Your Friend Mohammad

Light cast a glow on the Hadith. Then the shadow came and all was dark. Mohammad Abbas collected the ancient text. He walked out of the mosque.

He scrolled through his smartphone the list of orders to find new khumrahs in the Wilmington, Delaware house of worship. A smile crept on his face.

He then hailed a ride share. The car took him to his walk-up in town. His wife Jamila looked at him, smiling. Her face looked like you could hold it with both palms and her brownness complemented her green eyes.

“We’re going to be parents.”

Abbas looked at her and kissed her mouth. “So good! Praise Allah!”

“I think it’s going to be a girl so we have to prepare for names like Aisha or Fatima.”

Abbas’ smile disappeared. “Well, now, this could be a moment for a little boy named Ibraham or Zain.”

“Whatever is fine,” Jamila mentioned slowly.

“I can’t top your news, but I have something to share, too.”

“Oh, yeah?”

Abbas pulled out a cylindrical container. He produced a poster and unrolled it. Jamila’s face looked frustrated and even fearful. “What is that?” she asked.

This is the new branding of the Prophet Mohammad.” The image showed the Prophet with open arms and a giant smile on his face. Little kids ran to him like he had candy to dispense. His wide grin looked welcoming and calming all at the same time. A half moon and crescent remained in the corner of the image.

“No, no, no. You know better.”

“This will revitalize the faith and allow outsiders to know that we mean peace.”

“If you show that to anyone else, there will be a Fatwa placed on your head. Do you want your pregnant wife to bury the father of her child?”

Abbas looked down and then up again. “What we can do is deliver this to all of the mosques in Delaware and the Northeast. Philly will eat this up, I’m sure. Mosques in New York will especially enjoy this idea.”

“You’re right about a great many things, but not on this one,” Jamila reminded her husband.

“You’re wrong, Jamila.”

“Am I?”

“Look, my name is Mohammad. It’s the most used name in the world. Why can’t we see a depiction of the Prophet? I’m not showing him menacing. I’m not showing him to be a murderer of nations. I’m illustrating him as your friend Mohammad.”

“I don’t like it,” Jamila admitted. She got away from Abbas to the kitchen.

“I’m telling you, this will revolutionize the entire faith,” Abbas argued.

“The only thing this thing will revolutionize is the way you will be hunted down and killed for dishonoring the faith,” Jamila said with a bit of venom. An iciness pervaded her words.

“You don’t see the vision. You have to imagine this as a way of taking this beautiful ideal and applying in a wholly new way. With this new child of ours on the way, they’ll know nothing but the thought that Mohammad is a friend to you!”

Jamila looked at Abbas with the eye of ire. “You cannot be serious. That is not what we’re about. Idolatry is the next thing that follows that image. It will take away the seriousness, the gravitas of the Prophet. We will be laughed out of every mosque. That’s the easiest thing if they don’t want to slice our throats and behead us. Now, do you want that?!” Jamila marched up the stairs. Abbas followed her.

“Hear me out…this is going to launch us. This is something that will be great. This will be the change-agent that will make Islam the faith of all people. Allah will aid us in this quest.”

“You are not right. Something has altered your capacity to think. Something’s wrong with you. I love you, but this must stop. You have to cease this before it gets any worse.”

“That’s just it.”

“What?”

“I’ve already shared it on socials,” he blurted out.

“You what?!”

“Yes, Ja’. It’s already out into the world under my name.”

Jamila sat on their bed. She shed tears. “You couldn’t have….”

“I did. I’m serious about this. You know, ‘act locally, think globally,’ well I just showed it.”

Jamila began praying. She prayed the one concerning appeals for forgiveness and repentance. Abbas walked around like a peacock. His pride never left him. The image on the Web got thousands then millions of shares across the networks. A knock came to the door.

Jamila stopped praying. She looked at Abbas. Her brows furrowed again. Her cheeks had been stained with tears. Abbas grabbed his nine millimeter pistol. He motioned for Jamila to stay in the bedroom. He inched down the stairs and approached the front door. He glanced at the camera and computer system that showed anyone or anything at the front of the household. It was a man standing about five feet eight inches. He spoke through the computer system.

“What is it? State your business, please,” Abbas commanded.

“It’s one of your members of jam’ah.”

“What’s your name?”

“Yusuf Abdullah.”

Abbas took a beat and continued.

“What do you want?”

“To talk.”

Abbas placed his firearm in the back of his pants under his shirt. He opened his door.

“Allhamdulillah! This thing is blowing up on the Internet. What you have done is monumental, you’re going down in history for this. The image of Mohammad is officially being swept around the world!” Abdulla exclaimed. Jamila came rushing down the stairs after hearing the familiar voice.

“You’re for this, Yusuf? How dare you! The both of you I cannot take. With this depiction going around the ‘Net, we’ve put ourselves in great danger. I’m supposed to be a mother soon.” Jamila turned to her husband. “You have disgraced this house, this name, this life.”

