Episode 3-From Christina to Yasmina

My name used to be Christina but as of ten months ago they call me Yasmina. That’s my Muslim name. One with a meaning. It means Jasmin flower. Beautiful. I am now a part of a huge Muslim community that spans all over the world. And no matter what, it’s still growing.

I started out as a non-Muslim going to WSU with a major in Social Work. My parents were Christian and me; I didn’t really have a so-called religion. Since I lived in such a diverse community and there was such a huge Muslim population, I was familiar with them but never really looked into it. That is until I became close friends with Aisha. She asked me to accompany her to this thing called an Eid gathering.

She explained to me that after the holy month of Ramadan which entailed all Muslims to fast for 30 days, sun up to sun down, they had a huge celebration afterwards. Muslim sisters and brothers would come together and join in all kind of festivities. I’d never seen anything like it before.

Aisha put this beautiful sari on me adorned with sequence and beading, she also put a hijab (scarf) on my head to cover my hair for respect. I felt good to be dressing up like everyone else. After prayers is when I first saw him.

Amin was this fine chocolate man, tall and gorgeous from head to toe, with a dazzling smile and wavy hair. I couldn’t keep my eyes off him as he greeted brothers. I elbowed Aisha in the rib, “Who is that?”

She squinted through the crowd and then smiled, “Oh, him…”

Aisha asked her older brother about him and one thing led to the next. He approached us outside just as we were leaving. “Asalam’alakum, sisters,” he looked at me with a shy grin.

I was glad to know the Islamic greeting and replied, “Wa’alakum a’salam.”

Later I found out that he was a student at WSU as well. At first we’d talk online and then we’d go on campus for lunch or sit and talk in between classes.

A few months later, I decided to convert and I never looked back even though my family detested it. It didn’t matter though. I was still going to school and working. Being Muslim didn’t change any of my goals and eventually they’d come around.

Like most female converts I didn’t choose to be Muslim because of a man. I didn’t do it do “go with him” so to speak. I did it because something inside was calling me to the truth.  I couldn’t deny anything that the Quran said. I couldn’t deny that the bible which my parents taught me from had fallacies. I did believe that everything we did had its weight and that we all weren’t going to heaven. But instead would be judged on the good and bad things we did on life. I enjoyed being around positive Muslims and I felt clean for the first time in my life. Even though I’d talk to Amin about Islam I didn’t learn everything from him. I went to my local mosque to get information about Islamic rules. Or if I couldn’t figure out a verse then I’d try and talk to my Imam for clarification.

For me Islam was great but I was human and like humans I had my weaknesses. A few of mine were the way I dressed. I wasn’t ready to make that leap yet. Of course I covered my hair but my clothes weren’t as modest as they could’ve been. And some sisters would turn their noses and scoff whenever they seen me.

I couldn’t believe that Muslim sisters could be so cruel but as time went on, I reminded myself that every religion and culture had its bad apples. And that Islam wasn’t exempt. It was ok because I was a new Muslim still and I was working on myself first. So no matter what they said or didn’t say, I kept it moving. They wanted me to get ghetto, they wanted me to lose my cool. So I killed them with kindness.

That saved me…and them.

There was a group in particular that hated my guts. They were angry that I was associated with Amin. From what he told me, they stalked him on fb and he denied them. They even went as far as trying to get other brothers to convince him that they were a better pick. How thirsty was that? I thought. I listened and didn’t say anything. But he did tell me that they were going to target me, spread lies and all that good stuff. “So they are basically Muslim equivalents to hood possums?”

We both had a good laugh at that one.

At some points they went as far as texting his phone. The messages were about me of course, calling me every name in the book. So Islamic I thought. If I had met this broads before I converted I dreaded to think that I would’ve even converted after seeing the way they acted.

One day at Jumah they got real bossy and cornered me after prayer. It was funny to me because most of them were all abaya-ed up and one even wore a veil on her face. Still as ghetto as they wanted to be. “Salams,” one said, I think she was the ringleader her name was Amenna.

I slipped on my shoes, “Wa’alakum asalam.”

“So, sister,” she said with emphasis on sister. “How do you like being Muslim?

“What kind of question is that?” my eyebrows scrunched together.

“Well we just wanted to know how it was going, you know with how to dress and everything. We saw you were having a hard time with dressing correctly.”

They all giggled simultaneously while I stood there in shock. Did she really just insult me?

