Inside the Mosque
The walk to the mosque was short and quiet. Zalika's escort was not much more than a girl herself, uncomfortable walking this close to a jinni. Since Jamaani spoke no Arabic or any language common in this area, he could not communicate with the holy man.
The mosque was near the center of a small town. Other than size, Zalika couldn’t see anything that made it stand out. When she tried to follow Jamaani into the mosque, her guide explained, “Women enter here.” She led Zalika through a different entrance, “You perform wudu here.”
Zalika hesitated. She was used to washing her hands and face, but her father had always led her through the practice. With a few deep breaths that bought her some time to remember the order and watch the other women, Zalika washed. She took extra care with her feet since she did not have shoes to remove.
Inside was the largest single room Zalika had ever seen. An iron fence draped in yellow cloth reached nearly to the ceiling, splitting the room in two. Fancy green lettering decorated its borders with patterns that looked like verses from the Qur’an and Hadith, but they were in such ornate letters that Zalika couldn’t be certain. A much lower fence ran across the front of this part of the room. Beyond the lower fence was an easily recognizable altar. Male voices from the other side of the tall fence told Zalika where Jamaani was, and that both sides could see the same altar.
Zalika had prayed many times with her father, but this was the first time she had been to a proper mosque. The separation of men and women struck her as silly, but she kept that opinion to herself. Her guide pointed out a prayer rug as far from the others as space would allow, but the difference was slight, and Zalika again held her tongue. Since it had always been her father leading the family in prayer, she would have to watch the others in the room for clues of when to bow, but her vast field of vision made that easy to do. Placing her forehead on the prayer rug was a different matter. The current shape of her head made it difficult, uncomfortable, and hard to breathe. Since the change, she had leaned forward and kissed the prayer rug. She hoped that would be enough here in a mosque.
The part of the Mosque she could see filled quickly. Here and there were small groups of women, chatting quietly among themselves. Zalika noticed many furtive glances her way and some open stares when they did not think she was looking. They didn’t seem to realize how wide her field of vision was, or that her attention was where her ears were pointing, not her nose. Jamaani is probably getting much the same treatment thought Zalika. I wonder how he is holding up. Her thoughts and all the quiet conversations were interrupted by the holy man's arrival at the altar.
The service was very much as her father had led the family, and not at all hard for her to follow. The sermon spoke of acceptance and of how what seems to be a challenge is often a gift from Allah that we might learn something new. He spoke of similarity and how people who seem quite different at first are all the same in the eyes of Allah. With each lesson, he included a poem from the Qur'an.
After the service, Zalika asked her guide, “Is this some kind of a holy day?”
“Oh, no, Jinni, we are a very pious people. Living on the edge of Islam as we do, it is wise to pay close attention to our devotions.”
Zalika was a bit suspicious of this but again held her tongue. “My name is Zalika, and I am a changed human. May I have your name so that I may call you something other than woman?”
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Her guide seemed quite uncomfortable with something Zalika said. “Yes, Jinni, you may call me ‘woman.’ May I ask a question?”
Not the response Zalika had in mind, but that was all she was going to get for now, “If you will use my name.”
“Yes, jinni Zalika. Do you always speak in the holy language?”
Zalika shook her head. “Just Zalika, leave out the jinni part. No, I also speak my mother’s language. Would you like to hear what it sounds like?”
Her guide answered, “Yes … Zalika, I would like to hear the language of the jinn.” Then she held up her hands and added, “If it is safe for a mortal to hear it.”
Zalika recited a prayer thanking Allah for the lovely day in the Tutsi-influenced Bantu of her mother. She then repeated it in Qur'anic Arabic.
“That was not quite Swahili, but pleasant enough to my old ears. You must be from the south, close to the cattle stealers.” The speaker was a tall woman, just a bit past middle age, and as dark as Zalika’s mother had been. “My name is Wema. My son and I make baskets. He is called Abduljama. Your people were known to make a quality product. If you need work, I will talk to my son.”
“I will talk to Jamaani. We will need a trade.” Zalika dared to think this might work. The two of them chatted briefly in a mix of Arabic, Swahili, and Tutsi. Zalika’s guide hovered nervously nearby but said nothing.
“Jinni Zalika, we must leave because my father has invited your husband and you to share dinner with us. Please come now, follow me.”
“Thank you, Abida.” Abida winced at the mention of her name.
Wema continued, “I would have talked all day. Tell your mother I will have her baskets ready by tomorrow at noon.” Wema embraced Zalika and Abida before leaving.
Abida led Zalika out the way they had come in and down the side of the building to an entrance near the back of the building. They entered a small room with a door to the right and stairs to the left. The stairs led into a comfortable sitting room. Jamaani, the holy man, and another open, friendly-looking young man who might have been from Zalika’s village were already seated in conversation. This must be Abduljama, thought Zalika. A boy, Zalika thought to be about 10 years old, sat patiently pretending to listen.
Veering off to the three men, Zalika hoped to join in the conversation, but Abida redirected her to the kitchen. In the kitchen stood a small, unveiled woman, maybe just a bit younger than the holy man. “Welcome to the house of my husband, Anwar. I am Delilah, his wife. You have met Abida, my daughter, and the boy is Cadi, our son.” Delilah handed Abida a tray with a teapot and cups, one of the cups half full of water. “Serve our guests and mind your veil, Abduljama is a handsome young man, but he is not yours…yet.” Next, she handed Zalika an apron and put her to work.
Zalika was unfamiliar with the food Delilah was cooking, but she helped where she could. As they worked, they fell into chatting about the town, children, men, and anything else that came up. Mostly, they just talked, giving Zalika much-appreciated practice with conversational Arabic.
Delilah served the main dish, but other than that, she sent her daughter, Abida, who seemed to be put out by the work, but did as she was told. “Soon, my Abida will marry, and I will have to do all the cooking and the serving again. In the meantime, I will take what rest I can. Is that wrong?”
“No, Delilah, that is not wrong,” said Zalika with a smile.
“Thank you! You are a woman wise beyond your years.” Delilah’s eyes sparkled, then she whispered in Zalika’s ear. “Abida is just around the corner. See her reflection in the serving tray. That is how I know when to send the next dish and when my child is listening.”
Zalika had noticed the brightly polished tray but had not thought to look at the reflection. Once she did, she could see into the next room well enough to follow what was going on with the men and see Abida standing quietly in a small space that would be hidden from both rooms but not from the reflection in the tray.
It was not long before the men finished with dinner. Anwar poked his head into the kitchen. “Abduljama, and I will walk Jamaani home. I won’t be long.” Delilah offered Zalika a scarf, but hesitated when she tried to imagine just how to wrap it around Zalika’s head. “Allah has given me a puzzle to solve.”
“Delilah, I have not solved the scarf riddle yet either,” Zalika went on to thank her for the meal and conversation. They hugged, then Jamaani, Anwar, Abduljama, and Zalika left for the walk back to their camp. Walking beside Jamaani, Zalika said, “You could be right. I think we have found a home if you can learn Arabic.”
“And if you can get used to this man-woman thing. Still, these are good people.” Jamaani seemed as relaxed as Zalika had ever seen him.