It was the morning after I got the message from Frank about my uncle Hamada's demise and I still couldn't believe he was gone, I just stayed in bed staring at the ceiling.
Last night I had walked home in a blurry hypnosis, unaware of where I was going until I suddenly reached my home. It's not that we had a special or close relationship; my memories of him are only during my childhood. I hadn't seen him since then because both his family and mine moved away to different places and relationships were ruined over the years. Regardless, the very thought of death terrifies me, especially if it was someone whom I knew. The very idea that one day you and me and everyone we know will no longer exist just terrifies the hell out of me. No wonder people invented stories and fairytales about God and a beautiful afterlife where everything will make sense; people can go crazy without that comfort. And apparently there will be rivers of beer and plentiful virgins for the taking, or so I hear...
Anyway, I was stuck in this dark frame of mind and woke up along the exact same lines. This obviously meant that I had to see the other side of the family again, people I also hadn't seen in ages, which I didn't have a problem with, if anything I enjoy reconnecting with people. It's just that this side of the family is quite religious and different from me.
I walked up to the mosque and noticed some relatives I recognized. I went up to them and made my first mistake of the day. You see, I had a very good upbringing. An upbringing that taught me when you go up to shake hands you must have a big smile on your face, this is so drilled in me that I don't even think about it now, it's automatic. So when I noticed that each and every person I shook hands with is giving me an astonished look because I was paying my respects to their dead father\uncle\brother with a huge grin on my face, I immediately turned solemn and realized that this is not a good start.
I shook hands solemnly with all the male relatives and followed them obediently into the mosque. And then it suddenly hit me: I've totally forgotten how to pray! I remember it involves kneeling down at certain points but other than that I was blank. I decided I would just pretend I was muttering prayers and follow the direction of the crowd. In the middle of processing my game plan while walking in, a big hand firmly held me back by the arm. "What the hell are you doing?" muttered my other uncle. "What? What's wrong?" I exclaimed. He pointed down at my feet and that's when I realized I had unconsciously walked halfway into the mosque with my shoes on. Luckily no one else noticed (otherwise a lynching would have been in order). I scurried off to the side and took them off, apologizing to my uncle and explaining that it was only because I was caught up in mourning that I forgot. He nodded painfully as if he understood and we walked and placed our shoes on the rack. For some reason I took a moment to glance at my classic shoes placed delicately in the middle of the Nike's and slippers, and then hurried off to follow my uncle inside. We stood in line and all was well. Then people to my left and right started pulling me backwards and forwards. Apparently we all have to be in a perfectly straight line with our toes aligned. Other wise God might get angry.
The prayers began and I started to mirror exactly what everyone else was doing. When they said something, I said it too. When they kneeled down, I kneeled too. So far so good, until my uncle kneeled to scratch his legs at some point during one of the 'standing periods' and I thought we were all going down again, so I went all the way down and put my head on the floor. Then as I had my forehead pressed against the smelly ground, I noticed no one else beside me out of the corner of my eye and immediately realized my blunder. I slowly stood back up and that's when everyone else went down again. It wasn't good, and the next time we went back up I got some dirty looks. As if that wasn't enough, when we were done and still kneeling on the ground, for some reason my uncle shook my hand. I thought he was trying to console me or something, so I leaned in and gave him a hug and a manly kiss on the cheek. Another dirty look, this time with extreme bewilderment. Then when the guy on my left (who I've never seen before in my life) took my hand and shook it too, I realized how bizarre I must look.
Ok, what happened happened and I knew that I must now shift into damage control mode and try to survive the rest of the day without being buried alive next to my uncle by the rest of my religious family. I hurried out in front of the other family members so as not to get harassed about fumbling the prayers and went to get my shoes. I walked up to the rack where I had placed it only minutes ago and searched. And searched. And searched...I slapped my forehead and let out a long "fuuuuuuck" as I acknowledged the horrible fact; my shoes had been stolen. As if I needed anything else to go wrong. And as I stood there staring at the rack, it occurred to me that this might be God's revenge for walking in with my shoes on...
So the situation was horrible, but I had to act quickly because everyone I knew was already leaving the mosque to go to the burial. I decided to go ask for help from a family member other than the one I embarrassed myself in front of. I spotted my nephew outside the mosque and ran up to him barefoot, standing at the edge and waiving to get his attention. He eventually noticed me and came over, I told him what happened and that bastard laughed. When he was done he told me that the only solution was to go into the mosque and ask the caretaker for a spare pare of shoes because there was no time for anything else. I weighed my options and then decided that there wasn't anything else left to do, so I walked in, found the caretaker and in my best Arabic told him what happened. He patted me on the shoulder and apologized (while obviously holding back a laugh) and then disappeared into a small room. He returned a few minutes later...with a monstrosity.
Emotions started running high when they actually put him into the ground, as we all stood around at the burial. People would be sobbing into each others shoulders but then they would glance at me, standing in a classy black Armani suit with bright blue Zico slippers on, and their expression would turn into confusion followed by a giggle. As I stood at the entrance and shook hands with every single member of my family, whom I knew and whom I didn't, with every handshake the person would glance down and give me a strange look. Eventually I shook hands with each person, and told them "I'm sorry for your loss. And these slippers aren't mine." See you all at the next funeral.
