As usual, I woke up early, took my bath, and dressed neatly in my school uniform. I sprayed a mild perfume before picking up my school bag containing the Qur’an and other books. Calm and composed, I walked downstairs, and my eyes met Momy — a remarkable woman whose wealth had never made her lazy. She was always up, always doing something for her family’s happiness.
Every bit of my girlish charm stirred within me. I adjusted my large hijab, which was so long it almost swept the floor. With a little skip that nearly made me stumble, I rushed to hug her tightly, greeting her with “Assalamu Alaikum” — for Daddy had taught us that peace should come before any other greeting.
“Wa’alayki salam, my little one,” she replied warmly.
I pouted. I hated being called ‘little one’. I adored children so much that I always prayed for Momy to have another baby.
“I’m not your little one, Momy! You know Mujahida’s mom already had another baby.”
She smiled softly, pinched my nose, and said,
“Go on now, your driver’s waiting. Focus on your studies, and talk less.”
“Yes, Momy. But please, make me some zobo juice yourself — and fruit salad when it’s almost lunchtime,” I teased.
“In shaa Allah, dear. May Allah protect you and bring you home safely.”
“Amin, Momy,” I said, covering my face with my niqab before stepping out. The courtyard was full of beautiful flowers. I greeted the driver and sat at the back seat as he started the car.
Once on the highway, I took out my phone, put it on silent, and opened my gallery — to stare at his pictures. His perfectly lined beard, the hint of white amidst the black… I felt tears fill my eyes, yet a strange smile crept to my lips as my heart whispered, “You’re almost there — your dream is within reach.”
The sudden stop of the car snapped me back. We had arrived. I stepped out — just as his car pulled up. My gaze followed it until he parked near the teachers’ lot. After a while, he stepped out — dressed in his usual white attire, with the Saudi-style black cloak over his shoulders and his trademark white glasses. My heartbeat quickened as I turned away quickly, hurrying to class.
When I entered, all eyes turned toward me — and then Mujahida rushed to hug me, whispering something that made my heart race even more.
She pulled back, laughing.
“Wait, are you serious?” I asked.
“Wallahi, I heard it myself in the principal’s office,” she said.
“But there was no announcement,” I argued.
“Maybe they changed the plan,” she replied.
I sat quietly, lost in thought. Mujahida kept chatting about her family’s wedding preparations, but I barely heard her until the bell rang and our teacher entered. After greetings, he said,
“Today we begin the Qur’anic test. Only those who pass with minimal corrections will move to the final class.”
When he finished, Mujahida leaned toward me. “Now do you believe it?”
“I’m scared,” I confessed.
She hissed playfully. “Scared? After all these years of wishing for this? Or don’t you love him anymore?”
I turned sharply. “Stop that. Of course, I still do!”
She giggled and nudged me, but we quickly went silent as the teacher tapped the table for attention. The test began — alphabetical order — yet my name never came up, even after break time.
As soon as we stepped outside, Mujahida asked,
“Khadeeja, when we finally move to the final class, what’s the first thing you’ll say to Sheikh Rayyadeen?”
I smiled shyly. “Let’s pass first.”
“Oh, we’ll pass,” she said confidently.
“In shaa Allah,” I whispered.
“So, what will you say to him?” she pressed.
“I’ll tell him I love him more than my lif—”
The words froze on my tongue. Our eyes met. He was watching me — from a distance, but the look in his eyes told me he’d heard. My heart pounded violently as he began walking toward us.
Panic seized me. I turned and bolted into the classroom.
“Khadeeja,” I heard a calm voice call — it was Malam Ibrahim.
“I’m sorry, sir,” I said quickly.
“It’s alright. I wanted to talk to you. Have you decided yet?”
Embarrassed, I turned away. “Love… it’s something that belongs to the heart—”
I stopped abruptly. A shadow fell over the doorway.
“Sheikh!” Malam Ibrahim exclaimed in shock.
Like someone struck by lightning, I ran. But before I could escape, I stumbled — and fell right into his chest. My world went dark.
---
When I woke up, I found myself in the teachers’ rest lounge. My head throbbed lightly. Mujahida entered, greeting politely.
