A Moment of Silence: Midnight III (The Midnight Series Book 3) (17 page)

I had ordered the vending machine while I was in Asia. The Japanese company exported their machines to America and even had the U.S. dollar conversions factored into their mechanics and displays. Of course, the Japanese always make the most efficient, high-quality smart machinery. They always make it expensive yet easy to purchase and easy to utilize. They think long range instead of selling cheap shit and jerking their customers. They make a customer out of a buyer,
for life!
That’s why I wanted to begin my business buying from them. I would test it out with my first machine just to be certain that it was a bankable option. Then if all was good, I planned to not only collect revenue from my one machine, but to reinvest and have many machines in ideal locations. Furthermore, I planned to sell the machines themselves. I paid $999 for one. On my next order I would buy in bulk and then resell the machines, placing a nice fee for my company on top of the actual cost. This was a business that would earn for me quietly, hardly ever required my presence, and didn’t lock me into a mandatory schedule or location. Lastly, it was a business where only the owner—that’s me—knows the count on my earnings. I liked that.

In Japan I had hired Chiasa as my translator. At the time that I hired her, she was not my wife or my love. She initiated and completed the vending machine transaction on my behalf. I paid the bill. Therefore, she knew all of the business details and followed through properly. I’m realizing now that mixed in her Japanese business conversation with the seller on my behalf was her business deal as well. I wasn’t mad at her. I am not suspicious of her. I like her mind and I fucking adore her.

I didn’t reply to her persuasions.

“Every time?” she said suddenly.

“Every time what?” I asked her.

“Every time that you look at me . . .”

“Every time.” I confirmed the truth without looking at her. “That’s why you and I are late.”

*  *  *

Later that night at home, my second wife made her third attempt. This time, she was not using her sensual sexual powers to influence me. Instead she was brandishing her intellectual sword in a spiritual manner.

“You know, Khadijah was a wealthy woman when she met Muhammad,” she began softly. And I already knew Chiasa’s spiritual sword was her most powerful weapon in this battle to win me over and get her way.

“ ‘Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him’—say that,” I told her. “That’s how Muslims say it whenever we are speaking the name of the Prophet.”

“I know,” she said sweetly, “but this story I am telling you begins when Muhammad was not the Prophet yet. He and Khadijah were not even married yet.”

“Alright, I’m listening,” I said. I watched her. She put on her
hijab
even though she and I were in her bedroom, just the two of us. Her mood and manner shifted as she continued to tell me a story.

“Muhammad’s family worked as traders. They took goods and traveled in caravans long distance across the desert to sell the items they had for sale to various communities and customers. In business young Muhammad became known as an especially honest trader, a man who kept his words and promises, and as importantly, who treated everyone he encountered with truth and kindness. His reputation caused many to respect him and to request his trading services. Khadijah is one of the people who heard about Muhammad. She was a wealthy widow who also had inherited great wealth from her father. She became a careful, skillful, and successful
businesswoman by investing her wealth wisely. Based on her hearing about Muhammad and a feeling that she had, she approached him to make a
mudarabah.
She offered Muhammad double the profit for his trading services to take her goods across Arabia to As Sham. Muhammad consulted with his uncle and soon agreed. And . . .” Chiasa took a breath.

“And what else?” I asked calmly.

“Well, you know, they did good business together. Muhammad sold her merchandise while on a long journey with other male traders. Eventually Muhammad and Khadijah married. Throughout their marriage Khadijah supported Muhammad in every possible way. And, before Muhammad became the Prophet, peace be upon him, he used to climb up the mountains alone to the Cave of Hira to think and listen and learn. Khadijah made him food to take with him to the cave. Sometimes she even climbed the mountain and sat outside the cave and waited for him. As Muhammad’s trips to the cave lasted for longer and longer amounts of days and weeks, and even over a period of three years, Khadijah remained home and raised their children and waited. When Muhammad would finally return, she welcomed him warmly and presented him with a peaceful home. This is the kind of Muslim woman I strive to be. Like Khadijah, I want to make wise choices and investments. I want to be an active and useful and loyal wife. Sometimes, I’ll want to climb the mountain and follow you to the cave and wait outside. The End,” she said, with her eyes lowered.

