3. 𝑾𝒉𝒚 𝒐𝒏 𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒉 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒘𝒆 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒏𝒆𝒓?

My eyes fluttered open as someone shook my shoulder persistently, the words 'Halimah wake up' echoing through my drowsy mind. Ignoring them, I hoped to cling to the last remnants of sleep. But my hope was shattered when my blanket was ripped away from my body exposing me to the morning chill and raising goosebumps on my skin.

Grumbling, I muttered a disgruntled "What?" and squinted my eyes open to find Abu standing over me, his face marred by visible drool marks. It wasn't a pleasant sight to wake up to.

"It's almost Fajr Prayer, and you know how mum gets," he mumbled, still half-asleep, before shuffling away.

My eyes shot open wide in alarm as I bolted upright, almost giving myself whiplash in the process. In a rush, I made my way to the bathroom to perform ablution. I didn't want a repeat of the last time, when Mum had resorted to drenching me with a whole bucket of water. Apparently, I had slept through her wake-up calls for thirty minutes straight, and she felt she had no other choice, when I could think of alot less drastic measures. My bed had been soaked, and I had to sleep in the guest room for days. Never again.

Even though I was sleepy and wanted to go back to bed, this was a priority. The first prayer of the day.

As Muslims, we have five daily prayers. There's one at dawn, another in the afternoon, a third in the evening, a fourth just after sunset, and the last one at night. The specific prayer times depend on your location, but these five daily acts of worship are a fundamental part of our faith. It's a small way to show our gratitude and devotion to the One who blesses us with health, wealth, protection from the seen and unseen, and countless other blessings. Praying these five times a day feels like the least we can do to express our thanks.

I hurriedly made my way to the bathroom to perform my ablution before my mother's outburst. The routine was familiar, so I performed it swiftly yet efficiently, knowing that time was of the essence. Afterward, I rushed downstairs to our prayer room and found my place behind the males.

Let's clear something up: this isn't a derogatory practice. In Islamic prayer, men often lead, and women follow behind. It's a matter of organization, not inequality. Sadly, there's a widespread misconception that Islam diminishes the role of women, but the truth is quite the opposite.

In our faith, men are our protectors, and women are highly respected and valued. It's a religion that has elevated women's status and safeguards their rights. I'm incredibly grateful for my faith, Alhamdulilah.

Standing in prayer, the drowsiness that had clung to me earlier began to disappear as I listened to the soothing and melodious recitation of the Holy Qur'an by my father. His voice was beautiful, and I couldn't help but hope that my future husband would recite just as beautifully.

After completing Salah, we spent some time reading the Qur'an before dispersing. My brother and I headed back upstairs, while our parents remained downstairs, as was their post-morning prayer routine.

-

I was in shock as I locked eyes with my father, who wore an air of casualness as though his recent statement were normal.

"Why on earth are we heading over there for dinner?" I finally asked after a long silence.

Dad met my questioning gaze and replied, "You know that, despite your tension with our neighbors next door, I've grown a deep friendship with Adam."

This was true. Despite the strained relations with females of our neighboring family, my father and Uncle Adam, who happened to be Mrs. Colsey's husband, shared a friendship that had stood the test of time. It began in their primary school days in Iran and had continued through the years. Yes that long.

Mr. Adam Musa, born in a small West African country, had relocated to Iran at a young age, immersing himself in the local culture to the point of fluently speaking Persian. Although his family eventually moved to the United States during his junior school years, the friendship between him and my father persisted. When our family relocated to the United States, they resumed their tradition of regular meetings and quality time together.

It was honestly so cute when the Musa family moved in next door, with the coming and going between our households. I can still recall from a young age always seeing Uncle Adam in the living room with my father. This practice had continued , even more so after the accident when he would come almost daily to keep my father company during his bedrest. It is a beautiful friendship truly.

That said, I can't deny my lack of enthusiasm for tonight's gathering.

"Why me? It's going to be incredibly awkward in there, Dad. Why must I go?" I groaned, not eager to experience an uncomfortable dinner when I could have been tucked away in my room with a good book.

