When Mubarak’s father heard that Mubarak had become an atheist, he arranged for Mubarak to see a doctor. The doctor, however, announced that Mubarak was sane and suggested that, if the family were concerned about him, they should pray for him. But Mubarak’s father had other ideas. He arranged for Mubarak to see a second doctor, one who had been carefully selected….
With naïve confidence, I readily agreed to see the doctor. I knew that I was fully sane and did not know that it was a trap. When we got there the doctor said that everyone needed a God. Even in Japan they had a God. He then started writing prescriptions for medication.
There were more arguments. They said I was crazy to say that Adam and Eve never existed, that there were no angels or demons, and that there was no life after death. They went on about blasphemy and about the teaching of Al-Ghazali, the Sunni cleric. They accused me of not saying SAW after mentioning Muhammad. (Whenever this happened my father would look alarmed and bark out “Say PBUH”).
Actual lunatics were trying to declare me mentally ill, but whenever I challenged their arguments, the doctor overruled me. In the end my father put his hands on the doctor’s desk and begged him to help them. I noticed that my family never said, “Help Mubarak”. They always said, “Help us”.
Dr. Mustafa then wrote another prescription (for anti-epileptics) and told me that he was hospitalising me for a month. I followed my family to the ward, but when we got there I saw my father pay out a huge sum for my care and medication. I was painfully aware that he had refused to help me find a job or pay for me to have further education in the UK so that I was idle for a year, becoming an online “nuisance to society”. So I left and went home to pack my things, intending to leave my father’s house.
But I was penniless so I called a friend and asked if I could go and stay with him in Kaduna state. He said he would pick me up at the weekend. I waited and remained vigilant in case of violence. Meanwhile, my father travelled out of the state on some national or Islamic duty, and I was still waiting for my friend when he returned.
The day my father returned I noticed my senior brother readying himself and then two uncles arrived at the house. I took my phone and charger, and went towards the compound gate. But my father called me back for a meeting, and I agreed, thinking he merely wanted an intellectual argument – which I knew I would win.
The moment I entered the parlour I was asked to sit down and my father said, “You must take your prescriptions!” I quietly rose to leave, but my two uncles sprinted in and pounced on me. A struggle started. After a while my father grabbed me tightly round the neck, my uncles held me down, and my brother injected something into my vein.
I started to feel dizzy, but I was able to tell them that what they were doing was wrong and I also managed to say, “I knew you’d do this to me”. I laughed loudly because I thought it was my last day on earth. I assumed they had injected me with some poison and that they intended to bury me quietly, announcing to the world that I had killed myself. I knew people would believe them, their leaders, their honourable men. Then I lost consciousness.
I learned later that my father – as I lay there unconscious – had picked up my phone, opened my Facebook page and declared the Islamic shahada there (the statement of faith). This meant to my followers that I had converted to Islam. He then dropped the phone.
Meanwhile, my uncles put me in a car and drove me to the psychiatric ward. About 48 hours later I woke up…..
(To be continued)