The Magic we weave September 28, 2006

 

“Ma’am can we help you?” two young boys, still hanging on precariously on the brink of childhood and puberty approached my mom. Big silver necklaces adorning their necks; matching ear rings; and baggy jerseys symbols of their growth spurt. Their voices still withheld a certain sweet cadence that bore no inkling of the embarrassing fragmentation that announces adolescence with its jarring jumps from tenor to bass.

 

My mom, wearing a long black cloak, her head scarf, was struggling with a carton of water on one hand; and two cakes on the other. “Of course, please do!” My mom sighed gratefully.

 

They relieved her of her baggage; and shyly escorted her to the Iftaar dinner (break of fast) being hosted in the local elementary school.

 

Mom thanked them profusely and ran to pray Maghrib.

 

They hovered around the door, kind of peeking in half awe and half fear at what was going on.

 

After the prayers and everyone settling to eat their food; mom noticed them at the door. She went up to them and invited them to break fast with us.

 

“No! we are too shy”

 

“It’s okay, come on…no one will mind”

 

They haggled a bit and finally compromised to let mom bring them out some plates of food. She hated to let them eat outside; but it was a pretty night and they insisted they enjoyed the cool shade of the stars much better.

My little son kept running out to talk blab to them. They indulged him. My sister went in and out serving them cake, drinks, and taking care of their “order”. I went out to get Sufyan over and over again (I didn’t want him to wander to the road); and we shared snippets of conversation back and forth. It was fun.

Perhaps it was the glamour of the occasion that drew them or the strangeness of it all; later they worked up courage to walk inside.

 

I laughed because their whole demeanor transported me back to the tingling excitement of my yesteryears. When I was around their age in Kenya, I was leaving school with my cousin; when we came across the new impressive temple belonging to “Free Masons”. The building was enormous, made of severe slabs of grey concrete, looking as ancient as time itself. There were huge stair cases leading up to a gigantic intricately carved door with large gold door handles.

 

It wasn’t so much the sheer magnitude of the building that awed us; but what secrets lay yonder. There were ominous rumors of Devil worshipping, human sacrificing, blood-fest ceremonies performed at midnight with all the leaders of the world present; and every single person in power having some sort of connection to the order (secret handshakes and everything).

 

No one had to warn us never to go near that place; kids stayed away of their own accord. But of course the lure of adventure was always calling. That fateful day, we passed by and all my incorrigibly mischievous cousin had to do was look at me.

 

“You don’t dare!” He threw those words with careless abandon on the table; the way a poker winner must when holding a winning hand.

 

“Pshh!” I exclaimed “I don’t have anything to prove to you kuro!” Kuro was the worst possible insult to tell a boy; it meant a plaintive wuss.

 

“Fine, do you want to go together?” He asked baiting me to say no, so it can just prove what a wuss I was.

 

“Sure” as nonchallant as the tremor in my voice could allow.

 

We walked up those endless steps and used the heavy knocker to attract attention of whatever lay yonder.

An African man dressed in a white cassock and bit white hat stood at the door and politely said “Please come in. The ONE has been expecting you.”

 

 

That was enough! We tore down the stairs screaming and ran as fast as our legs (and heavy book bags) could allow us. We were convinced that the “one” was of course the “devil” and he was just waiting to feast on us.

 

The heart pounding, stomach jolting, excitement of that adventure was worth retelling (with relish and embellishments of course) to every other kid who was just dying with envy at our heroism and near death experience.

 

So when those two sparkling boys yesterday, Scott and Darrell, proposed to come in and grab some soda. I was all for it!

 

“Please come in!” I encouraged them.

 

They walked tentatively inside, their bodies trembling with suppressed excitement.

 

Some people stopped eating to watch them in interest, curiosity, others a bit bothered by it; others still went on eating not paying attention to them.

 

Within minutes they committed their first cultural faux pas (and it was entirely my fault for I should I have prepped them).

They stepped on the praying area, where rugs and carpets were laid out carefully with their shoes on!

Before I could react and I was literally frozen in a slow motion pane a chorus of “Shoes! Shoes!” went up.

I managed to navigate Scott and Darrell all the way to the Soda stand, explaining to them the whole taking-off-shoes etiquette; without any other major mishaps. As they were drinking, I could note their hands shaking, Scott was all red and blushing and Darrell was curiously looking at everyone around over the rim of his cup.

 

I asked them to hang out but they politely declined and walked out in the cool embrace of the distant night.As we were cleaning up, they called me and offered to help clean up and carry stuff to the cars.

 

I told them they didn’t have to but they can join us any time!

 

They said thank you and they enjoyed the food; and it was fun.

 

I wanted to hug and kiss them both; but feared freaking them out; so I just kind of waved and Sufyan was running after them as they walked away.

 

Thank you Scott and Darrell; for bringing with you a little piece of those days when life seemed so full of possibilities and everything was an adventure just waiting to unfold.

 

May God’s love, Mercy, and Peace be with you always!