Playing God

After an exhausting nine-day trip in Afghanistan, I am in India. Although my body yearns for some downtime after the drubbing from the Afghan trip, I find no respite. Aliakberbhai, who was with me in Afghanistan seems fine; the man can work like a horse and still be able to operate on less than three hours of sleep a day.

Sabira and Hameed Pirbhai from London join us in Delhi for the five-hour trip to Sirsi where CAI has a 1,400 students school, girls and boys orphanages each and two housing projects for the poor. Sabira is here as a volunteer to offer her expertise in training the teachers of Sirsi School in effective methods of teaching. After a day of inspections of ongoing projects in the vicinity of Sirsi, Phendheri, Kunderkey and Naghau Sadaat, Aliakberbhai and I depart for New Delhi for a flight to Lucknow and on to Hallour. It’s six hours to ND airport, an hour’s flight to Lucknow and another five hours to Hallour. I am to do due diligence for yet another school in this poor community, CAI’s sixth in India.  

Thankfully, the road from Lucknow to Hallour, very close to the border with Nepal, is surprisingly very good, if noisy. My body aches for sleep and my eyelids feel so heavy, they shut close involuntarily every so often. But vaapi, slumber is elusive. Indians, generally, love to lean on their vehicle horns; be it a car, truck, motorbikes or even bicycles for that matter. Any major Indian city will drive me bananas with the hooting pollution. Drive through rural India and speeding trucks will come barging down, front or rear, bellowing modified horns of loudest decibels, jerking me through to my toenails.

Hallour is a typical midsize city in UP; drab, dirty, congested and yes, the mayhem of horns rule the traffic. The only nameless hotel in town is not rated, but I have no hesitation of giving it a zero star rating. I have apprehensions as soon as I enter the ‘room’ where masquerading mosquitos gleefully set upon every open skin of my body. So I wear a long sleeve hoodie and a pair of socks, never mind the ninety-degree heat and cook myself. The ‘bathroom’ has no hot water, no shower but a tired looking plastic bucket and a leaky container. The toilet is standard squat issue without a flush so bucketfuls of water must follow a dump and you hope it all disappears somewhere. We are supposed to sleep here two nights but I make a snap decision and inform Aliakberbhai we will complete all the work the next day and leave for more civilized Lucknow; I am having heart palpitations just looking at the dubious ‘bed’; it is a long, long night of praying I don’t get slaughtered by the ecstatic mosquitos.

I am in a hurry to get the project due diligence done real quick next morning. The land donated by the local community is very good and the need for a quality school, especially for girls, very urgent so I approve the project; work will begin immediately after Aashoora insha’Allah. A modern, quality school, CAI’s sixth in India, for 1,000 plus children, double storied, with scope to expand if all goes well, insha’Allah. If we are able to educate even 10% of these children to their full potential, it is worth the investment insha’Allah.

A six-hour drive back to Lucknow and a night stay at a three-star hotel does wonders to restore some of my vigor. I sleep in a mosquito / insect free air-conditioned room, poop in a sparkling white commode, use a toilet paper and take a hot bath in a glass enclosed free flowing shower; what blessings, yaar! It is back to Mumbai the next day.

On my return back to Mumbai from Sri Lanka a few days later, Wasi Mohammediyan and Basheer Razaee, CAI senior staff from Kabul arrive for a three day intensive course on US statutory compliance matters. They have been confined to Afghanistan and Iran all their lives so a visit to Mumbai is like travelling into extraterrestrial territory, both exhilarating and fearful. The crowds of Mumbai, the honking traffic, the noise, the smell, the perpetual movement of a city that never sleeps overwhelms them. But they seem to be falling in love with the spicy Indian food, especially one at the Bohri Muhalla in Dongri where we devour barbecue delicacies right off the grill.

