Late evening. Somewhere in Africas giant flop. They salaam and Allahu akbar on the mat, two hardened bodies, silhouettes in the darkness, strong voices echoing in the evening as they make their obeisance to their Creator. Besides them sits an Igbo Christian, watching them perform their sacred duty. The world has stopped for these two, cares, worries and et cetera forgotten for the moment as their commune with their Lord. There is something haunting about them. There is something mystical too...as well as something disturbing. I cannot put a finger to it. As I observe them, I cannot but recall something I learnt as a young, fresh-faced, naive Capuchin. It was from the likes of these that St. Francis of Assisi got the idea of The Angelus - some say too The Rosary. I fondle the rosary in my pocket, acknowledging my debt to them. And yet, some of their brethren believe that my presence while this task is being performed is a sacrilege. Nay, scratch that. They believe that my very existence is a sin which they ought to help Allah erase, by any means necessary. Those hyenas from the desert, sniffing for weak meat to devour, for folks like me. These two do not mind my presence though. In fact, I am completely ignored as they are lost in their rite. And five times must they do this, in obedience to The Quran. Allah hath willed it. It must be done. It must be done. The prayers end. They rise from their mats and I witness a transformation. I become once more a presence, a person to be noticed. They walk up to me and shake holy hands with me. As they trundle off, the cares of this life return to their shoulders. They are no longer ramrod straight. They become two tired sleuths walking off into the evening, two fellows trying to survive in a hostile country that has abandoned them - heaven of the rich and the hell of the majority poor - just like Hadi and me. Selah.
Posted on: Tue, 22 Apr 2014 19:00:30 +0000
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