"Please, try to be civil, for my sake. He just returned from a trip and has brought someone special," my father said, a glint of excitement in his eyes. Someone special? What does that have to do with me?

Expressing my reluctance to go was useless. My father knew I'd never turn him down, which explained the small smile he wore even before I gave my answer. "Fine," I conceded with a sigh.

-

And now, the age-old outfit dilemma.

It's just next door; I could technically wear my indoor attire. However, now that I know a 'special' guest would be joining, the thought of appearing like a complete slob didn't sit well with me. But why did I even care? It wasn't as if this 'special someone' would have any impact on my life. This will probably be the first and last time I'd lay eyes on them.

I stood before my wardrobe, selecting the first abaya that met my gaze. It was a flowing, black abaya. This abaya has been my go to, so I'll go with that.

As I slide into the abaya, once again the dress , soft and flowing, drapes around my frame, creating a silhouette that conceals the contours of my body.

I gently fasten the small hidden buttons along the front, securing the abaya in place. Abayas. A garment that doesn't scream for attention but instead gives off a sense of serenity and humility.

With the abaya in place, I continue with my dressing routine. I select a matching niqab, an essential piece of my attire. As I position it over my head, I made sure my kohl-lined eyes are visible, framed by the fine mesh that veils my face. The niqab allows me to engage with the world while preserving my sense of privacy, a delicate balance of visibility and discretion.

Lastly, I wrap my headscarf, or hijab, neatly around my face and fasten it securely.

I walked down the stairs, where everyone was preparing to leave.

"I'll push Baba, Mom," I volunteered as I approached my father, taking hold of his wheelchair handle as we made our way outside, carefully going down the pavement.

"Remember, best behavior, alright?" My father's soft words came as he patted my left hand resting on his shoulder.

"Yes, Dad," I replied with a sickly-sweet tone.

-

With every beat of my heart, I willed myself to stop staring , to lower my gaze, to keep my thoughts pure. The struggle was real as my curiosity fought hard against my self-restraint.

My eyes couldn't help but stray to the stranger.

He possessed an exotic allure, a blend of Mrs. Colsey and Uncle Adam's roots, definitely the reason for his striking appearance. Tall and well-built, his presence emanated strength. He had soft waves of dark chocolate hair that cascaded almost to his shoulders.

His emerald eyes were captivating, and I couldn't help but admire their deep, enchanting green hue, accentuated by luscious eyelashes. His face was a masterpiece with high, chiseled cheekbones, a perfectly proportioned nose, and two toned lips that seemed to be crafted by an artist. And it was, for Allah is the shaper of beauty.

"MashaaAllah," I whispered softly to myself as I looked down again, unable to contain my admiration. It was jealousy mixed with awe, a mix of emotions I couldn't understand at the moment.

I dared to glance up again, only to find him gazing back at me. His intense look made my cheeks flush crimson. I quickly averted my eyes, but my father's sly grin didn't escape my notice. I thank Allah he couldn't see the blush beneath my niqab.

We were just having our dinner minutes before when suddenly, the door connecting the dining room to the hallway burst open, and there he stood—a vision with damp hair, fresh from a shower. Could this be the special someone my father had mentioned? He was something special alright.

Hassan.

Uncle Adam introduced him with everyone, My heart fluttered as he proceeded to exchange greetings with others at the table, with me being the last person. As I greeted Hassan with "Assalamu Alaikum," he replied in kind with a soft "Wa Alaikum Salam."

I couldn't help but marvel at his British accent, which lent a velvety richness to his already deep voice. It was a combination that held an allure of its own, making everything about him more perfect.

Astaghfirullah, have some haya halimah!

Hassan sat on the only available seat, right across from me. The dinner was no longer just a mundane family gathering; it had taken an unexpected turn. As an inexperienced young woman, I couldn't help but worry about the impending awkwardness of interacting with this stranger.

I held onto the hope that I wouldn't embarrass myself in front of him. After all, this might be the only time I'd ever see him. My gaze remained lowered, my niqab concealing my feelings, as I braced myself.

Ya Allah help me.

~

Our lovebirds met even though they don't know they're lovebirds yet😂.

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