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father and father’s father’s father and so on were born. If my father, a brilliant and bold, degreed, rich, and successful man could not win and rely on the trust of men in the end, why should I expect it now?
My father is so much better than I am.
    “I don’t know, Mr. Ghazzali. The Holy Quran says that ‘Allah is sufficient.’ ” I answered with the only truth that came to mind right then.
    “Yes, and your mother’s name is Umma, a powerful name.
Ummah!
That word means ‘the community of Muslim believers.’ The believers have got to stand together, worship together, protect together, fight together, and eat together.” He searched me for a response. I didn’t have one.
    “It’s only a few days. Your Umma and sister are welcome to stay in our home. My wife already loves your mother and young sister. My daughter Sudana admires you, so of course she loves your mother. It is only you standing on the outside. Let me be a help to you.”
    “You know well that my Umma cannot sleep in your home where you have two grown and unmarried sons. And then there is also
you
, Mr. Ghazzali.” I looked him in the eye.
    “Of course, but there is a separate apartment downstairs. Your mother and my wife were planning to have a women’s business there,remember? Umma can use that apartment. It’s well furnished, with a small kitchen, a separate entrance, and a separate key,” he told me calmly. I listened but questioned his eagerness in my own mind. I think my seconds of silence insulted him somehow. “Sure, you can choose to put your family in a hotel. There they will be surrounded by kaffirs (nonbelievers), unmarried or married, untrustworthy either way,” he said with a stern sarcasm.
    “How much do you rent it for?”
    “Eh?”
    “Your basement apartment.”
    “Six fifty. Per month,” he said, exasperated, and as though he pronounced the first figure that popped up in his head and had never really rented out his basement before.
    “Okay. I’ll bring you six fifty tomorrow plus the transportation fees.” I got out and shut his taxi door, leaned in, and handed him now a twenty-dollar bill. He took it.
    “I wouldn’t be surprised to see you as the prime minister of the Sudan one day. So much power, business, and intensity in such a young brother,” he said.
    “Good night,” I told him before walking away.

Chapter 7
MY WOMEN
     
    It was well after midnight when I carried my seven-year-old sister on my back to our Brooklyn apartment.
    Umma said, “She should really walk on her own two feet.”
    Naja said, “But Umma, you two have been out having fun without me. Can’t I at least get a ride on my brother’s back?”
    “Out having fun,” Umma replied softly, in her way. Then she looked at me and said, “You see?”
    Naja clenched me tightly with no plans of climbing down before the elevator reached our floor and she was “delivered” to her bedroom.
    Umma was right, as she usually is. Naja is our protected princess who has no real idea of worry or struggle or stress. I thought that was good. I planned to protect my sister and keep her hidden away from those things that should never be revealed to little girls. In our traditions, a young girl lives under the protection of her father and brothers until she becomes a young woman. Then the father and her brothers will marry her into the protective care of her tried and tested, carefully chosen husband.
    As I looked into Umma’s eyes, so striking behind her
niqab
that shielded and covered everything else, I could see and feel that she was worried. I thought to myself,
Umma, don’t you worry. If you are uneasy, I will not move one inch from your side. I will stay right here with you.
But Umma noticed me noticing her, and she cleared her worries and lowered her gaze.
    Tuesday, May 6th, 1986
    We made Fajr prayer together, my mother, sister, and me, followed by a warm and comfortable breakfast. Umma and I did not discuss the details of my Japan trip until after