I turned — and met his eyes. The glasses were gone. His pure white eyes shone like pearls. I couldn’t look away. Flustered, I turned my head aside as Mujahida handed him a bottle of water.
“You can both go now,” he said gently.
She helped me up, and as we reached the door, I turned back — he was drinking the water, and it dripped down his beard. The sight left me trembling.
Outside, Mujahida burst into laughter.
“Khadeeja! You froze against Sheikh Rayyadeen like a statue! Four of us had to carry you there, and he stayed by your side reciting Qur’an until you breathed normally again!”
I said nothing. My mind replayed every moment — his arms, his scent, his voice.
By the time school ended, my niqab was missing. I asked Mujahida, but she didn’t know. I was too distracted to care.
When I reached home, I saw Daddy had returned — the dining table full of fruit and juice.
“Where’s your niqab?” he asked from the stairs.
I froze. “It fell… I didn’t notice,” I stammered.
He frowned slightly. “You know you shouldn’t go out without it.”
I ran to him, hugging him tightly. “You didn’t tell me you were coming back!”
“I told your Momy to tell you.”
I pouted. “You know she’s jealous — she wanted to see you first.”
He laughed softly. “Maybe she feared you’d skip school if she told you.”
Just then, Momy appeared in her elegant lace outfit. “Seems father and daughter are gossiping again,” she teased.
We all laughed, and I slipped away to my room upstairs. After bathing, I dressed in a long atampa gown and joined them for iftar. As I sat beside Daddy, eyes closed, I silently prayed:
Ya Allah, make Sheikh Rayyadeen my husband.
---
SHEIKH RAYYADEEN
A young scholar in his early forties, yet his skin and calm composure betrayed no sign of age. His father was Kanuri from Diffa, Niger Republic, and his mother a proud Arab from Niamey. This mixed heritage gave him a beauty that even he couldn’t deny — a beauty that drew many women to him, all offering love he silently rejected.
Teaching ran in his bloodline. His family were scholars for generations, but unlike them, he combined traditional Qur’anic study with advanced Islamic jurisprudence after years in the Arab world.
He founded NOOR-RULLAH Academy, staffed it with learned teachers, and appointed a director while he chose to teach quietly. Only his mother knew his secrets; he was a man who valued silence, trust, and fragrance — but despised gossip.
Driving home that evening, her image haunted him — the frightened girl who had fainted in his arms. “Not like my mother at all,” he muttered bitterly. “Who even gave that girl such a noble name?” He honked irritably as the school gate opened.
Inside, he heard his grandmother’s voice before he even entered.
“Here comes the Ustaz!” she mocked.
His mother — Ammy — sighed in relief when she saw him. “Don’t mind her,” her eyes seemed to say.
“Welcome, Sheikh,” his grandmother said sarcastically. “You look upset — did another girl send you a love letter today?”
He smiled faintly. “Grand-Maa, you’ll never run out of jokes. How could they send me letters when I barely smile at anyone?”
He turned to Ammy and gently took her hand. Inside her room, she said,
“Don’t let her words bother you. She’s just old.”
He frowned. “But it hurts to see her treat you like this.”
Ammy sighed. “Since the day I bore your father’s only son, that’s how she’s been. You’ll understand when you marry — your wife may upset me, and your son will take her side.”
He smiled faintly. “I’d never marry a woman who disrespects you.”
She laughed softly. “You’d be surprised — most of these new wives are spoiled. I can’t stand seeing you neglected.”
For some reason, Khadeeja’s face flashed in his mind. His jaw tightened.
“I despise that girl, Ammy. She embarrassed me today — crying because the driver was late!”
“Who?” Ammy asked quickly.
He froze, realizing what he had just said. Embarrassed, he rushed toward the stairs.
“Make sure you come back down for iftar,” she called after him, smiling knowingly. “We’ll talk later — about that girl.”
He stopped halfway, looking back — realizing she’d already guessed everything.