I felt she was lowering her eyes because she wanted me to concentrate on the meaning of her story, and not the intimacy and yearnings we share. I understood. I had been concentrating. I enjoyed her true storytelling. I enjoyed even more, that she went about reading and researching our faith.

“You and I already have a
mudarabah
,” I told her. “When I married you, we became partners in all things,” I said. I showed her my heart and my truth, instead of teasing her or putting on a game face. She jumped up from her bed. Her smile was brighter than sunlight.

“I’m heading out now,” I told her, letting her know I was going to Akemi.

“Okay,” she said softly, but still beaming. “Good night!”

My second wife is like that, lovely and agreeable. Yet she is also clever and brilliant. When she and I are in the same space together, right before I am about to leave to go over, up, down, or out without her, she will say something or do something right before we part that makes me feel like she is still with me, even though she isn’t. It feels as though we are both walking side by side up the stairs and into my first wife’s bedroom. I always have to pause and shake it off before I enter the energy of my first wife. They are two different flowers, two separate blessings, two different comforts and pleasures, two different women, two different wives—to this one grateful man.

11. WEALTH, MY FIRST WIFE 
•
 
A Reflection

She comes from wealth, my first wife. As soon as you see her, you’ll know. Black hair, dark pretty eyes and thick lips. Slim and sleek, her walk is mean. Her beauty is evocative, making whoever is looking feel something. Her fashion is elite, feminine, and flawless. You can’t imitate her. She’s a Bergdorff Goodman kind of girl. Only the wealthy shop there. Even many of those who consider themselves fashionable have never even heard of it. It is so exclusive that it’s too expensive a place to even window shop. My first wife, she’s selective, extreme. It’s all or nothing. She may go into a store with thousands of pieces in inventory and come out with only a scarf or a pair of stockings, or sunglasses or a badass hat. She doesn’t care what’s popular; she cares if it’s the finest fabric that feels and looks good on her skin instead, and if it compliments her unique artistic sense of style. And she really loves if it’s hand tailored, one of a kind, custom designed, almost impossible to find anywhere else. She’d rather search for hours, days, months, or even a year before she finds it. Her heels and her kicks are all incredible on her small feet. Nude, in only a pair of her six-thousand-dollar leather thigh-high boots, and I’m captured by her aerodynamics. She’s a Ferrari.

Modest, quiet, mostly silent, she’s foreign. She doesn’t speak English but her emotions, body, and gestures speak my language. Lovable and sweet, there is no conceit in her and she gives in to me
eagerly. She’s not a fighter. She’s not a pushover, either. Yet those few who know wonder why she agreed with my having a second wife who came along at the hottest temperature of her and my young-young marriage. But my first wife is moved by feelings—her feelings, my feelings—and she would give me anything I wanted even if she believed she would be slighting herself. I chose her. I love her. She’s mine for life, no matter the storm that swirls around us. I’ll work for her. I’ll build for her. I’ll protect her.

A motherless daughter, her mother returned to Allah when Akemi was only thirteen years young. She’s vulnerable. Born in Kyoto, Japan, she embodies the best parts of their culture: calm, quiet, beautiful, well mannered, organized, intelligent, and highly capable. Yet in her veins boils the hot blood of Korea, which causes her to be deeply sensitive and very emotional, two traits that result in her being an ingenious soulful artist, who at her young age has been globally recognized and even had her award-winning art displayed at MoMA.

But for me, mostly she’s soft, sensual, and sweet. The first woman I have ever loved in a different kind of way than the pure love I have for Umma, my mother. I protect her the same way I protect my mother. Her complicated family history gave me my first reason to travel to Asia and to fight to snatch her back from her father, who snatched her from me after our marriage was already in place, and after I spilled my seeds of life in her womb, repeatedly. My first wife was the reason to take down the fence that was already in place at our Queens house and to build the solid cement-block wall. Also for her, before leaving for Asia, in the backyard of our vacant new house, I planted a plum tree, which I expected to blossom over time, along with our love, and to represent how sweet her love is to me. I knew the new roots planted in the earth would be shaky at first, but then would go down deep, thicken, and spread and would give rise to a strong tree that would last longer than a human life and bear much fruit.