The veiled one spoke up, “How long have you been Muslim anyway?”

“Long enough,” I pushed past.

 They laughed and one yelled, “Just because you put a scarf on ya’ head don’t mean you Muslim boo!”

The other shouted, “Hey convert, he needs a real Muslim woman!”

I stopped in my tracks and turned around slowly. They weren’t going to disrespect me in the mosque like that. Who did they think they were messing with? These hood Muslims in black were about to get a beat down, New Muslim style. “What did ya’ll just say?  I unpinned my scarf and tied it up in a bun. I plucked my earrings out and put them in my pocket. All I could see was excitement in their eyes, they were about to get what they have wanted all along.     

  

    

Real Muslim Housewives of Detroit- Episode #2- The Glamorous life of Nabila Shareef

I am sitting in a conference room downtown at a big ass wooden table across from my soon-to-be ex-husband, Wakil Bashir, with my lawyer, Beth. His old butt is sitting across the table in a suit and tie, looking like one of those Nation of Islam brothers. Who dressed him this morning? This is what I mean, that is why we are right here, right now.

I really don’t remember how or why I was even attracted to him in the first place. And I don’t even know why I let him drag me to this messed up state anyway from Atlanta. He was all promising me the world and stuff. I should’ve known that once a Muslim nigga’ always a Muslim nigga’, he didn’t give me nothing that I really wanted. Shoot, I just turned thirty years old last month and I could still can beat out all the little young things that be sprouting up everywhere. Always asking if my man had a woman. You know what? I am going off of topic.

But anyways, I looked good for my age. I was fit, I was thick and I was a strong Muslim woman that held it down. I was always independent, that’s what my momma’ taught me. Never trust a nigga’ and hey that’s been my motto for like ever.

And it’s worked for me so far. Well except for right now. I am getting divorced. But you know what? Life goes on. I will find something bigger and better. Preferably not in Michigan. Everybody knows everybody and everybody has been with on the low-low or married to everybody. And that wasn’t my thing. I had a little bit more class than that. And I didn’t want people to be up in my business. Because I had a bad temper and I didn’t want to have to beat somebody’s wife down or slash someone’s tires.

Beth leaned over to my ear and whispered, “His lawyer is here now so let us do all the negotiating.”

“Uh, I know that. This is the second time you’ve told me that,” I whispered back a little louder.

She cleared her throat, “Ms. Shareef, I am letting you know again because you know what happened last time.”

I looked around sheepishly, “Yeah, yeah. Your right.” I sat back up and zipped my lips straight across and through away the key.

I believe she was referring to about a month ago when the property negotiations began and he had said something disrespectful about I shouldn’t get anything from the condo in Birmingham. I went off. But not this time. I was going to be good. The longer we argued the longer it would take to get him out of my life.

His lawyer took a seat and I crossed my legs and waited for the BS to begin. Every word out his mouth was a load of horse sh…

“Good evening, everyone. Shall we get started.”

I looked at Wakil and then crossed my arms over my chest and rolled my eyes. I didn’t even want to look at him anymore. I have been over him since way back when. Honestly, I don’t know where we went wrong. I know I wasn’t the best Muslim but dang he wasn’t spending enough time with me and he wasn’t providing me with mental stimulation. All men should know that woman are emotional creatures and we have to be stimulated mentally and emotionally first before you can even reach the physical part. That’s psychology 101. Duh.

Wakil was in his late 40’s but he could hang like a young cat. And he knew what he wanted in life. He wasn’t on that illegal trip like most young Black Muslim men that I knew. I wasn’t into all of that. I wanted to be taken care of, that’s what I deserved. I mean I was living good in Atlanta; I had a nice job and a nice house. Then he came along and promised me the world.

I would’ve been stupid not to take him up on that offer.     

He owned an import/export business that originated in Georgia and then he opened up one in Dearborn. He treated his business like a baby, he wanted to be near it as it grew large and boy did it grow large. Allah blessed him with a successful business and a loving wife. What more could he want?

I was still down south and missing him when he called me up one day. He told me that if I moved to Michigan with him we could spend more time together and wouldn’t have to live worlds apart anymore. For him I made that sacrifice. And I would soon regret it.

He came up to me one day and asked me how I felt about a second wife. I went off on him. Because he’d never asked me about that until we moved here. So I could only speculate that “those” brothers, yeah the broke ones with no money that have two or three wives had gotten into his head and planted an ugly seed. After that day he never brought the topic up again. But out bliss didn’t last long. He then started pressuring me about a baby. I said “oh hell naw, who you been talking to now!”