After the training, I take them to see some of CAI’s India projects in Mumbai; our school, SGH orphanage, Al Zahra Boys Home in Mumbra and several houses for the very poor under construction at the Govendhi slums. It is here, in the slums, where both Wasi and Basheer seem shell-shocked at the extreme degrading poverty and squalor of the place that the enormity of what CAI does hits me, again. We have just inspected three poor sadaat homes under construction, walking in dim alleys, not wide enough for an overweight person to walk straight, where the sun never shines and open sewer takes six inches of the lane. They are impressed with the modern tiled home in midst of filth but are happy to be out of the slum proper. I can see them shudder as we pass piled up garbage where children openly defecate and then casually walk away, the mounds of shit immediately covered by swarms of flies.

Aliakbarbhai, as usual, is unaffected by all this; its not even a distraction for him. He is busy, attentively addressing poor people wants for houses, mostly women, beseeching Aliakbarbhai to add them to the ever-growing list of eligible applicants. I can only envy him, his patience. This scene is repeated everywhere we go, throngs of people in need, begging, wanting, demanding...  I can take it so much before loosing patience. CAI has funds for 81 homes for this particular area; the needs and demands are in the thousands. Aliakberbhai extracts himself from the milling crowds after promising more homes when funding is possible.

This is the most frustrating and difficult role I play within CAI, playing God, literally. The need for worldwide humanitarian work in immense, our resources limited. Who am I to decide who gets what? Sure, I can do all the due diligence I want, implement all the safeguards and transparency possible. However, I am human after all. Feed a computer credible data and it will spit out a plausible result. What about a heart? Emotions? Perceptions? How do I handle these? I feel terrible when it is I that has to decline a distraught widow and her children shelter just because she is born non-sadaat. When she is more deserving than an equally deserving sadaat. How can I play God? These choices despair and leave me in a dour mood for days afterwards.

Why do I share this with you? As stated earlier, many times, I seek no sympathy. I declare I am bountifully blessed to serve in this role, would not trade for anything material in this world. This narration is for you to understand and appreciate how we at CAI spend your money. It is not the case of sitting in an air-conditioned office and directing funds to far flung projects; rather, to be physically there, in the midst of bewildering challenges, to feel the need and pain of being poor and destitute. I pray these Blogs accomplish that insha’Allah.

I Feel Like Weeping For Joy

I am in Mumbai, in the middle of my current trip, taking me to four countries and several worldwide cities and villages. To Dubai and Mumbai and New Delhi and Kabul and Yawkawlang and Sacheck and Punjab and Lego and Oozmuk and Nilli and Dayaroos, back to Kabul, on to New Delhi again and Sirsi and Phandheri and Nawghawa Sadaat and Kuderky and New Delhi yet again, and Lucknow and Hallour and Lucknow again and Mumbai again. I leave today for Colombo and Nurelliya, return to Colombo and Mumbai again, then return to Sanford via Dubai and Chicago mid October insha’Allah. Quite a mouthful, no?

The following is a short narrative on the Afghanistan trip only; hope you enjoy it:

I am in Afghanistan; Aliakberbhai Ratansi of AICT Mumbai or RK (because he has an uncanny resemblance to the late Raj Kapoor of Bollywood, grey eyes and all) and Sohail Abdullah (SA) a CAI Trustee from New York join me this time around. This is my 27^th trip to this badbakth country in the last 7 years and much has changed since then, but yet again, a lot remains the same. Kabul has greatly improved of course (except for occasional bombs that explode and kill or maim the innocent), thanks to massive foreign aid money; airport services are prompt, the streets are nicely paved and power cuts are not as frequent. The local CAI team receives us at the airport and we are whisked away to the comfort, superb Afghan hospitality and relative security of Wasi’s home, CAI’s Country Manager in Afghanistan. While RK and I are seasoned visitors here, SA is a rookie, full of awe and tons of bewildering questions.

Rural and remote Afghanistan, where the bulk of CAI operations are in progress or operational, is where the world changes back to the Stone Age, literally. SA sits next to the pilot, his IPhone constantly capturing the sights and sounds as we are transported to Yawkawlang in a teeny-weeny Kodiak single propelled aircraft. SA’s greatest concern is for the healthy looking American pilot to survive a medical emergency, such as a heart attack.

