** Endurance is born when determination walks hand in hand with surrender; the long-distance runner bends to the wind, yet never loses sight of the horizon. **
__________.
** Nur Afiya, Seven Years Ago
________.
The late sun dipped behind the mosque domes, laying gold across the rooftops like a whispered ayah, soft, but impossible to ignore.
Jamal trailed a few steps behind Jamila and Almeida, Qur'an bag bouncing at his side, thumb tracing the strap in quiet rhythm. Usual routine every evening after madrasa.
The air carried jasmine, suya, and the hush of something unseen, like barakah leaving a place slowly.
They'd just left madrasa. Hafiz Zubair's voice still rang in their heads:
"The women who turned to sin and prostituting only did so after losing ḥayā. And the men who allowed it? Allah is watching."
It was from Surah Maryam. About, False blame. Public shame. The pain of purity misunderstood.
Jamila scoffed. "Next time we close this late, I'm growing wings instead."
Jamal smiled faintly. "Or grow patience instead."
"Jamal and his sermons," Almeida muttered, making the final turn toward her street. "Always on beat."
The road ahead shimmered in twilight; violet stretching into gold. A boy chased a tire. An elderly woman grilled maize near the junction. The air tasted like memory.
Almeida pushed open the compound gate.
Jamila held it wide, turning to Jamal. "You're coming in, right?"
Jamal hesitated.
"Just got a new movie," Jamila added. "You'll love it."
The pause wasn't shyness. It was instinct. Learned early.
Home had never been a place that invited peace.
His father had vanished before he ever learned to shave.
His mother; buried five years ago.
His sister, now someone else's responsibility. Married off to the North.
Fawas, his closest brother by spirit, lives in a house ruled by a man too wild to visit more than once a month.
This was what was left.
A house full of noise and women. A soft chaos. A home that wasn't his, but didn't push him out either. They are the closest to a family.
"You're coming in.." Almeida said again, with a tone that left no room for protest. "My mom made Tuwo and Miyan taushe before she left. You don't say no to that."
Jamal blinked. "You had me at tuwo."
She grinned and turned toward the door.
He stepped in behind her.
The gate closed gently behind him.
____________.
Inside, the house breathed warmth. The scent of puff-puff hung in the air, mingling with jasmine from the open window. Light from the chandelier spilled gold across linen.
Mariyah, Almeida's elder sister, sat cross-legged on the rug, munching puff-puffs off a napkin. "You people took forever. I finished one whole documentary waiting."
"You could've boiled water," Almeida said, heading to the kitchen.
"I could've," Mariyah replied, chewing. "But I didn't."
Jamal slid off his sandals and sank into the couch's corner. His corner. Familiar. Quiet. Safe.
A few minutes later, Almeida returned with a tray: puff-puff, chin-chin, tea.
But something else had changed.
Gone was the loose abaya from madrasa. She now wore a grey sleeveless top and black bum shorts. Her scarf was gone. Hair tied up, tendrils falling in whispers.
Jamal blinked. Not because it shocked him. But because this was Almeida. And it felt… deliberate.
Still, it was her house.
She passed him a mug, and her fingers lingered than usual, thumb grazing his knuckle.
He felt it.
Not just the touch, but a shift.
"Jazakillah," he murmured, avoiding her gaze.
She smiled, settling beside him.
"That's your third puff-puff since we came in, Mariyah," Jamila teased from the rug.
"That's your business," she mumbled, mouth full.
Lights dimmed. Jazz bloomed from the speakers. Movie begins.
But Jamal wasn't watching the screen. He was watching the silence settle. Watching the room change.
"You're quiet," Almeida whispered.
"I'm always quiet when I don't know what to say."
"Then let me help you."
She shifted. Her thigh brushing his.
He swallowed.
"I should probably not sit here."
"Why? Afraid I'll bite?" Almeida quipped.
Jamila laughed. "He's doing the turtle thing again."
"What turtle thing?" Jamal asked, feigning confusion.
"Small flirt and you vanish into your shell."
"Leave him," Mariyah smirked. "He's fighting jihad."
"This isn't flirting," Jamal said. "Almeida knows."
"I haven't done anything," Almeida replied.
He tried to laugh. But the air had changed.
Almeida turned to him, "Sometimes love sneaks up on us."
"Sometimes love is Shaitan in makeup," Jamal muttered.
She smiled.
The movie went on. Kisses. Romance. His posture tensed.
