The first call comes before the sun.
A voice, deep and unwavering, rises through the silence of the dawn. It soars above the rooftops, floats through the open windows, and stirs the stillness of the night.
Allahu Akbar… Allahu Akbar…
God is great. God is great.
I open my eyes. The air is cool, thick with the scent of earth and lingering embers from last night's fire. The wooden beams above me glow faintly in the moonlight, but beyond the walls of my father's house, the world is waking.
Hayya 'ala-s-salah… Come to prayer.
I sit up and swing my feet onto the cool floor. My limbs are heavy with sleep, but duty is stronger than drowsiness. A Muslim's life is discipline. A Muslim's life is prayer.
The water from the clay pot is crisp against my skin as I perform wudu, the cleansing ritual. Hands. Mouth. Nose. Face. Arms. Head. Ears. Feet. Each step washing away impurity, renewing me before I stand before Allah.
Wrapped in my white kaftan, I step outside. The sky is still dark, but a thin sliver of silver rests on the horizon. The minaret looms in the distance, its silhouette a guardian against the coming dawn.
I walk to the mosque in silence.
The streets are empty, save for a few men moving in the same direction. Some shuffle slowly, rubbing the last remnants of sleep from their eyes. Others walk with steady purpose.
Inside the mosque, the air is filled with the soft murmurs of prayer. Men stand shoulder to shoulder, their heads bowed, their voices blending in sacred unison. The imam's voice is steady, deep, unwavering.
Alhamdulillahi rabbil 'alamin…
Praise be to Allah, Lord of all the worlds.
I close my eyes, letting the verses flow over me like water. There is peace in this. In submission, in rhythm, in the certainty of knowing that all things begin and end with Him.
We bow. We kneel. We press our foreheads to the earth.
Sujood. The moment of absolute surrender.
For a breath, there is nothing but stillness. No thoughts. No shadows. Just the presence of God.
---
My father's house is a house of Qur'an and prayer.
The walls hum with verses, the echoes of recitations from my childhood still lingering in the air. Baba is a scholar, a man of knowledge and devotion. His mornings begin with prayer and end with prayer. Between them, he reads, he teaches, he debates with other men who seek wisdom.
I sit with him after Fajr, our palms wrapped around steaming cups of kunu.
"The Qur'an is the rope that keeps a man from drifting," he tells me. "Without it, he is lost. Like a traveler wandering the desert, searching for water he will never find."
I nod, sipping the warm, spiced drink. I have heard these words before. I know them well. They are the foundation upon which I have built my life.
And yet… something in me hesitates.
Baba notices.
His dark eyes settle on me, sharp beneath his bushy brows. "You are quiet today, Nasir."
I force a small smile. "Just tired."
He watches me for a moment longer, then nods. But I know he does not believe me.
---
In the quiet of midday, I sit beneath the neem tree outside our home, the wooden misbaha beads slipping between my fingers.
Each bead is a name. A prayer. A remembrance of Allah's greatness.
SubhanAllah… Glory be to God. Alhamdulillah… Praise be to God. Allahu Akbar… God is great.
I whisper the words over and over, letting them fill the space inside me. A space that, lately, has begun to feel empty.
I do not understand it. My faith is strong. My prayers are sincere.
And yet… I feel as though I am standing on the edge of something vast and unseen.
Something waiting.
Something watching.
---
On Fridays, the streets come alive.
Men don their finest kaftans, their perfumes rich with oud and musk. The air is thick with the scent of roasting suya and freshly baked bread. The marketplace is a river of voices, laughter, and the bartering of goods, but as the noon hour approaches, all movement shifts toward one direction:
The mosque.
Inside, the voices fall to whispers. The imam ascends the minbar and silence stretches over the crowd.
"My brothers," he begins, "fear Allah, and know that this life is but a passing shadow. True success is not found in wealth or status, but in righteousness and submission."
The sermon washes over me, his words familiar and steady.
I close my eyes, breathing in the scent of prayer mats and aged wood.
And yet… beneath the calm, something lingers.
A flicker of unrest. A whisper of doubt.
If I have everything I need, why does it feel as if something is missing?
---
At dusk, I stand outside and watch the horizon burn.
The sky is a canvas of fire, streaked with orange, pink, and deepening purple. The crescent moon hangs above the minaret, glowing soft and steady.
Between the minaret and the moon. That is where I stand.
In faith, in certainty, in a world I have always known.
And yet… somewhere beyond the horizon, something calls to me.
Not loudly. Not forcefully.
But like a whisper carried by the wind.
A whisper I do not yet have the words to understand.