Mohammed

I’m going alone to Mecca, I’ve decided I’m leaving her at home. How can I tell her?          

‘Shema, we need to talk.’ Shema looked at me but it was the briefest of looks. It was a look that you can only see on the face of her kind of woman. What kind of woman? The kind that Shema is; a devout woman, proud of her children, proud of her home, proud of her family; or at least that’s what she would have you believe. She is not proud of me, and that is the look I see every time she looks at me. I hesitated, the moment was lost. Do I really have to say it?  Tomorrow would be okay. It’ll keep.

‘Nothing Shema, we can talk tomorrow.’

‘No, now is good’, she answered. This time there was no look, not even a glance. She concentrated on the jigsaw pieces spread in front of her. The table was covered with part pictures of the Taj Mahal. I fought the urge to scoop my arm across the lot and watch her face crumble. It was going to crumble anyway when I’d find the courage to tell her.

‘Well come on, what do you want to say?’

Shall I change the subject? How can I tell her?

‘Nothing no news. Just a strange customer in the shop yesterday.’

I fought to think about yesterday; was there a strange customer. Think of a strange story. Think. Think dammit.

‘How?’ she asked. It was as if she knew. She was waiting for the truth, dragging it from me like a dentist braced to attack a steadfast molar.

‘How…how?’ I asked back. I even picked up a piece of well chiselled alabaster marble and tried to fit it to the gap that was shaping up to be the world famous dome. She was patient, she never pushed; she waited for me.