The Branch on the Path

Hamza was staying at Nani's house in Bradford for the weekend. All night, the wind whooshed and howled, rattling the windows and banging the gate.

By Saturday morning, the storm had blown itself out. The sky was washed clean and the air smelled of wet leaves as Hamza and Nani set off down the hill to his Quran class at the masjid.

Hamza jumped in three puddles. Then he stopped.

Right across the pavement lay an enormous branch, snapped off the hawthorn tree by the bus stop and covered in spiky little thorns. Next to it, all over the paving stones, lay a broken bottle, smashed into sharp, shiny pieces.

A man talking on his phone squeezed past it without looking up. A jogger hopped round it. A lady with a pushchair had to bump down into the road, where the cars went swishing past, and bump back up again.

Hamza stepped round it too. "Come on, Nani," he said. "We'll be late."

But Nani didn't move. "Hamza," she said, "who's going to clear this up?"

Hamza shrugged. "Somebody."

"Everybody who walks past is thinking that," said Nani. "And so it's still here."

She looked at the branch for a moment. "Do you know, the Prophet ﷺ told us about a man who was walking along a road. He found a thorny branch lying in the way, and he moved it. And Allah thanked him for it, and forgave him."

Hamza's eyes went wide. "Allah thanked him? For moving a branch?"

"For moving a branch," said Nani. "Allah is the Most Appreciative. He was pleased with what the man did, and He rewarded him. Even small good deeds matter to Allah."

Hamza looked at the branch. "Let's move it, then!" he said. Then he looked at the jagged glass. "But the glass is sharp."

"Glass is a grown-up job," said Nani firmly. "Your job is the branch."

They popped into Mr Akhtar's corner shop to borrow a dustpan and brush. Hamza stood well back by the wall, hands in his pockets, while Nani swept up every last tiny piece. Mr Akhtar took the glass inside, to wrap it up safely for the bin.

"Hold the thick end, where there are no thorns," said Nani, pulling on her winter gloves. "I'll take the prickly end."

"Bismillah," said Hamza. "One, two, three… heave!"

The branch was heavy and wet, and it scraped and rustled along the pavement. Raindrops showered onto Hamza's nose. His arms ached, but bit by bit they dragged it onto the grass, well out of everyone's way.

Just then, a little girl came whizzing down the hill on a red scooter, right over the spot where the glass had been. She didn't slow down. She didn't even notice.

"She doesn't know we did anything," said Hamza.

Nani squeezed his hand. "Allah knows," she said. "That's all that matters."

They washed their hands at the masjid and got to class just in time.

That night, the wind was quiet. As Nani tucked him in, Hamza thought about the girl on the scooter, zooming safely down the hill. He thought about the man on the road, long, long ago, and the thorny branch he moved out of the way.

Hamza's arms still felt a little achy. But inside, he felt light, like a balloon floating gently up.

"Nani," he whispered, "tomorrow I'm going to look out for things in the way."

Nani smiled and switched off the lamp. "Goodnight, my little helper," she said.

And outside, the street lay clear and still under the stars, waiting for morning.