The Crowded Village Musola
A Short Fiction Story
by awalr
Naseem looked at the wife's parang in her hands and felt panic. Now that the wife knew he had been married to Sophia, the moment had come for him to succumb to whatever fate there is to come. He walked towards the Musola for Zohor prayers. Then he would teach the children till Asr. He would imam the Asr prayers and the recitals thereof.
He walked over to the window and reflected on his noisy surroundings. He had always loved the crowded musola with its wanky, wooden building. It was his peace zone, a sanctuary, that encouraged his tendency to teach the youth with the Quran recitation for the peanuts he got. The noise of the uncontrolled young boys and girls were a joy to his ears. His shouts to control them were always in vain.
Then he saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the figure of Sophia. She was a short plum lass with greasy shoulder and curvy back. Her breath was sweet, and her always wanting appetite was unforgettable. She was back from the rubber smallholdings she owned. Normally he would go with her, but not that day. Tuesday was his first wife's turn. Naseem knew that he married her to share the bounties owned by the rich widow. But hearing the silent murmurs of the musola frequents that she served dinners to the new convert, frustrated Naseem.
Naseem gulped. He glanced at his own reflection. He was a tight-fisted, vile, tea drinker with skinny shoulder and sloppy back. His friends saw him as a bulbous, bitter baron. Once, he had even made a cup of tea for an unthankful friend. He had now come to face the moments.
But not even a tight-fisted person who had once made a cup of tea for an inexpensive Sophia was prepared for what his wife had in-store today. He was also prepared to decide on leaving Sophia for good.
The rain teased like shouting monkeys, making Naseem shudder. He knew fully well that God did not like the act of divorce. Yet it was the time to decide. His first wife had delivered him 10 children, 5 males and 5 females. Even though Sophia was a second wife he loved her, still childless, but he loved the first wife more. He would be unthankful if he did not.
As Naseem stepped outside and Sophia came closer, he could see the crazy glint in her eye.
Sophia glared with all the wrath of 1100 ungrateful forgotten flamingos. She said, in hushed tones, "I love you and I needed affection."
Naseem looked back, even more, puzzled and still plundering the thought on the wife's parang. "Sophia, I just don't need you in my life any more," he replied. "I know it will be hard, I still could see you."
They looked at each other with angry feelings, like two high-pitched, hard hamsters hitting at a very bold festive, which had trance music playing in the background.
Naseem studied Sophia's greasy shoulder and curvy back. Eventually, he took a deep breath. "I'm sorry," began Naseem in apologetic tones, "but I don't feel the same way, and I never will. I just don't hate you but I don't love you anymore, Sophia."
Sophia looked unstable, shaken, her emotions raw like a dark, dirty door. It was like the sky came a falling.
Naseem could actually hear Sophia's emotions shatter into 114 pieces. It must be fate that the marriage had to break. Then the spiteful lass hurried away into the distance behind the musola. She knew the reason. It must the new convert. And Naseem was thick in green jealousy.
Not even a cup of green tea would calm Naseem's nerves that night. He was not aware of what awaits behind the unlit door of his house as he walked back after the Isha prayers. as Imam.
THE END
