Jamal
The second khutbah comes to an end, and people immediately get on their feet. Some head towards the ablution centres, others waiting behind for the salat to start.
I rest my back against the wall, reflecting on the sermon that the imam just concluded.
"Salamualaikum brother," a voice says beside.
"Wa alaikum salam," I reply, turning sideways to see who'd greeted me.
The young man offers a smile, looking a bit awkward and uncomfortable.
"Is it okay if I borrow your phone to make a call? Mine's dead and I need to deliver an important message."
"Uhm, alright." I retrieve the phone from my pocket and stretch it out to him. "The prayer is about to start soon though."
"I'll be really quick," he replies, shifting away to give himself some privacy.
"Where do I find the..." He trails off, fiddling with the screen. "Oh, never mind. I've found it."
He types the number on the keypad, before pressing the phone to his ear.
His words get lost in the noise of people conversing as they mill into the mosque for the prayer. By the time I return my gaze to him, he's already ended the brief call.
"Thank you so much for your help. The person isn't going to call back, and I deleted the number so he won't trouble you."
He returns the phone back to me, and goes on his way, getting lost amongst the congregation.
The iqaamah stops me from processing the awkward interaction that just occurred, putting all my attention on the prayer.
"Allahu Akbar," the imam begins, and the entire mosque goes silent as he recites sura Al-Fatiha, evoking a spiritual feeling that leaves me awed.
The salat ends with the tasleem, after which du'as are recited and everyone disperses, leaving those taking the weekly Quran classes.
I walk over to the brothers I'm learning with, and get informed that there will be no lessons for the day due to the ustadh falling ill. I make du'a for him, praying for his quick recovery as I find my way outside to the car park.
Considering my options of heading to the office or going to Imran's, I decided on the latter, using the opportunity to pay a visit to the small family.
The drive to Imran's takes only a couple of minutes to cover, and soon enough, I'm parking in front of their home.
Their front door opens, revealing a cute baby Asiyah dressed in purple, her hand held firmly in her mother's. Imran comes out last and locks the door behind him.
"Oh, salamualaikum Jamal," Huda greets, her voice drifting through the dark face veil and catching the attention of her husband.
Imran turns around and smiles, giving his own salam.
"What brings you here?" He enquires, sliding a brightly coloured baby bag off Huda's shoulder.
Nadia's absence pricks me, and I wonder if I'd made the mistake of rushing here without calling to know if she's still with Huda.
"It seems I came at a wrong time, I thought Nadia would be at your place, and so I decided to stop by as well."
"She went to the store immediately she got your text," Huda supplies, trying to stop Asiyah from crawling on the ground.
"My text?" I repeat, finding her words hard to believe. "I never sent her any text." I take out my phone and tap the call icon, not missing the look Huda shares with Imran.
"I'll call her to know where she is," I say, expecting to hear Nadia's voice. Instead, I get an unwanted response from the network operator saying that her number is switched off.
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Our Stormy Ride
Spiritual#1 Ar-Rahma Series Their names were written down together long before the universe had been created. Life throws them at each other. They collide. An arranged marriage. Their Stormy Ride. For Nadia Ali, life was just as ordinary as a plain white cl...
