At home, with his parents, he was Naveedeya! With his old street mates, he was Weedeeboy, but when he threw on a Moroccan jubba, stylish kufi with turban, designer misbaha wrapped around his wrist, and showed up at a mawlid or dhikr gathering, he was transformed into ‘Sidi Noweed’… And suddenly everybody else turned into Sidi this and Sidi that, and Sitta this and Sitta that… It was as if the honorific title, Sidi, drenched his name and identity into a pool of spiritual coolness!

And the ‘Sidi Noweed’ persona was hilariously at odds with the ‘Naveedeya’ and the ‘Weedeeboy’. Naveediya was often scolded by his dad for not being helpful, or taking an interest in the family taxi firm, and he was reprimanded by his mother for not taking an interest in his pretty cousin in Pakistan. Then, in front of his teenage younger sisters, he was Weedboy. He was an ogre to them, whilst they were jackals to him:

“Where you going dressed like that? You on a kuffar ting or somethink?” He would growl, regarding their designer headscarves and tight jeans.

“O shut up, Weedboy! Before we tell mum that your stuff you sniff is not oud from Yemen…”

“Snakes!”

“Hypocrite!”

Then, out on the street, he might come across his childhood mates, like Raz, Maz, and Taz.

“Yes, Weedee man! Wot uz up to? You comin to Taz’s place for Call of Duty?”

“Nah, sorry man, I’m doin some nasheed practice today.”

“A’ go on Maulvi Saab! Sorry, we mean, Sidi Noweed!”

And that’s what he became a few hours later, surrounded by an array of nationalities and converts, in a quaint zawiya on the other side of town. Sidi Noweed was a different breed to Naveediya and Weedeeboy. When he became the Sidi, his eyes radiated with piety, he only spoke of spiritual matters, he played the duff and sang with such gusto and fire! So much so, that he was quite a hit with one or two of the sisters, who would sigh and say: “Hmmmm, that Sidi Noweed, such a radiant, blessed brother, masha Allah, masha Allah!”

Then he would bid salaam to all the Sidis and Sittas and post a spiritual tweet on Twitter through his pseudonym, Natural Saalik. And off he would go home, back to Naveediya and Weedboy!

But one fateful day, it all came to a head… And no weed could save him…

Sidi Noweed was basking in the presence of a couple of sisters, in a beautiful Moroccan café- the type that none of his mates would ever attend. The sisters had coyly asked him to read through some qasidas to get the pronunciation right, and he, full of blessings and radiance, was more than happy to oblige! Masha Allah! The stunning light and dark eyes and elegant ways of his audience had absolutely nothing to do with it!

So, Sidi Noweed had turned up dressed in his finest jubba, crested with a pristine turban, embellished with a fine, polished misbaha around his neck, and scented with an irresistible musk. And as he read the qasidas to these sisters, sitting outside on this beautiful day, in this top-notch neighbourhood, they looked into his eyes, and he smiled at the attention, and all they could feel was masha Allah! Masha Allah! And that is what the sisters proclaimed to him: “Sidi Noweed, masha Allah, masha Allah!” He found it so sweet; just the way they pronounced it piqued his delight- Sidi Noweed- such sweetness, such wonder, mash Allah!

But it was when he got to this line that suddenly the Sidi started to crumble within:

“Laakin tawwahamu gharihi yakhfaabihi”.

He was just about to enunciate it the way he had heard, when suddenly some familiar voices invaded the air:

“Yes Weedeeboy! I see, I see!” He turned to see a shining black kitted BMW and his friends spilling out of the windows with wide grins. “Can’t come out today?… I see, Weedeeboy!”

The sisters regarded the leering faces and clouds of smokes rising out of the tinted windows. Sidi Noweed, or should we say, Weedeeboy just sat there, frozen, stunned, like a rabbit staring at a truck’s full beam before being splatted!

The car stood there opposite the café. The sisters were getting uncomfortable.

“Er, Sidi, do you know them? I think they’re calling you…”

Sidi Noweed, whose Sidiness was beginning to melt inwardly and outwardly smiled nervously: “Oh, they’re just some guys I know- just some jokers. Don’t worry.”

And with that, Sidi Noweed strode up to the car.

“Listen,” he whispered bitterly to Taz in the front passenger seat, “what da hell are you guys doing? These are my friends from the zawiya you idiots…”

The lads started howling: “Oh dear, is our ‘Sidi’ brother getting angry… Just coz we caught you with some ‘sisters’” And they all formed speech marks with their fingers.