“So I have. I’ve taken the proper steps to change the minds of billions of people all over the world and allow the Prophet Mohammad to be the bastion for our faith. We will introduce people to this way of life and those who are already in it will be able to see the picture of Him.”

Jamila grabbed her keys. Abdullah hugged Abbas and left the house. Jamila followed him out of the house and to her car. She never mentioned where she planned to travel. The two vehicles left the area. Abbas remained by himself. He looked at the social media sites and grinned. The comments, likes, shares, and subscriptions jumped off the charts. Some stayed mixed, however. The calls for Abbas’ head continued to be a thread winding through the digital atmosphere. A video message of a figure with a distorted face and a modulated voice threatened Abbas. He felt no fear. He just scrolled down again and made the rounds on the different platforms.

Live broadcasts showed similar sentiments towards his life. He just chuckled at the donations he received based on the crowdfunding sites he had set up in advance. In the time that people could pull up to his house, he noticed that more and more folks had arrived at his door step. His smile turned to a frown. He once again gripped up on his weapon. Shouts from the Hadith came raining down like hail on his entrance. He locked the doors and bolted the windows. Rocks and one fire bomb managed to go against his house. Supporters extinguished it who thought the depiction brought about a better day.

Opponents continued to shout and besides the firebomb, the police dispersed the crowd and no violence arose from the fallout of the depiction. Abbas opened the door to allow the police to enter. Detectives Angel Torres and Gilda Carmichael stood in front of Abbas.

“So what is the move, officers?” he asked.

“Detectives. And we’re not going to turn this city into one of strife. We’ve got uniforms in riot gear out there. We’ve already looked at the image you’ve made. It’s already everywhere, so we can’t do anything about that.”

“What do you want from me?” Abbas queried again.

“What we can do is ensure your safety. We can provide you with a list of names of private security. You’re obviously going to need it.”

“I appreciate it, but Allah will protect me.”

The two detectives looked at each other. They shrugged slightly. “Look, scan this QR Code. You’ll be directed to people who will safeguard you.”

“I thank you, detectives. I appreciate it, but there is no God but Allah who will guide my steps.”

“Good evening, Mr. Abbas,” Detective Carmichael acknowledged. The crowd had dispersed and the cops had neutralized the situation, as they say. Abbas closed his door and smelled the gasoline from the firebomb. He returned to the internet. Now, millions of shares and subscriptions in a matter of a little over an hour had propelled him to continue to venture to the news sites. Global journalists covered the story. Vindication remained in his bones. As they spoke of it, they asked people on the streets in Cairo, Dhaka, Jakarta and other locales which featured significant Muslim populations. His phone translated everything.

“This is a devastating blow to the faith,” said one man whose skin looked like wax paper. “We have to stop the infidels who celebrate this kind of blasphemy. It is a terrible shame that we even have to witness this in this day and time.”

A woman in a burka spoke next on his phone. “I think this is a benefit. Maybe this will change the minds of people within and without the faith. We’re going to charge forward under the wind of intellectual property and individual rights.” Abbas shook his head at the understanding that the woman in Cairo with her garb clashing with her ideals.

Armed patrolmen guarded Abbas’ house for the next few hours. He just looked at all of the various pings and maps lighting up all over the world. With just a look at the image, it became heartening. The mindpower he possessed and displayed brought him to the level of a modern day Renaissance artist on the brink of brilliance. His special place within this vaunted group he relished without end. More so than anything, people showed support for his creation, his mission. Just as he came to the end of a video, Jamila burst through the door. She wrapped her arms around him.

“I’m sorry, baby. I think I should have listened to you from the beginning. I tried to go through the news stations and all I’m hearing is your depiction. You’ve done something few have dared to do in any age, especially this one.”

Abbas grabbed his wife’s hand and brought her to the couch. They turned on the video site and made boxes of the numerous reporters showing the story. From the perspective of a Muslim, the men and women of Earth could be introduced to a faith.

“I did it for the lack of faith, actually,” Abbas outed himself.

“You what? I’m here celebrating the fact that more people are going to be in Islam and you’re now expressing your distance from the faith? Do you want me to leave for good this time?”

“You won’t. You need someone to help you raise that child. He or she will be under the banner of reason rather than faith. They will be directed in the way of understanding that existence is the only thing and ideas are to be considered but never replace existence.”

“A non-believer…is this probably worse than the whole idea of showing the picture of the Prophet….?” The iciness returned.

“Just remember, when you go out that door, you will be leaving behind a mind that is trained on transforming the world. And it appears I’ve already done it,” Abbas proclaimed, bursting with pride.

Jamila smiled. “I was going to tell you that with this child, we should change our way of life. We should become non-believers and revolutionize everything we know.”

“And that’s a beautiful thing.”