SA will share a wonderful photo-blog of the trip with you shortly so I will spare you the intricate details of this tough adventure. I will, however, tell you this:

I feel like crying for joy and hugging a sparklingly white commode when I see one at the Golden Tulip Hotel room in Lucknow. I have delicately, carefully squatted and balanced over a hole-in-the-ground toilet, clutching a lotta in one hand and a torch in another, bearing the humiliation of mosquitos and flies feasting on my exposed behind the last 12 days. I feel like weeping with joy when I get to use a bathroom toilet tissue after having to finger my bum the last 12 days. I feel weepy when I finally get to sleep in a soft comfy mattress inside a centrally air-conditioned room, not having to squat tormenting flies away or wistfully watch a sated mosquito full of my blood elude my attempt at its murder. I feel emotional when I take a hot shower with abundant water, not having to worry about pneumonia should I have to use frigid water in an emergency. I get relief when I blow my nose instead of rudely picking it publicly, since the thin Afghan mountain air made all secretion into a hard crust that was very uncomfortable to keep for long and bled my nose every time I cleaned them. I am delighted I can smell my old self and not the revolting odor of not having washed for days on end. I close my eyes in ecstasy when I take a sip of real hot chai after being deprived the last 12 days. I feel like crying for joy when...

These joys are short lived, of course, when my thoughts return to the misery and hopelessness of the people CAI help left behind. My discomfort and hardships are transitory; these people I am so fortunate to help a bit will be without all the fancies I take so much for granted.

In Afghanistan this trip, CAI commissioned the following:

1.   A water distribution system in Yawkawlang that benefits over 3,000 people which will provide clean, potable water for the next 25 years at US$27 each.

2.   Monitoring of operational Sacheck Medical Click – a wonderful modern custom built clinic that can rival any in a Western country.

3.   The opening of a 400 student elementary school, CAI’s 15^th in Punjab.

4.   The due diligence of another elementary school, CAI’s 17^th (16^th already under construction in Kajraan) in Lego.

5.   Monitoring of the operational Oozmuk Medical Clinic and commission the construction of a tailor made modern all-purpose clinic. The current one operates from mud brick – straw house that freezes in the winter and is highly inefficient.

6.   Commission of one water-well benefiting 120 people costing US$1,400.

7.   Monitoring of operational Dayaroos Medical Clinic. Construction of a modern facility for this unit awaits funding.

8.   Participating in the wedding celebration of 100 poor couples sponsored by CAI donors at Nilli.

9.   Distribution of five each milk and ewe producing sheep to poor widows in Nilli.

10. Monitoring of the new SGH 60 girls orphanage / 300 girls school project under construction in Kabul.

Alhamd’Allah!

Pay Attention To Your Pee And Poop

Dr. Mosin Jaffer from Miami is visiting us here in Sanford and giving a lecture on good health. It is early Sunday morning, just after fajr salaat, at the Sanford Husseini Islamic Center. Instead of the regular Quraan tafseer after the salaat, we get to hear Dr. Jaffer’s excellent and very useful exhortation on good health. He should know; he is an expert on these issues, specializing in Geriatric medicine and a senior medical associate at many local hospitals. The doctor talks about respecting our Allah-blessed remarkable bodies, eating good, wholesome foods, fruits and vegetables and for heaven’s sake, exercise; all good common sense stuff. It is another matter if the majority of us will heed any of this advise, for there is calorie busting, artery clogging neehaari for breakfast after he is done.

A very good indicator if you are properly hydrated and eating enough fiber in your diet is to keep an eye on your pee and poop, says the good doctor; there are immediate smiles and sniggers from the fifty odd audiences. No, really, he continues, look at your pee. If it is yellowish and not clear, you are dehydrated, drink plenty more water. If your poop sinks in the toilet water, you are not eating enough fiber, if it floats, you are fine. Hmmm, I make it a point to add this ritual to my things to do immediately after peeing and pooping. But the anticipation of enjoying Azeem’s fine neehaari simmering in the kitchen outside dips at this advise. Temporarily.