Sidi Noweed looked back at the perturbed sisters. He smiled radiantly, then turned to his mates, growling under his breath.

“Look, lads, please, just give me break…”

“Okay, Sidi Weedee! We’ll let you serenade your sisters with some qasidas! See ya later!”

And with a long loud beep, they screeched off. Sidi Noweed shuddered with irritation before returning to the sisters, aiming to salvage this promising situation.

“Everything okay sidi?” They asked.

“Alhamdulillah…” He remarked. “Shall we carry on?”

They smiled, understandingly, took a sip of the perfect Moroccan tea and cakes, and then waited for the next line:

“Laakin tawwahumu gharihi yakhfaabihi”.

Once again, he was just about to enunciate these lines, when another voice filled the air, and this time Sidi Noweed really and truly fell into a mire of despair.

“Naveedeyaaa!”

It was his father; and he was angry, proper furious….

“Naveedeyaa! I’ve been looking for you everywhere. What the hell are you doing here? You were supposed to come with me to the council for that meeting I told you about?” Then his father regarded Naveedeyaa’s friends, his eyes clouding, and he apologized: “I am sorry to disturb your gathering, but I need to speak to my son.”

The sisters, rather awkwardly remarked: “Er Sidi Noweed, we can continue this later…”

Father scoffed: “Acha! Sidi Noweed… What is this ‘Sidi’ Noweed?”

And now the sisters’ awkwardness shifted into a deep disturbance, as they saw the essential ire and bitterness in Sidi Noweed’s eyes. Now they saw a different face.

“You are embarrassing me dad. You are shaming me up in front of my friends…” The radiance had departed; the sidiness had washed away, and now all they saw was a rather petulant child, which disturbed the sisters even more. Horrified and rather sympathetically, they bid their salaams, and made a quick exit from the café.

“Thanks dad.” Fumed Sidi Noweed, feeling the misbaha tightening around his wrist and his turban suddenly weighing him down. And he marched off, ignoring his father’s pleas to return: “Naveedeyaa!”

As he marched onwards, with no apparent destination, he shed the turban, pocketed the misbaha, and felt the shame cloud over his head and mind. He would now be a laughingstock amongst the sisters and the zawiya, he thought. He would never be able to show his face there anymore. He was no longer a sidi….

Then his mind’s eye was assaulted with manifesting forms and words: “Naveedeyaa! Weedeeboy! Sidi Noweed….” The beautiful smiles but then the utter disappointment of the sisters; his father’s accusatory eyes; his mates impish grins. He just wanted to disintegrate into a mound of dust and be crushed and hardened into a bead of a misbaha.

He suddenly remembered the line he was about to read to the sisters:

“Laakin tawwahumu gharihi yakhfaabihi”.

And he also remembered the translation: “But the delusions of otherness veil (seekers) from Him….”

Delusions…. Sidi Noweed… Weedeeboy…. Naveedeyaa…

The shame consumed him mercilessly and would not let go. He felt like he would explode.

The only place that could save him was a cute little corner house mosque, where an ancient man had just entered.

Sidi Noweed rushed towards it, entered, performed wudu, and buried his face and eyes into a prostration. The tears flowed. Inwardly, he spoke:

“Ya Allah- I don’t know who I am anymore and who I belong to… I wear these masks, but there is nothing, no substance underneath them…. I don’t know what to do. Please help me…” He wept some more. There was no one else in this tiny mosque, except for the old man, who sat in contemplation.

Sidi Noweed arose from his prostration and sighed deeply. The old man spoke in broken English:

“Is everything okay young man?”

Sidi Noweed’s filter system had broken down. He now spoke what was inside his heart: “I don’t know who I am anymore… My whole life is a lie…”

The old man seemed to smile, picked up a Quran, patted Sidi Noweed on the head and gave him the book: “Wonderful! Now you are ready to begin. Read verse 16 chapter 50.”

Sidi Noweed wiped his eyes and found the page in the Quran. And it read: “And We have already created man and know what his soul whispers to him, and We are closer to him than [his] jugular vein.”

Sidi Noweed looked up at the old man and smiled in appreciation. And the old man’s words soothed him: “To Him do we belong…. And to Him we will return….”

NOTES:

“Laa kin Tawwahamu ghairihi yakhfa bihi” from the Diwan of Shaykh Muhammad Ibn Al Habib, Allah bless him: Qasida: Roohee Tuhadiththunee”