That was a fact. White people were the smartest, they had invented everything.
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That was why they ran the world. He had come to the conclusion that what was needed was not a race war, but separation. Let the coloreds live in their own neighborhoods and go to their own schools. Let them marry their own women and breed their own brats. And Chad and the white people would do the same.
Live and let live. Not the Filipino bitch who fired him of course, he still wanted to bust her head open. But the others, yeah. But the Muzzies — the Islamics — that was a different story. They were terrorist, cult following traitors. Not normal people.
Muzzies were evil and sick in the head. Everybody said so. Plus, they lied as part of their sicko religion. It was called takaya or some crap. What kind of twisted bullcrap was that? If you were Christian in their country they would cut off your head with a hunting knife. They were devil worshipers. They should all either be kicked out of the country or killed.
And then Mecca should be nuked, and that would be the end of it. But instead of taking care of business, the government was letting them go around like normal people.
Even Trump had wimped out. Ragheads in his neighborhood, on his street. It was insane. How could terrorists go around openly showing off their rags? Where was Homeland Security?
That was a good idea, actually. See something, say something, right? He took his phone out of his pocket and called Yahya Mtondo noticed the young man across the street staring. He waved, and when the fellow gave him an obscene gesture in return he frowned.
In the old days — that is to say, in his angry and lost years of his youth — he would have marched straight over there and punched the man in the face, and damn the consequences.
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So here merely shook his head and turned back to the job of moving. He forced a smile. But when he wanted to tease her he called her mchumba wangu, my homemaker. It was actually a term of endearment in his native Kenya, or at least it was what his dad always used to call his mom, may Allah have mercy on them.
But he knew it annoyed Samira. I feel so light and free. He had not been crazy about the idea of moving to this poor, mostly white enclave in Central California, about twenty miles northeast of Fresno. He knew from experience how deep racism often ran in such towns.
Not that he was ashamed. He was proud of his Kenyan heritage, and was grateful that Allah had guided him to Islam. The best part of all was that there was no ribaa involved. No interest. Yahya was deeply relieved about that. It felt like an achievement. It was pretty sad, he knew, when avoiding a major sin was your last chance for salvation. Welcome to the 21st century. Or maybe that was a cop-out. He sighed.
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What is it? She was always so alert to any sign of inner turbulence on his part. He set down the box he had tucked under one arm and studied the house. They had taken the street name as a sign. Their own little homestead, their own piece of earth — of course it all belonged to Allah, but it was theirs to care for. He would import a few elephants and a lion and call it Little House on the Serengeti. He chuckled at his own joke. The house was small for a family of four — only 1, square feet.
But it was cute — a little Craftsman bungalow built in , painted teal with white trim, and featuring a small covered veranda to relax on when the weather go too hot, as it often did here in Central California. The yard was planted with wildflowers and native shrubs, while an immense magnolia tree grew in the front yard, casting shade over most of the house, its thick, waxy leaves glowing deep emerald in the morning sun.
Some sort of songbird trilled from deep in the tree, praising God in its own language. Yahya loved it. Yahya knew in his heart that there would be good in this path, or Allah would not have set them upon it. That was trust, tawakkul. Tawakkul was not, as some thought, naivete. Yahya had not lived an easy life. No, tawakkul was a choice and a mindset. It was faith.doribato.com/wp-content/59.php
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As for the young man across the street, Yahya would make an effort to reach out to the neighbors, get to know them. Only through kindness could an enemy become a friend. He kissed his wife on the temple and bent down wearily to pick up the box. That was one advantage of being poor, he thought wryly. It made moving easier.
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Ten minutes later, hefting a 6-foot bookshelf and turning, he almost tripped over Sulayman, his four-year-old son, who had picked up a table fan by the cord. Yahya resisted the temptation to chide the boy. The irritability he felt was a byproduct of his hunger and weariness from the fast. Part of the challenge of Ramadan was to overcome that irritability and replace it with compassion. Instead of anger, to give love.
Instead of resentment, to exercise generosity. Instead of self-absorption, to expand your sphere of concern to include your family, neighbors, the community, the Muslim ummah, and finally the world. That was Ramadan, and that was Islam. Sulayman and his three-year-old sister Amirah were only trying to help in their little way.
But yeah, they were getting underfoot. He was about to suggest they go play inside the house when he heard sirens approaching. It sounded like there were a lot of them, and they were close. Curious, he set the bookshelf down in the driveway. The sirens kept getting louder, and a moment later a black-and-white Alhambra police cruiser careened around the corner, then another right behind it, tires squealing. Right away. She stood near the front door of the house, her hands gripping tightly on the box of dinnerware she was carrying.
Her purple hijab concealed long black hair that she typically wore loose beneath her scarf. While Yahya was quiet and contemplative, Samira could be loud.
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