Again he didn’t tell me who put that idea into his head but I could sense that it was one of them no-good brothers that got five kids and six baby momma’s and don’t pay for none of them. I wasn’t about to mess up my body or my lifestyle for no rugrat. I wasn’t ready. I was still working on myself and my Islam, although it was taking longer than I thought.

“Asalam’alikum, Nabila.”

My upper lip went up and I muttered, “Wa’alakum salam…brother.”

He smiled, “Oh, I am a brother now?”

I didn’t make eye contact and snorted, “If it quack like a duck then it must be a duck.”

Beth looked at the both of us probably thinking they’re about to get started again. “Ok, hey, can we start the proceedings.”

The other white lawyer quickly agreed. To them all we were was time. And time to them equaled money. He began by opening up his manila folder and pulling out sheets and placing them in a row. “So this is what we got concerning the condo.”

Beth took the papers and looked them over, she then handed them to me. I seen some pie charts and then at the bottom was an amount. I whispered in her ear. “Ms. Shareef wants to know what this bottom number is supposed to represent.”

He cleared his throat, “Oh, well, that’s the sum she would be settling for.”

My eyes bulged out of my head. Beth put her hand on my lap to keep me from getting up. “Let me handle this… uh, the condo is worth over 100 grand, this number is less than 1/5 of the market value. How did you come up with this figure?”

“Well,” his lawyer began. “We factored in a multitude of things.”

“Like,” Beth motioned with her hand.

“Like for instance, who paid the real estate agent, who paid the utilities and the mortgage, who furnished the home.”

I felt myself getting heated. Heated beyond words. I couldn’t hold myself back. How dare he not give me half of what I helped him earn. “You’ve got to be kidding me, Wakil!”

Beth put her hand on her forehead, “Here we go again.”

“Oh, so I am not a brother anymore?” he grinned.

“You conniving, trifling, son-of-a…”

“You know what,” Beth stood up and gathered her papers. “I quit. I can’t deal with the constant bickering and fighting going on between you guys. When you get it together call me.”

Real Muslim Housewives of Detroit- Introduction

By popular demand a few sisters was telling me that I need to write some Muslim fiction based on a show called the Real Housewives. Even though I was doing tons of writing already, I thought it would be fun to write something different. This is my first one...Subscribe to this blog and then you can get updates as to when the other episoded will be posted. I hope you enjoy.

Have you ever wondered what it’s like to go deeper into the life of a Muslim woman living in Detroit? It’s not 100% accurate of a Muslim woman’s life on t.v. when it shows constant terrorist activities, sexual inequality or oppression. It’s not always about being perfect, having the best life or the greatest husband either. Life is all about obstacles but mostly overcoming them and bouncing back.

Behind the beautiful façade is something much deeper. No one is perfect and we each have a flaw but still we stand proud to be Muslim none the less. There are imposters, haters, leeches, thieves and hoes that will come across us and make us question our path in life but there are also some that will boost us up and guide us further into Islam.

This will be the chronicles of five Muslim women who live in the Metro Detroit area. Some have earned higher degrees while others have only GEDs. All of them may come from different walks of life but they all have a goal, whether it’s being closer to Allah or finding a single Muslim man without two other wives.

Welcome to the life of the real Muslim housewives of Detroit.

Episode #1- Who is Sabina Sabr?

It’s hard to believe that only five years ago, I’d graduated high school, wore a size 4, had no kids and a bright future ahead of me. Who would of thought that the girl mixed with Yemen and Black who was voted “Most Beautiful” and “Most Outgoing” would end up with four children (all of which are under the age of five), be a size 20 and have a lazy man who belittles me at any given moment.

No one would have thought that and no one knows how unhappy I am.

The people who used to know the old me, the crazy party girl that every man wanted, were cut off because of the embarrassment I’d felt about my weight, my life, everything. They tried to come over, but I was too ashamed of how things would look to them. They were all doing what they said they were going to do, see the world, make an impact. Me, I was stagnant while the world flew pass me.

I knew a few Muslim sisters from this so-called community that I was cool with but even they didn’t know much about me. I kept my business to myself. Because the Muslims here…

What words could I describe to them? Petty, argumentative, problematic, over drama filled… the list goes on but I digress. These Muslims liked to hinder more than help, even if it seemed like they were. They would spread business like it was no tomorrow. For that I had to be careful of what I divulged to others. Which wasn’t hard because they didn’t need to know anyway nor could help the problems I was having.