So I keep an eye out on my pee and poop for a few days; all looks well alhamd’Allah, we should all count our many blessings, however trivial. Or seemingly disgusting. But then I make a mistake of parting this advise to my soon to be fourteen year old daughter Maaha Zainab. We are driving for dinner of spicy chicken wings at La Fontana (you may be disappointed Dr. Jaffer, but don’t you worry Sir, I’ve been good and had nothing but fruits and vegetables the last five days!), not too far away from home here in Sanford. The immediate reaction is a predictable one; a hand flies up to cover a gaping mouth. Yuck! She squeals, how disgusting! Then she asks me a question that makes me nearly lose control of my car. What if the poop does not sink or float, but hangs in the middle? She is being cheeky, of course, but this quip begs a question lately much on my mind; how open should we parents here in the West be with our children, especially teenagers?

Very open, most child psychologist will tell you. And so I have tried to be that, most accessible. Maaha Zainab can and does confide, I hope, in most issues that confront teenagers. However, these adolescents face a very different world from mine at their age. I was never exposed to such candidness, never to retort in such a manner; there were solid drawn lines of behavior and speech; no blurry lines advocated today.

Our teenage lives in Arusha, Tanga or Dar were lost in more wholesome pursuits; of cricket and volleyball and bicycles, of mbooyu, mango or guava pickings, of Bollywood movies and as a consequence, bell-bottom fashions and the greatest impressions we could leave on the opposite sex. Clogged arteries and pee color or poop density were alien subjects, never even imagined.

It is these thoughts that occupy my mind as I make my way to HIC for magreeb salaat afterwards. The car stinks nasty from food odor we brought back for Zainab’s mom. Want a piece of very good advise? Eat the food fresh and hot at La Fontana, don’t bring it home in the car. The after-smell will most certainly remind you of someone who perhaps needs more fiber in their diet.

Khan Shah Rukh, The Truthful One

Ever since this Bollywood sensation gives an interview stating Islam has no association with terror, the social media goes into a manic frenzy. Every other person is on Facebook, repeating the video clip, over and over again, as if these are words from paradise, no less. The Indian media as well, they can't have enough. Aree, Shah Rukh Khan has decreed terror and Islam are not compatible. 

Aree Baba, the entire Muslim ulema, those qualified to part with such opinion have bellowed this fact until their throats have conked out.  No! The whole Muslim ummah, 1.5 billion strong, have been trying to convey the same message; yet negligible or no mention anywhere, not even in a lonely black and white print of a newspaper, something very few read in these electronic age.  

But no Sir, if Khan Shah Rukh, a hugely popular, good-looking Bollywood actor with banal, anemic-at-best actual acting skills says so; it must be Gospel. No matter the guy is not a practicing Muslim, no matter he has no formal (or otherwise) education on Islam, no matter he is a drunkard, no matter he is a womanizer, no matter he has bad breath and leading ladies have actually slapped him for blasting garlic fumes at them up close, no matter... 

After all, it is Khan Shah Rukh, the truthful one. He has a hairline that can turn Telly Savalas in his grave and six (or is it nine?) pack abs to earn such credentials, nai?

The Chief Minister’s Assassin – A novel

My novel (print version) has sold almost 430 copies so far, with fantastic reviews. Not bad, really. Those interested can now purchase a copy for US$20 (proceeds still benefit CAI’s worldwide orphanage projects). Only 200 odd copies left, will go fasta-fasta! You will enjoy a darn good yarn, I promise, and help out a very good cause as a bonus.

A copy can be ordered from:

Me in the USA – kisukaali@gmail.com

Fatema Alibhai in Canada – alibhai@rogers.com

Sabira Somji in Dubai – sabirasomji@gmail.com

Nazir Merali in the UK – n.merali@sky.com

Murtaza Bhimani in Tanzania – moraf2000@gmail.com

Maryaam - The Discarded Daughter

Maryaam - The Discarded Daughter

The midwife informs Mohammed Hassan his wife has given birth to a frail baby girl; Mohammed makes a face, and then looks to the heavens helplessly, accusingly. Another daughter! His first wife had given him two and it had been a task and a half rearing them after the wife died. Thank Allah they got suitable life partners and have now left Arab Jadid, a desolate, dirt-poor village in Sarepole, Afghanistan.