"This kind of movie makes you forget your mother's voice," he thought to himself.
Almeida leaned again, elbow grazing him. "Don't act like it's killing you."
"No, it's not. It's distracting."
"Let's not lie," Jamila added "you came for tuwo."
Jamal smiled. "Exactly. Let's stick to that mission."
"Tuwo's after the movie," Almeida said.
"Blackmailing me with food now?"
"And romance," Mariyah added with a wink. "Deadly combo."
He sighed, "Just know, an hungry man is an angry man." then leaned deeper into the couch.
Something felt… off.
The glances. The outfit. The energy.
"They aren't random," his spirit whispered.
But he kept quiet. He was here for the food after all.
An hour passed. The movie ended. Jazz hummed low.
Almeida stood. "I'll get the tuwo now."
"Barakallah," Jamal muttered.
Mariyah checked her phone and stepped out. "Be back soon."
Now it was just Jamal and Jamila in the parlor.
Then Jamila stood. "Let me check on Almeida."
"Tell her to hurry please. Might as well stay a little bit late to say hello to your mom." He smiled and leaned back, breathing deep.
Cornered in comfort. Drenched in suspicion
"Okay... Be right back." she concluded and heads out.
The ache from that damned movie had already planted something restless in him. The soft erotic scenes, the subtle perfume Almeida used that evening, the silence now swallowing the house, everything felt like a trap disguised as comfort.
But he was too tired to fight suspicion.
And like a man lulled by warmth and weariness, he drifted.
Not asleep. Not awake. Somewhere in between.
Eyes shut.
Mind cloudy.
Chest rising and falling like waves against a stone shore.
The television screen dimmed.
The jazz continued.
________.
The scent of puff-puff still lingered.
The jazz on the television had faded into silence.
Jamal stirred, something off,
Not the air. Not the light.
A pressure.
A presence.
Fingers.
Moving silently Inside his undies.
Cold.
Soft.
His breath caught,
His eyes flung open.
And time stalled.
Almeida.
Bent over him, half-unclothed, her grey sleeveless peeled off one shoulder, now drooping low enough to bare more than it concealed. Her thighs pressed against the edge of the couch, and her other hand…
Her other hand held something sacred.
His prayer beads.
Dangling loosely from her fingers like decoration. Like mockery. The same tasbih he'd worn like armor, now stripped from his neck.
His voice cracked.
"Almeida… what are you doing?"
She didn't answer immediately. Her gaze wasn't wild,
It was intentional. Composed. Controlled.
Her lips parted slightly, her chest rising with slow, deliberate breath.
"You're awake," she whispered.
She moved in closer, the faint scent of amber and cloves clinging to her skin. Her knee brushed his thigh.
His heart thundered in his chest.
Not lust. Not even fear.
Panic.
The kind that came when something once familiar turned into a stranger right before your eyes.
"Almeida.. stop. This isn't you."
Her eyes didn't waver.
"Why do you always pretend?" she asked, her voice low and smooth. "You want this. You've always wanted it."
He sat up abruptly, backing into the armrest, his voice rising. Not yet a shout, but loud enough to betray the tremor beneath it.
"No. Don't twist this. You don't get to rewrite me into your fantasy."
She laughed; soft, bitter.
"Fantasy!? you say fantasy? You think we don't see the way you look at us? The way you blush when we tease you?"
She leaned closer. "You play pure, but you're just afraid."
"Afraid of Allah," he snapped.
His body shook now, every nerve awake.
"Almeida, I came here for food, not… this madness."
She tilted her head, smiling faintly.
"You're shaking."
"Because this is wrong!" He hissed. "Because I thought I could trust you."
She stepped forward, in rhythm.
His fists clenched at his sides.
"You don't want it?" she whispered.
He pulled away sharply, heart pounding. "This is madness Almeida. Fear Allah, this isn't.."
"If you don't want it," she said quietly, "I'll scream. I'll tell them you forced me."
Jamal blinked. "What?"
"Don't act like you don't understand how this works," she said, voice low, cruelly calm. "You're older. You're a man. You stayed late. Who do you think they'll believe?"
He stepped back, breath shallow, confusion thickening in his chest. "You wouldn't."
She tilted her head, eyes narrowing. "Wouldn't I?"
The room blurred. He felt heat crawl up his spine. Shame, fear, the sting of betrayal.
Almeida tried to approach again.
Jamal flinched away, heart in his throat. "I said stop, Almeida."
