but I know that you won’t,” Ibrahim said.

“You are infuriatingly correct. Let’s discuss these skinny people in the tabloids who are equally starving instead. She’s a twig and that dress is hideous. If I ever get that skinny, I’m dying. There’s absolutely no way she has a pulse.”

“I agree about the dress. Usually she dresses beautifully.”

“It doesn’t matter. It’s the cigarettes that are killing me. I could starve fine with cigarettes and water.”

“Oh, Zainab.”

Zainab refused to go outside and watch Ibrahim smoke without her. She didn’t trust her will power that much. She dragged herself home and slept until iftar.

Mohamed was still working so she heated up last night’s dinner. She had a cup of soup and one piece of pita bread before declaring herself full. She couldn’t understand those who could eat heartily afterwards. She needed to go slowly. It took her several hours to finish the kebab and rice.

When Mohamed came home, they were both full and went to bed. They awoke early to eat before fasting again. Zainab looked at Mohamed’s soggy bowl of cereal and wondered how he managed to live. She rarely ate breakfast and had to force herself to eat.

The next night Zainab hosted a simple iftar with suggestions for what to serve. Malik suggested birouat. As he described them Zainab pictured them in her mind. The Moroccan spices, meat and vegetable filling was easily accomplished. The wrapper was a bit more difficult. Thankfully he told her what to buy at the Middle Eastern store. His description made her think of a burrito that was fried. She did her best.

“Salam alaykum, Malik. Ahlan wa Sahlan.”

“Walaykum Salam, Zainab. Ramadan Mubarak.”

“Ramadan Kareem. I made birouat. Inshallah it is okay.”

“Inshallah.”

“Salam, Warda.”

“Salam.”

Zainab and Warda held each other’s shoulders and kissed cheeks in greeting as the men did likewise.

“Sit. Sit,” Mohamed insisted.

The men sat for a chat while Warda investigated what Zainab had made. The tagine of chicken, olives, onions and tomatoes was a well worn recipe. The soup was her second attempt so Warda inspected it for her.

“Good?”

“Aiwa. Good. Same Mauritanie.”

Zainab was so grateful that the starter was okay. It was the birouat that made her nervous.

“Warda. This okay?” Zainab said pointing to the birouat.

Warda looked confused before saying, “Shinhoo?”

“Malik want. Is good?”

“I no understand. Maybe Moroc?”

Malik was born in the north near Western Sahara and Algeria. He attended university in Morocco. Warda was born in the south near Senegal. She didn’t know the same foods as him.

“We ask,” Warda suggested.

The pair dished out the soup and put it on the hawlie along with the pita bread and birouat. The tagine was placed in the center. They assembled and said Bismillah before looking at the food.

“Malik, I made birouat, maybe?”

“Is different. I try.”

He munched before giving her a thumbs up. The others looked skeptical. Only Malik and Zainab ate them. They had a lengthy conversation about them that Zainab couldn’t fully understand. She made out that it was way too big as a burrito size. The actual ones were similar in size to samosas.

They declared that everything else was, “Good, Zainab. Good.” Zainab was pleased even though she ate little. The leftovers served as her midnight snack. The next day was to be Eid Fitr, the end of Ramadan and Zainab’s torture. Mohamed was working so she went to visit her parents.

“Hi!” Zainab shouted as she walked into her parents’ house.

“Hi,” Zainab’s mom said while walking towards her.

The pair embraced before heading into the living room to see dad. “Hey, Dad”

“Hey, kiddo. How ya doing?”

“Just fine. How are you?”

“Can’t complain. Can’t complain.”

That was usually the extent of their talks unless they were into a discussion about something. The smell of daddy’s cigarette made her not even care that they were unfiltered and gagged her if she wasn’t careful. She stared at it longingly as her mom talked about drapes or something.

“Tina,” her mom shouted.

“Oh, sorry, mom. I am dying here. I am beyond grumpy. I love the holy month but I am just not accustomed to this. I want a cigarette.”

“How’s Mohamed doing?”

“He’s fucking fine. He doesn’t smoke.”

“He works in a restaurant though.”

“I don’t give a fuck that it’s a million degrees in that kitchen; he cooks that yummy food; and he can’t eat or drink anything. He’s done this his whole life. I’m just not equipped.”

Zainab would’ve burst into tears but she feared only sand could escape her tear ducts. She instead looked at the clock for the hundredth time.

“What time do you eat?”

“When the sun is setting. Not long. I am not handling this well though. The whole point of the month is that shaytan, the bigger devils are locked up. You fast, pray, try to be good and remind yourself of those less fortunate.

I could swipe candy from a baby about now. Well, maybe not but a cigarette from daddy definitely.”

Zainab stared at daddy puffing away looking like she wanted to pounce. “Why don’t we go out and eat? It’ll be nice to distract you for a bit.”

“Ugh. Fine. Anything but watching daddy.”

“What would you like?”

“I don’t care. I’m starving.”

“Italian?”

“I don’t know.”

“Seafood?”

“Ugh. I don’t know. Anything.”

“I know. How about we get Chinese carry out from the corner. You haven’t had them in a while.”

“Okay.”

The pair drove up to the corner to order. Mom figured that the aroma would help her decide much quicker.

“Hi. What do you want?”

“Umm. What’s in your eggrolls?”

“Pork and veggies.”

“I can’t have that then.”

“I know. Happy Ramadan. I understand what you like. I’ll get it for you.”

“Thank you. I didn’t know that you knew.”

“You have a scarf and don’t eat pork. It’s not hard. I’ll be right back with everything.”

Miss Kim shouted the order to the kitchen as the pair paid and had a seat. Zainab’s mom said little as she kept getting up, pacing and then sitting back down.

“Here you go,” Miss Kim said as she emerged from the kitchen. The smell was intoxicating and Zainab couldn’t resist any longer. She leapt towards the bag and grabbed the spring roll on top.

“Aaaaaaah!” Zainab screamed as the extremely hot roll burned her mouth.

Miss Kim grabbed a glass of ice water and handed it to her. As Zainab got relief, the others chuckled at her lack of patience. Zainab looked outside once her mouth was less engulfed in flames.

“Fuck. The devil won. The devil is me.”

The sun was just about to set. If she had only waited for the drive home, she would’ve made it through to sunset and the spring roll would’ve had time to cool.

Miskeena Zainab. Maybe next year. Maybe next year.

Until next time. Ma’salam.

Min sadiqatuk, Drsy.

From your friend, Darcy.