Mohammed feels trapped and desperate. His second wife is mentally unstable; she, his two sons, a daughter and he barely survive from the meager produce their small draught-ravaged backyard farm yields. Water is scarce; there is no money for school fees, books, uniforms, fruits or meat. Now, another daughter. Shrugging defiantly, he instantly makes up his mind. The new daughter, he spontaneously names her Maryaam, cannot stay, she must go. He will sell her to the highest bidder. Either the sale or the newborn dies.

News of the infant-for-sale spreads fast and into the ears of a CAI local employee overseeing the construction of a CAI sponsored housing project for the poor. Shocked, he calls Wasi, CAI Country Manager in Afghanistan, who calls me. Do you want to buy an infant baby girl? He asks. Buying and selling of humans is illegal anywhere in the world, I caution him but immediately make a snap decision. If the father is discarding the baby, CAI’s Sakina Girls Home in Kabul will be happy to have her. I personally agree to pay for a nurse for Maryaam and all the expenses for her needs in the loving and nurturing home at the orphanage. CAI or I will not buy the child. Even with the great distance between us, for a baby I have not seen, my heart tugs at Maryaams predicament.

So:

Maryaam will be taken real good care of insha’Allah. She will always know who her real parents are, as the Sharaan dictates. She will, like our other orphans at SGH, go to a good school and become a good Muslima and a responsible, productive, proud Afghanistan citizen. She will marry of her choice and I will pay for that expense insha’Allah; I am making provisions for all this if I were to die before that time. So you pray for little two-month-old Maryaam, for her current health, as she is frail from underfeeding and for her long-term success.

Here is little Maryaam, the discarded daughter:

Mullah Mchungu’s Waleema Woes

I find myself in Dar es Salaam once more. It is nice to be back, except the city seems to have deteriorated. The drive from the airport to city is dreadful, the infrastructure of the place is bursting at the seams; I can’t see how much more expansion Dar can take without something giving. The streetlights in town don’t work, the roads have yet to see any maintenance and the near perfect clock near Moraf roundabout that previously matched BBC time now stands despondently still.

People in Dar seem to be in an eating frenzy; all food establishments I visit burst with customers ordering food as if there is starvation predicted. After standing in line at two places for nylon bajeeas I love, I am sheepishly told they are sold out. Zanzibaari mix? Khalaas Bwaana, jareebu keesho. Turd! I walk a short distance and settle for K-Tea Shop kebabs; hot and delicious as ever, never mind the creepy rats scurrying around the alleyway where they are fried. Street kahaawa and khashaata afterwards for dessert puts me in an amiable temperament for many meetings scheduled in the day.

At the Khoja masjid, after magreeb salaat, I spot Mullah Mchungu heading towards the exit together with other worshippers; I instinctively try and camouflage amongst the crowd; the last thing I want is for the old crank to waste my time in trivial and combative arguments. But waapi, the guy may be old but he seems to smell people out even if he may not actually see them.

Ah Kisukaali, he says after we are done with (sham) pleasantries, you are in Dar at a very opportune time. My nawaasi’s neekah is tomorrow so I am inviting you to the event and waleema the day after. It is at the Golden Tulip Banquet Hall in Oyster Bay.

I facilitate him on the happy occasion but get ready to decline the invite. The Mullah’s face darkens in ire as he switches his walking stick from one hand to another. If we were not within the masjid’s premises, I would have worried, perhaps, but I am safe here. He grasps my shoulder instead and shakes it. Gee, the man’s fingers seem to be made of steel; I wince in discomfort.

Aree ghadheera! I will not take a no. You must come, it’ll be worth your while, I promise. Fodder for all the useless Blogs you write. You will experience something never seen before, walaahee. I will have someone pick you up at nine sharp.

