I went walking this morning.
To my right was an open sewerage channel, a haven for malaria and other diseases. Following the channel it led me to an open field. Supposedly the soccer field. Plastic bags lay scattered all over the place, and along the rim burning heaps of garbage. The smell of burnt plastic in the air. The smoke dwindling from the garbage lazily drifted up past the palm tree till it faded in with the morning mist. A cow stood idly on one heap, munching happily away at the junk- plastic bags, old mango peels anything it could find.
Across the field, past the munching cow, over another sewerage channel, stood a mosque. I already knew it would be here somewhere. This morning at 4 am it screamed: “Allah Akbar!” God is great. Yes, God is great. And it invited me, beckoned me to come and visit.
So I went. And I found what was calling me. An old man, dressed in his faded white shirt, his faded white wrap- around, his white Muslim cap with embroided light blue Arabic pattern. Sitting on the cement bench in front of his chalk stone, corrugated iron roof house. He was peering through his old, steel rimmed glasses onto the pages in front of him.
At first I just walked past at a distance. Lifted my two hands up, palms towards him, as a greeting. I was to far away to exchange any words. I would come back.
I walked on and dissapeared into the labyrinth of small alleyways that led deeper into the village. I came to a well. People were lining its rim. Water canisters on ropes were fighting its way down to the bottom and scraping the last bit of water from the floor. The people looked frantic, as if the water would soon vanish.
Slowly I made my way back to the old man and the mosque. Past the lady gingerly tackling the mountain of washing she had. The baby with his mucus smeared face, crying.
I walked up to the old man: “Salaam-Aleiykum,” I greeted him in the Arabic. “Aleiykum-Salaam,” he replied.
He look friendly, his eyes warm, a gentle smile on his wrinkled face. I liked him. I tested English: “Can I sit down?” “Yes, yes “ he replied.
On his lap was a thick book, with big Arabic script printed across the pages. The Qur'an of course.
I didn't say much. Just sat there watching him reading it. He sighed, closed the book and put it beside him. The cover was torn and worn out.
“Do you understand what you are reading?” I asked. “No, I don't,” he replied. “It's in Arabic.” As if I didn't know. As if it would be unusual for him to understand. I left it at that.
I asked about the Mosque. He told me he prays every morning at 4 when the call comes. Then spends his time reading the Holy Book.
He asked me what I was doing. I think he knew about us. Knew why we were here. “Allah,” I said. “We are here to talk about and pray to Allah.” He nodded slowly.
I spent time sitting with him. Not much conversation. We looked at the people walking past us.
Then it was time to go. Enough said. Enough done. Abeid was his name. I greeted him and walked of- across the front of the Mosque, over the first sewerage channel, across the soccer field, past the lazy cow then dissapeared behind a building, close to home.
I went walking this morning. And it was a good walk. I think I'll go again tomorrow morning.