| Imran Adebayo Ibrahim |

Head on the prayer-mat, I wept into it. I was on sajda yet, the connection I ought to feel while praying wasn't there anymore — it was as if the line connecting me and my faith had been severed somehow.

The progress I'd made by moving on from my father's death came crashing down and I was back to square-one. All I could ever think about was how I lost my father, I sometimes hear his voice in my sleep — my father, someone I cherished — became my sleep paralysis demon. And, frankly, I began to prepare myself for yet another loss. I began grieving my mother before she was gone.

My coping mechanism was to prepare for the worst before it came: like those doomsday preppers on TV.

After saying the final tashahud  I concluded the prayer. I was still seated on the prayer-mat, facing the qibla diligently. In my eyes, a hint of tears could be observed, it pricked me sending an itching wave of pain to my brain, but I dismissed it.

Saying a Dua was hard for me, my mouth was sealed against my own will. Allah has shown my family nothing but pain despite the prayers I've been saying since I was a feeble baby, what difference would it make if I said a new one now. With a heavy heart, I cleared and folded the mat, getting ready for school.

At 8:45, I got ready for school. I was far from late since school begins at 8:00. I have never been late to school before, but after my mother, Zayd and Jamal came back from the hospital that day, my mother had been distant, she always stayed indoors — making the realization struck me. I tried to convince myself my mother's cancer was just a figment of my imagination, but her sulking for the past four days made it real. She was indeed dying, and there's nothing I could do to help.

So before school, I summoned my courage to go see my mother. Standing in front of her room's door, my feeble heart began to betray me, tears started welling up in my eyes as I imagined what state I'd meet my mother. Hesitantly, I outstretched my hands to knock on the door but was interrupted by my stepfather's voice.

"Baby, Imran is a disturbed kid, yeah, but I don't think he needs to see a therapist, besides, we don't have the money — the money I've got would barely suffice for your chemo." I heard my stepfather silent-yelling from inside. They had never argued about anything since we moved, the things cancer does.

My mother tutted loudly, "I know I always say Nigerians are strong and independent, but I'm so engrossed in Nigerian stupid myths that I forgot what my son actually needs. He needs help." My mother spoke.

Her saying that, sends waves of pain into my heart. I felt betrayed instantly, she is one of the three special people that guaranteed me nothing was wrong with me, and here she was, ready to throw her money for treatment away for me to get help. Waiting at the doorstep would just worsen my situation, as I would hear what I wasn't supposed to.

"—The poor boy lost his father three years ago and now, he found out he might lose his mother, yet you say he does not need help?" My mother added that inquiry and it struck my already shattered heart like a lightning.

"The boy doesn't need any weirdo psychoanalyzin' his brain, what he needs most is his ma." Jamal frantically whispered, all his efforts to be silent were futile. His concern about me was absolutely fake, he was more concerned about his money.

"Don't worry about the money Jamal, I'll pay the therapist from his trust fund." My mother spat.

Jamal's surprise was audible as he scoffed rhythmically. "That money is for Imran's college, we are not using it."

"Well, the last time I checked, depressed kids don't make it to uni." My mother spat and that was the last straw.

Storms began brewing inside my head. I was hella vexed, I was eager to throw the door open in an heroic manner, to announce my presence and make them cower like the hypocrite they were. As I turned the doorknob, I heard someone call my name from downstairs.

"Imran man, let's go, we're already late." Zayd yelled from downstairs.

"I'm coming." I finally said, announcing my presence. Upon hearing my voice the room became silent, no one dared to break the solace. My stepfather whispered something I couldn't quite comprehend to my mother.

But, I'd heard enough. I've had enough.

My mother thinks I'm crazy, the first girl I've ever loved and might probably have a chance to leave me angrily and my best friend is in love with me. That was too much for me to handle.

* * *

"I handed your permission slips to the class captain, and they'll be distributed to each of you after I leave," Mr. Breckley's voice pulled me back to the classroom. "Make sure you get them signed by tomorrow. If your slip is missing a signature, you won't be allowed to go to the science museum. And no funny business; I don't want any fake signatures, Omar and co," he added, glaring at Omar, which made the whole class chuckle.

With a slumped posture, I dropped my head on my desk, drumming the desk's surface with my finger. The last thing I needed at that moment was a field trip, with a bunch of morons in my class.