Intrigued, I grudgingly agree but insist I be dropped off before midnight since I have a flight to catch later the next day and need to rest.

Yah, yah, you need your beauty sleep, I know. Let me take your leave now, I have to attend some stupid Hindu Ghoor ritual for my granddaughter. My daughter will hound me to my grave if I miss it.

He briskly departs, not leaning on his cane, making me suspicious if the danda is more for sympathy, threat or defense. There are tons of marriages currently in Dar, so the mosque complex is abuzz with frenzied activity, with waleema biryaani preparation in earnest, harried cooks struggling with wood fires, stirring simmering huge vats from which lifts shifting aromas of onion and garlic, competing with that of barbecued kukus and nundus from nearby dhabas.

The three neekah ceremonies next day are uneventful, except for the milling crowds; I do not see the Mullah until he is called up to the front as his granddaughter’s turn comes. Sheikh Allidina and Maalim Chandoo, both brilliant in what they do, solemnize the marriages chap-chap, pointing fingers at the nervous grooms during the neekah recitation as if in admonition, and six individuals are united in three family nucleuses; forever insha’Allah. A tedious, energy sapping, hour plus process of shaking hands, hugging, exchanging sweat, BO and breaths (with everybody present!) follow; I escape as soon as I am done with the Mullah’s family.

A driver picks me up from Tanzanite Executive Suites on the dot at nine next day and deposits me at the glittering entrance of the Tulip Banquet Hall twenty minutes later. We pass Oyster Bay and I longingly look at the crowds enjoying muhoogo chips in fiery chilly sauce and kitaale filled with spicy potatoes. I am tempted to request the driver stop and let me indulge but the moment passes. The banquet hall is decked up in such finery; with so many banners and lights I am momentarily confused. Am I really in Dar?

A bunch of men stand in a line greeting arriving guests. Guests wait for their turn shaking hands before going in; I join this line. I do not see the Mullah, so am a bit nervous; what if I am asked to produce an invitation card? Not to worry, nobody cares. I find my man just inside the entrance, in a fine expensive-looking shalwaar kameez that seems a lot too large on him. He frets with the nalli waistband, perhaps making sure his shalwaar is still in place. He gives me an evil grin, making me immediately wary. He is surely happy, this being his granddaughter’s wedding? Without shaking my hand, he waves me in.

Enter the world of waste and glutton and sin, he says agitatedly, flailing a free arm. Go, gorge yourself.

What a hopelessly eccentric man, I think, what on earth is biting him? I enter the hall and stop, as if I have walked into a brick wall. My eyes take in the vastness, the opulent décor and massive array of food under preparation. The first room is gigantic, full of people seated on gaudily decorated cream-colored chairs fringed with gold tresses. The hall explodes with harsh tones from thousands of mini white bulbs. It is a mixed gathering, with many women in sarees and hairdo and bare backs that rival Bollywood’s Kareena Kapoor. An empty stage, decked out Bollywood style glitter, awaits the married couple. I know no one around, so gingerly make my way towards wafts of biryani and barbecue.

I am stunned at the variety and amount of food under the roof that evening. Never, ever, in my fifty-seven-year-young-life, have I seen such a lavish and opulent spread; it is incredible. There is chicken, meat and seafood barbeques in several flavors, fresh from a live grill, served by attentive waiters. There is Hyderabaadi biryaani, Muglai kofta, hues of Lakhnoowi kabaabs, haleem, several meat, chicken, fish and prawn curries, both dry and saucy, a salad bar variety that rivals the Taj in Mumbai, various naans, parathas and rumaali rootis, fresh juices, several ice creams and ras-malai. Lakeeni wait! This is the non-veg section. An equally spacious all-veg spread awaits the non-Muslim and vegetarian guests; I don’t bother going there. I try a piece from several barbecue items and a bit of haleem, all delicious; I am full. An excellent round of elchi free ras-malai rounds it all up. Ten different varieties of mouth-freshening sopaari concoctions as I exit the food halls seem disappointing, comparatively. 

