LITMIR.BIZ

      Jamal Orme

      THE ISLAMIC FOUNDATION

      The Victory Boys: Team Spirit

       First Published in 2015 by

      THE ISLAMIC FOUNDATION

       Distributed by

      KUBE PUBLISHING LTD

      Tel +44 (0)1530 249230, Fax +44 (0)1530 249656

      E-mail: [email protected]

      Website: www.kubepublishing.com

      Text copyright © 2015 Jamal Orme

      Artwork copyright © 2015 Kube Publishing

      All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner

      Author Jamal Orme

      Illustrator Eman Salem

      Book design Nasir Cadir

      Cover design Louis McKay

      Editor Yosef Smyth

       A Cataloguing-in-Publication Data record for this book is available from the British Library

      ISBN 978-0-86037-620-0

      eISBN 978-0-86037-680-4

       Dedication

      In the name of God, the Most Gracious, the Most Merciful, May God’s Peace and Blessings be upon His Final Prophet, his family and his noble companions

      For Hamza, Yusuf and Nusaybah, who enjoyed the first And Shahina, who endured the second.

       1

       Latecomer, Newcomer

      Ibrahim was late.

      He pulled his bag over his shoulder and ran at full pelt out of the front door and into the street. A yawning woman was following her toddler out of a shop and had to yank him back by his hood to avoid the little one being flattened.

      ‘Sorry!’ called Ibrahim, half-turning to offer a glimpse of his apologetic smile amid an explosion of black hair. He wished he didn’t have to run. Running wasn’t a part of his game. He was built to score goals. And Ibrahim was certainly well-built for his age.

      No, he generally reserved his running for emergencies – and this was surely one of those. He vividly recalled the warning: ‘If you continue to be late, Ibrahim… you know what the consequences will be, don’t you?’

      He knew. Something too terrible to contemplate. Being excluded from football training – when the tournament was just around the corner.

      That would be a hefty blow.

      ‘OOMPH!’ grunted Ibrahim as, reaching the junction, he was hit suddenly by a cannonball in a coat. His assailant stumbled to his feet. A pair of small, friendly eyes sparkled at Ibrahim from beneath an oversized red woollen hat.

      ‘Junayd!’ he exclaimed, ‘As-salamu ‘alaykum! Hey, be careful, there’s no need to tackle me here!’

      ‘Wa ‘alaykum as-salam,’ chuckled Junayd, as he struggled to drag his larger friend to his feet. ‘Sorry man, I’m rushing – I don’t want the “hairdryer” treatment when we get there.’

      ‘I wouldn’t mention that term. He probably isn’t too familiar with Sir Alex Ferguson. The last thing we need is him blow drying our hair. Come on, race ya.’

      The two sped on, the nippier Junayd holding back a little for Ibrahim’s sake. As they turned the final corner before the mosque, a familiar figure came into view, holding up a pair of garden shears.

      ‘Hello boys!’ called Mr Bateman cheerfully. ‘Haircut anyone?’

      ‘Hi, Mr Bateman!’ smiled Junayd, slowing to a halt. Ibrahim waved and bent over to catch his breath.

      ‘Late again boys?’ enquired the mosque’s friendly neighbour, raising an eyebrow. ‘I suppose my friend the Imam might not be too pleased about that. You’d better improve his mood and tell him that he and Coach Saleem are invited to my house for a cream tea this afternoon.’

      ‘Thanks, Mr Bateman,’ said Junayd. ‘We’ll tell him.’

      Ibrahim momentarily forgot the urgency of his situation and began to picture the cream tea.

      ‘Can I come t…’ he began.

      ‘Come on, Ibrahim,’ interrupted Junayd. ‘We’re late!’

      Imam Munieb’s eyes narrowed as he heard feet stampeding in his direction.

      ‘Ibrahim and Junayd,’ mumbled a voice from the back of the classroom. The Imam pretended he hadn’t heard and turned to stare at the door.

      ‘Ibrahim and Junayd!’ he announced as the door swung open. ‘It is all too predictable!’

      The class sat back in their chairs, preparing for the boys’ scolding. Ibrahim swallowed nervously. He knew what was coming.

      ‘Late again, Ibrahim!’ the Imam went on. ‘I warned you about the consequences, didn’t I?’

      ‘Mr Bateman invited you to his house, Imam!’ interrupted Junayd hopefully. ‘And Coach Saleem! For a cream tea! This afternoon! Er, as-salamu ‘alaykum, Imam,’ he added.

      Imam Munieb could not imagine why anyone would want to pour cream into a perfectly good cup of tea, but it sounded interesting.

      ‘ Wa ‘alaykum as-salam wa rahmatullah,’ he said, trying to maintain a look of annoyance. ‘Sit down boys. I’ll speak to you after class.’

      Junayd sat next to Ali at the back. The only other vacant seat was next to Abdullah directly under Imam Munieb’s watchful eye. Ibrahim gave an internal groan as his friend patted the chair. Ibrahim trudged over to take his place.

      ‘As-salamu ‘alaykum,’ smiled Abdullah as Ibrahim plonked himself into the chair. ‘Fifth time you’ve been late since January, you know. Fourth occasion you’ve been more than five minutes late.’

      ‘Wa ‘alaykum as-salam, Stat-man,’ grumbled Ibrahim. ‘Don’t tell me: One hundred percent of them have been on a Sunday.’

      ‘Well obviously!’ exclaimed Abdullah, failing to notice the sarcasm. ‘We only have madrasah on Sundays…’

      ‘May we continue?’ interrupted the Imam, his patience thinning.

      ‘Sorry, Imam,’ said the boys in unison.

      ‘Thank you,’ he paused. ‘Where was I? Ah, yes. Today, inshallah, we will start with a short reminder, the theme of which is to love for your brother what you love for your…’

      A sharp knock at the door stopped him once more. ‘Yes!’ he called in a somewhat exasperated voice. ‘What is it now? Come in!’

      The door opened and a tall, shaven-headed man stepped into the room. Under his jacket, he wore a sparkling blue Chelsea shirt, which sloped over his belly. Behind the man followed an athletic-looking boy of equal height, also wearing a Chelsea shirt and sports trousers. He glanced coolly at the boys as the man introduced himself.

      ‘Imam Munieb? As-salamu ‘alaykum. I’m Sofiane Zidane. And this is my son, Amir.’

      Imam Munieb rose from his seat to shake Mr Zidane’s outstretched hand.

      ‘Wa ‘alaykum as-salam wa rahmatullah,’ he replied warmly. ‘You are very welcome. And Amir,’ he added, shaking the son’s hand. ‘Are you visiting us?’

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