But she stepped forward instead. More confident, more... rehearsed.
"You think you're better than everyone?" she hissed. "You think we don't see how you look at us when you think we're not watching?"
"Fear Allah!" Jamal snapped, louder now, voice rising in protest and panic.
Almeida shouted, "Why are you acting like you don't want it?! Jamila!!" She echoed, Her voice cracking against the walls.
Jamal froze. "Almeida, what are you doing?! Don't do that. Don't twist this event!"
*The door swung open.
Mariyah's eyes scanned the room first. Then Jamila appeared behind her, confusion drawing thin lines across her brow.
"What's going on?" Mariyah asked.
Jamal stepped back in relief, hope clawing its way to the surface.
"Please," he said, voice shaking, "It's. Almeida, she tried to... She touched me in a funny kind of way."
He pointed to her. "You see what she's wearing? I don't think she's herself anymore?!"
But Almeida stood calm now. Composed. Unbothered. Her sleeveless top gone, her body barely veiled by the bum short.
Mariyah looked between them, and for a moment, Jamal saw something shift in her gaze.
He thought. Maybe this is it. Maybe they'll finally see. Maybe I'm safe.
But instead...
Jamila closed the door softly behind her.
Mariyah sighed.
"You're overreacting," she said, walking closer to where Jamal was standing. "It's not like we're strangers here."
Jamila added, "Seriously, Jamal. We were just playing."
"Playing?" His voice cracked. "Is that what this is to you?"
"Don't act like you don't feel things too," Mariyah said, circling the couch. "You're not a robot."
"You stayed. It's something you'll enjoy also," Jamila added, "Don't start pretending now."
Jamal looked between the three of them.
And it hit him,
This wasn't Almeida's idea alone.
The glances during the movie. The teasing. The way Jamila had suddenly left. The strange coordination.
They'd planned this.
Or perhaps, they'd all allowed it.
It was all making sense to him now.
He stepped back, fists clenched. "I asked for food."
Almeida laughed coldly. "And I offered you.. something better."
She pointed to her bare chest, her face daring him. "Isn't this what you really wanted?"
Something inside him broke.
No hunger could justify this.
No loneliness could excuse it.
His soul screamed for escape.
Mariyah's tone shifted; no more flirt, no more teasing.
Just ice.
"If you don't want us to scream rape," she said slowly, deliberately, "and spread it through every corner of Nur Afiya that you came here to defile Almeida…"
Her eyes flicked down, then back up to meet his, calm as a blade.
"…then you'll take care of all our needs tonight."
Jamal blinked.
The words didn't register at first. They couldn't be real.
His gaze darted from Mariyah to Jamila to Almeida.
But no one was laughing.
Jamal's mouth went dry. His throat tightened as if the air itself had betrayed him too.
He looked at Almeida.
Jamal had her on a pedestal for years. He thought she could do no wrong nor harm, until she shattered that illusion
What happened?
How did we get here?
Is it because I have no one else to run to?
Because they thought I was safe to prey on?
His eyes burned. Not with tears, but with something deeper. Shock. Fury. Heartbreak.
"Ya Allah," he whispered inwardly, fighting for breath.
"Like You saved Yusuf, save me."
His fingers clenched at his side. Legs tense.
He scanned the room.
Then, to the door where Jamila stood like a bouncer from night clubs.
He stared at Almeida; bare, smirking, the stolen tasbih still looped around her wrist like a trophy.
His pulse thundered in his ears. Three of them. All eyes on him. All angles cornered. No food. No exit.
"Alright, Fine." he said finally. His voice stripped of heat. "If this is happening… then let's start with Jamila. You know I'm still a novice."
A shift in the room.
Jamila blinked. "Me?"
She glanced at Mariyah, who offered only a shrug.
Almeida laughed softly, running a finger across the stolen prayer beads. "Thought you were the righteous one," she murmured. "Guess all it takes is pressure."
He ignored her.
Jamila approached, slow, intrigued, still playing it like a game.
She reached the center of the room.
And Jamal ran.
He dashed past her like wind, heart a hammer in his chest, hand swinging the door open with a slam so loud it knocked a decorative plaque from the wall.
"WALLAHI!" Almeida's voice cut behind him. "JAMAL.. COME BACK HERE!"
But he was gone. Gone into the dusk of Nur Afiya, barefoot, breathless, and broken.
Only one thing left behind:
His tasbih.
Still wrapped around her wrist, glowing like a stolen relic.