The main hall is a madhouse of loud milling crowds by now, glittering attire and superficial greetings between guests. The bride and groom have arrived and are seated on the stage, surrounded by family or friends; self-consciously smiling at the cameras with smirks they never will display naturally. There is so much light and glitter from photographers and cameramen trying to capture every moment and everybody, I start getting a headache. I loiter around a while and observe. The guests are Khojas, mostly, but there are exceptions. Few politicians are here, flanked by armed security; I can tell other VIP’s, from the submissive reverence and kowtowing they receive. I recognize at least one Bollywood nobody. I am tiring, want to go and rest; I have long flights to India and Bangladesh starting tomorrow. I look for my host to bid adieu and for him to arrange my drop-off; I don’t see him anywhere.

He is seated outside, in the courtyard, a slumped lonely figure. I pull a chair and sit next to him. I light a cigarette, he fires up a stinking beedi; I cough. Sallah ghadheera, he rebukes me promptly, you cough at a poor mans joy while you think the fancy one you smoke is made in janna? I ignore him; it is better than tussle with his crabbiness. So, I say instead, how are you Sir, how is your health?

The old man ignores me but shifts in the plastic chair uneasily instead. Never mind my health, he responds gloomily, what do you think of the spectacle in there? Unislamic, no? My own daughter, agreeing to this total waste. Not that she has much say in such matters. Her husband is a showoff and the groom’s party is from total first-class ghoonda-class family. Did you enjoy the food?

I am quiet for a while, weigh how to respond, for I know my answer will not please nor satisfy this crabby character. The whole thing is overkill, I say carefully, but the food is quite good actually. I would not do it, even if I had the money. But hey, it’s a free world, to each his own, I suppose.

To each his own, I suppose, mimics the Mullah. You don’t have the balls to say it is a waste and gunnah. These fools spent over $80,000 for the hall rent, the décor and the catering. Just to feed 2,000 people who are mostly overfed and obese already. How will we, how will I justify this gunnah on the Day of Judgment by not speaking out and admonishing my daughter? You help poor girls get married, yes? Tell me, how many marriages can you cater for $80,000, Kisukaali? Answer! The Mullah roars as I hesitate. How many?

I quickly do my math. 160.

160 poor girls married. And my own family paid $80,000 just for feeding people. Not the poor, which would have been acceptable, but the rich, fat and fatter. Allah-ho-akber! This is just for the reception. Just imagine Kisukaali, how much more will they have spent on clothes, jewelry, gifts...useless gifts. My daughter had to gift each female sibling of the groom a gold set and each male sibling a Rado watch; they are six of them. The sasuuma got a massive gold set; thank God the sasroo kicked the bucket a few years ago. Wonder what would he qualify for, a Mercedes? And I hear the honeymoon is at some exotic island off Africa that costs $10,000 for less than a week. The whole shebang cost over $250,000! Can you imagine? I have never been more ashamed, Kisukaali, of my family and me. I guess you want to leave? Mbanja, the driver is ready to drop you. Thank you for coming.

Mullah Mchungu sighs deep and long, shudders and then hangs his head. I really feel for the guy; I do! So I hug him briefly and leave.

What an extraordinary experience! The food, however, was outstanding. Burp!

This wedding episode is fact, of course, except I now forget if the wedding was in Dar, Mumbai or Dhaka? This jet lag is killing me!

The Chief Minister’s Assassin – A novel

My novel (print version) has sold 400 plus copies so far, with fantastic reviews. Not bad, really. Those interested can now purchase a copy for US$20 (proceeds still benefit CAI’s worldwide orphanage projects).

Here is my guarantee – Order a copy and if you don’t like it, I’ll refund the purchase price of $20. No tension.

A copy can be ordered from:

Me in the USA – kisukaali@gmail.com

Fatema Alibhai in Canada – alibhai@rogers.com

Sabira Somji in Dubai – sabirasomji@gmail.com

Nazir Merali in the UK – n.merali@sky.com

Murtaza Bhimani in Tanzania – moraf2000@gmail.com