Unfortunately, my business was out there, little snippets of it was at least with a twist on it of course. But most were outright lies. I don’t know how they could sit there and back bite another Muslim and then have the audacity to give you greetings and smile in your face like nothing happened. If was a hoodrat I would’ve been snatched up a  couple sisters.

Sometimes I’d wonder how the small stuff got out, I wasn’t saying anything and I guessed the “Borks” didn’t have any hidden cameras placed inside the walls, the only person I could think of was Amir. I didn’t want to believe he was going to the brothers and talking about me but I could definitely vision it. He was becoming a very weak man, why wouldn’t he be weak in that area of keeping his mouth shut?

He told me all the gossip about everybody before we got married like people having kids to get more welfare money, brothers going to Ohio supposedly on Jummat but really going to get second wives and even brothers stealing converters for cash. That should’ve been a sign for me.

But it wasn’t.

Ever since he was laid off he has been way too vocal and moody like a female on her period. I married a man, not a woman. Amir was getting unemployment checks and “hustling” on the side with some brothers in Detroit. I didn’t even want to know what they were doing. I just told him before he left with those hoodlums is that Allah was watching him. I could only hope that what he was doing was legal. But for some reason, I wasn’t seeing any monetary results of this so-called job. On payday I would ask him to put a few dollars down on some of the bills and he would always reply “insha’allah”. I’d curse him under my breath because he knew (and so did I) that in his heart he wasn’t going to give me and the kids a penny.

Our crowded two-bedroom flat in Hamtramck was dilapidated to say the least. The slum landlord was from Pakistan and barely spoke a lick of good English but it got “good” when he was negotiating American Money transactions. The rent was $350 a month, it used to be $400 but I had to literally get down in my abaya on my knees and beg him to lower it. That $50 was for my infant’s diapers. I felt like an animal but I had to do it for my kids.

Who else had their back?

“Ummi?” Amira, my five year old and my oldest called out as I stood in the bathroom looking through the raggedy mirror at my green eyes.

“Yes?” I heard Tahera crying.

“She hit Suli,” she rubbed her eye.

I sighed deeply before screaming, “Tell her to come here now!”

I loved these kids to death but they were driving me crazy. I picked up an overgarment and slid it over my head; it wouldn’t go down past my wide thighs. I held my breath and pulled the old fabric over my hips and let go all the air. My stomach budged out of the form fitting garment. I needed to get some new larger clothes but we haven’t had the money. I’d gained more weight. Another child began to cry as I sulked.        

That would now make two kids a-weeping. Where was their father at?

My shift began in a few minutes and he promised that he’d be here by then to keep the kids quiet as I answered phone calls. I worked for Comcast part-time as a phone rep. We couldn’t live off of food stamps alone we needed money for bills and kids clothes.

The phone rang at exactly the time my shift started, three kids were crying now in the background and the house looked like crap, toys were everywhere.

“Asalama’alakum?”

“Hey!” Amir said, he barely gave Islamic greetings back.

“Amir, where are you? You said you would be back to watch the kids.”

“Whoa, chill out. I said I got you.”

“When will you be here?”

“Probably in like an hour,” he said coolly.

“An hour?” I shrieked and looked at the clock. “My shift starts now.”

At this point I was hyperventilating. Who was going to watch the kids while I worked?

My eyes bulged, “You want me to lose my job…”

“Allah will suffice.”

I could sense the smugness in his voice. “Yeah, because you sure wont,” I said under my breath, not meaning for him to hear it. It just kind of slipped out.

I guess that set him off. “What did you just say to me?”

There was nothing but silence-other than the crying symphony going on behind me.

“Oh,” he laughed. “You ain’t got nothing to say to me now, huh?”

“Amir…I’m…”

“Naw, naw yo’ fat ass is good.”

“That’s not necess-”.

“No! don’t cut me off,” he yelled. “You know what?  You should be glad that I’m even wit’ yo’ dumb ass. How many fine women come up to me every day, wanting to be with me and they aint’t got no kids eitha’. Girl, you got the game twisted.”

I stood there, my eyes started to burn and redden as I stayed on the phone and listed to how fat I was, how dumb I was and how I was replaceable. Warm tears began to stroll down my face and my work cell phone began to ring. It was a customer calling.