"Imran Raymond, please report to the principal's office, Imran Raymond please report to the principal's office —" Mrs. Turner's voice could be heard from our classroom's PA system.

"Ooh ooh." My classmate chorused, everyone's gaze was on me.

Chris stood up, applauding me. "Yo dawg, you've got balls. Respect." He said and all I could do was roll my eyes.

"Mr. Okafor, please sit down," Mr. Breckley cautioned Chris and he took his seat, hesitantly that is, he turned to me, "Imran, it seems his highness needs you at his palace, you don't want to keep the king waiting — am I right?" Mr. Okafor said, grinning and waiting for us to laugh at his cheap joke.

"You didn't see what I did there, I'm referring to the principal as the king—" Mr. Breckley tried to explain his sarcasm but I cut him short.

"I know sir. Mr. Morales is the king and his office is the palace." I snapped at him, my brows furrowed. "Oh god, can you just take a hint even though it hit you on the face?" I inquired silently on my way out. He heard me alright — they all did as they babbled into a loud laughter.

Like a zombie, I staggered to the principal's office. Opening the door gently I was welcomed by Mr. Morales, Ms. Turner and a new face that I haven't seen before. I knew all the staff at Midtown High because sometimes I tend to eat in the staff room. The woman that sat in front of Mr. Morales wasn't any of our teachers, the thought of her being a new recruit or a substitute teacher crossed my mind, but she was too dressed to be a teacher — she looked like a model.

"Salaam." I'd forgotten I wasn't at home, so I greeted them using Arabic. "Hello," I corrected, shutting the door and walking to Mr. Morales.

"Ah. . . Mr. Raymond. Have your seat." Mr. Morales said, gesturing for me to sit down. I took my seat next to the model-lady.

"Hi Ms. Turner." I greeted the busy old lady, waving at her and she returned my gesture with a smile, despite her tiredness.

"So, Imran, this is Miss Johnson." Mr. Morales introduced the woman to me.

Miss Johnson turned to me, with a toothy grin. She had wrinkles around her eyes from the grin. Her liveliness seeped from her smile, her brown skin sparkled with the layer of foundation on her skin. "Oh, call me Charlene," she said, extending her slender hands for a handshake.

I do not shake the opposite gender's hand, but for her I made an exception. The thought of me getting into trouble by rejecting her hand shake made me take her hand.

"Mrs. Charlene Johnson works at the community center, she got both her bachelor and master's degree in Counselling and Psychology from Harvard, and she just concluded her PhD in NYU." Mr. Morales, mesmerized by Charlene's achievement, went all Hail-Mary on her.

It took me some while to figure out what was going on.

"Your parents called, boy were they concerned 'bout your well-bein'." Mr. Morales said and I knew where the conversation was heading to at that moment.

Miss Charlene Johnson was my therapist.

"So, I brought it to their attention that I know of a professional." He explained, turning to Charlene and smiling at her, "so, Miss Johnson is your therapist." He finally unleashed the bombshell.

I said nothing but sighed deeply. I'd officially gone out of my mind.

"You'll have your session after your Chemistry classes, it's just for forty-five minutes." Mr. Morales said and I couldn't say anything.

That's a whole period. I would have to miss AP Spanish for my so-called session; it's not as if I enjoyed learning Gracias and Tu quiero. But anything would be better than sitting in an empty classroom, facing a spiteful woman — not to talk of telling her my secrets — not a chance in hell.

"Imran. . . Boy," Mr. Morales slapped the back of my head, "are you even listening?"

The smack jolted me out of my thoughts. "Yes, sir," I replied.

"Imran, you're a handsome young man. It will be nice working with you," she said with a somewhat unsettling cheerfulness.

I stood up and stretched my legs. "I'll be sure to put that on my schedule—" I simply said, "—can I go now?" I added.

"Yeah, boy. Go back to class. Sorry for pulling you out like that," Mr. Morales said, patting my back as I left.

"Imran," Charlene called from behind, making me turn. "I can't wait for us to start our sessions," she said cheerfully.

"Ditto," I replied before exiting the office.

Author's Note

A therapist? What next, a stress monkey?

Glossary

1. Sajda: is a step in the Muslim prayer that means prostration.

2. Tashahud: is a prayer said by Muslims to conclude every prayer.

3. Qibla: is the direction a Muslim faces when praying.

4. Dua: a short prayer.

5. Gracias and Tu quiero: means Thank You and I Love You in Spanish.