‘Are you not a Muslim?’ The Story of My Everlasting Religion Dilemma
I have made it a tradition to write about myself on my birthday, albeit in snippets, till I’m ready for a full autobiography.
I always thought you were a Muslim o
But you are Kola Muhammed, are you not a Muslim?
So, where is our Salah meat, Mr Anabi?
How many wives do you plan to marry?
The questions I listed above and more have always beset me for many years, in fact, for as long as I can remember. And they have been down to one singular fact — my name.
I met Aminat many years back and she was enthralled by a few things about me: my stature, my command of English and my last name. How often do you meet a Muslim guy who’s tall, speaks crisply, is super confident, and has a good sense of humour?
We exchanged full names and in what was a record time for two lovers, our hearts were already entangled in a matter of hours. On my part, she was chubby in every department and I was happy to be the dean of all those pleasant departments. To be a substantive dean, you need to be a professor, I was already qualified to be one, only that it was in romance and not English.
We started dating before we even asked each other out and the ride was supposed to be a smooth one, till forever after. One little detail, however, proved to be an obstacle. People, on getting to know my name, have always been fond of assuming that I am a Muslim.
Where it gets more interesting is if you happen to come across my middle name, Abdulrahman, then you are completely convinced that I can’t have any other religious affiliation apart from Islam. Aminat was like that too.
Well, I wish the answer to my religion of practice were that straightforward. But there’s always more than meets the eye. When I had the time, I often stressed myself to go into comprehensive details for people who wanted to know but now, I simply let you flow with whatever impression.
If you say I’m a Muslim, you’re not wrong, if you say I behave like a Christian, you are not far from the truth. It’s all one coin but different sides.
So, this year, I am dedicating this story to clearing the air. Henceforth, if anyone asks me any question, I owe them just one link. Go find out yourself.
Where were we, Aminat, right?
Yeah. Aminat found out that my Islamic commitment was just a little beyond the beautiful names of Allah. Every other thing about me wowed her but she needed me to have a praying scar on my forehead, like my dad.
My late dad was a devout Muslim who was influential enough to have had the prominent Sheikh Muhydeen Bello (a popular name in the Nigerian Islamic circles) christen all his children.
“Sheikh Muhydeen Bello oversaw your naming ceremony, and you have such a beautiful name? Ah, I must lead you back to the mosque, Abdulrahman,” Aminat lamented to me while resting on my chest.
“It’s not my fault,” I tell her as I walk her through the history of my religion complexity.
Along with my famed brother, Deji, I was one of the most notorious kids at Madrasa (Islamic school, known in Yoruba as ile keu). My notoriety growing up isn’t surprising, I was equally a notorious but brilliant game addict. Many times, the Islamic headteacher would come home with my brother and me, pointing to our tattered Quranic handbooks and dusty feet as evidence of our religious delinquency.
Our dad would tell the man to mete out whatever punishment he deemed fit while giving him money to buy us another pair of the abridged Qur’an. The beating that followed was epic. Not that I could complain at home, it was what it was.
For all the devoutness of Barrister Muhammed Bello, love was his Achilles heel and he couldn’t resist the charm of a Christian woman, whom he eventually had three children with. Despite marrying a Christian woman, they had an agreement that the children would practise the religion of their father — Islam.
My dad would happily drive my mum to church, wait outside for the service to finish to take her back home. And not once did I witness a disagreement or a fight between them.
After his heart-wrenching demise and the shameful neglect we suffered from his kinsmen, Iya Kola continued serving her Jesus. Since her Muslim lover was no more and she couldn’t bear being away from her kids, she took them wherever she went, including the church.
My new-found lover is sorry for that rough patch of life and then tells me that I am now an adult who should make his own decisions. She pulls me closer, carefully plants my head within her lush bosom, and says,
“Abdulrahman, I am ready to help you find your way back to Islam, ready to give you anything that would make you become a practising Muslim. With this, I’ll be ready to do life with you.”
In that moment and posture, I was already back in Islamic school, reciting the Arabic alphabet and ready to do the Walimatul Qur’an graduation. But it was always going to be fleeting.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, Abdulrahman!
Enjoy this fleeting life.