Her wealth, she gave it all up for me. Actually, her Japanese father cut it off as punishment for her choosing to be the sixteen-
years-young wife of a young Muslim man born in Sudan, Land of the Blacks, who now resides in Brooklyn, New York. Her father tried everything to keep her to himself. In Japan, he owned houses and buildings and businesses and even a mountain. He gave her everything a father could give to his daughter—a private school education, chauffeured cars, cash flow and credit cards and free roam of the Earth. He even tried to give her the sky. Still, having fallen in love with me, she traded everything her father had ever provided for her, including his love and affection. In exchange she got a young husband, a young marriage, a mutual and true love, and twins in her womb,
alhamdulillah.

Because of love, my first love, and because she is my wife, my first wife, I knew and I know just how hard I had to work, what I had to build and provide to convince myself that even though she is already my wife for life, I deserve her. I had never planned to be her father’s enemy, had gone about loving her and marrying her the proper way. I felt good about that fact, but it stood out in my mind that I had not built or accumulated anything close to the wealth of her father, could not provide her with anything close in value to the items and surroundings she was accustomed to. Her father, on the other hand, was a wall of pride, and his pride was much stronger than his love. His pride caused him to refuse to face me man to man. To refuse to listen to his daughter’s heart or her words and wants. His pride also caused him to lose. But I knew and I know, somehow, he will come again. I don’t fear this, but I don’t take it lightly, either.

Young, I’m just laying the foundation for our wealth. And, I know what true wealth is. Some men think if they have a heap of hundreds that they’re doing it. Others need thousands to feel secure. Some men think that a hundred thousand means they’re rich and set for life. Then there are the millionaires. Wealth is something different. It is what I am aiming for. True wealth is when a man has freedom of faith, high-quality loyal women, gold, land and property, and healthy, useful, grateful, and secure children. The
money a man accumulates should be backed up by something precious, like gold. A man is not rich if spending what he has in his hand or carries in his pocket or wallet means he has gone broke. Or if he can’t own his own land and house without fear of bankruptcy. A man is not rich if he has all the gold in the world and his wives are trash. Furthermore, a man is not wealthy if he has been warred on and somehow been stripped of all of his land, property, money, and gold, and has no faith to guide him in his battle, and no family to protect so that he will be inspired to build and come again. I learned these truths from my father. Because of him, wealth is not foreign to me. I was born into wealth, and even though I got separated from my wealth and had to start back at the beginning, wealth is not something I think is not within my reach. For me, becoming wealthy is expected, even though it’s not automatic.

So I’m checking myself, taking inventory. I’m monitoring my pace so far and my process. Since my return from Asia, my mind had become even more clear. My standards were raised even higher.

Marrying the right women, planting my seeds, and securing my family—I achieved that. Yet I knew that securing a family is an ongoing everyday thing, an awesome responsibility, especially when I am the only male.

As a team, Umma and I had built our own business, Umma Designs. And even though we both have other jobs, we’ve worked at our jobs separately while running the business that we own together for seven years. We purchased our land and our house some months ago. We bought it in full, no mortgage. It’s ours completely. We don’t have to worry about missing a mortgage payment and having the bank that issued us the loan stepping in and taking over, becoming the actual owners of our house. Because of course, if you have a mortgage the bank is the actual owner of the house until you pay it off with interest over thirty years!

Our new Queens home is not in any way comparable to or even similar to the huge estate that my father built and owned and
that we all lived in. Still, it is what I could manage so far. It is a blessing under the circumstances of our living in America, without our Sudanese wealth. We still have to pay property taxes, but the monthly amount is very small, especially when compared to the going monthly rent for any apartment in all five boroughs of New York. And of course when you are renting, you don’t own shit. At any moment the real owners can decide to change your apartment into a condo and throw you out, or keep everything the same but raise the rent so high you gotta throw yourself out. When you rent, you always have to seek permission for things, like who and how many people can live there. Or how many people can share one room. And even simple things have to be requested, like changing the locks, or getting a new set of keys, or even permission to hammer or hang curtains or paint the walls. That’s a constant reminder that the place where you live does not belong to you.