Mafarki (Dream)
By Shamsiyya Lawwali Rabo
MRS SADAUKI 💫✍️
CHAPTER ONE
As usual, I woke up early, took my bath, and dressed neatly in my school uniform. I sprayed a mild perfume before picking up my school bag containing the Qur’an and other books. Calm and composed, I walked downstairs, and my eyes met Momy — a remarkable woman whose wealth had never made her lazy. She was always up, always doing something for her family’s happiness.
Every bit of my girlish charm stirred within me. I adjusted my large hijab, which was so long it almost swept the floor. With a little skip that nearly made me stumble, I rushed to hug her tightly, greeting her with “Assalamu Alaikum” — for Daddy had taught us that peace should come before any other greeting.
“Wa’alayki salam, my little one,” she replied warmly.
I pouted. I hated being called ‘little one’. I adored children so much that I always prayed for Momy to have another baby.
“I’m not your little one, Momy! You know Mujahida’s mom already had another baby.”
She smiled softly, pinched my nose, and said,
“Go on now, your driver’s waiting. Focus on your studies, and talk less.”
“Yes, Momy. But please, make me some zobo juice yourself — and fruit salad when it’s almost lunchtime,” I teased.
“In shaa Allah, dear. May Allah protect you and bring you home safely.”
“Amin, Momy,” I said, covering my face with my niqab before stepping out. The courtyard was full of beautiful flowers. I greeted the driver and sat at the back seat as he started the car.
Once on the highway, I took out my phone, put it on silent, and opened my gallery — to stare at his pictures. His perfectly lined beard, the hint of white amidst the black… I felt tears fill my eyes, yet a strange smile crept to my lips as my heart whispered, “You’re almost there — your dream is within reach.”
The sudden stop of the car snapped me back. We had arrived. I stepped out — just as his car pulled up. My gaze followed it until he parked near the teachers’ lot. After a while, he stepped out — dressed in his usual white attire, with the Saudi-style black cloak over his shoulders and his trademark white glasses. My heartbeat quickened as I turned away quickly, hurrying to class.
When I entered, all eyes turned toward me — and then Mujahida rushed to hug me, whispering something that made my heart race even more.
She pulled back, laughing.
“Wait, are you serious?” I asked.
“Wallahi, I heard it myself in the principal’s office,” she said.
“But there was no announcement,” I argued.
“Maybe they changed the plan,” she replied.
I sat quietly, lost in thought. Mujahida kept chatting about her family’s wedding preparations, but I barely heard her until the bell rang and our teacher entered. After greetings, he said,
“Today we begin the Qur’anic test. Only those who pass with minimal corrections will move to the final class.”
When he finished, Mujahida leaned toward me. “Now do you believe it?”
“I’m scared,” I confessed.
She hissed playfully. “Scared? After all these years of wishing for this? Or don’t you love him anymore?”
I turned sharply. “Stop that. Of course, I still do!”
She giggled and nudged me, but we quickly went silent as the teacher tapped the table for attention. The test began — alphabetical order — yet my name never came up, even after break time.
As soon as we stepped outside, Mujahida asked,
“Khadeeja, when we finally move to the final class, what’s the first thing you’ll say to Sheikh Rayyadeen?”
I smiled shyly. “Let’s pass first.”
“Oh, we’ll pass,” she said confidently.
“In shaa Allah,” I whispered.
“So, what will you say to him?” she pressed.
“I’ll tell him I love him more than my lif—”
The words froze on my tongue. Our eyes met. He was watching me — from a distance, but the look in his eyes told me he’d heard. My heart pounded violently as he began walking toward us.
“Khadeeja,” Mujahida whispered, “I think he’s coming here!”
Panic seized me. I turned and bolted into the classroom.
“Khadeeja,” I heard a calm voice call — it was Malam Ibrahim.
“I’m sorry, sir,” I said quickly.
“It’s alright. I wanted to talk to you. Have you decided yet?”
Embarrassed, I turned away. “Love… it’s something that belongs to the heart—”
I stopped abruptly. A shadow fell over the doorway.
“Sheikh!” Malam Ibrahim exclaimed in shock.
Like someone struck by lightning, I ran. But before I could escape, I stumbled — and fell right into his chest. My world went dark.
---
When I woke up, I found myself in the teachers’ rest lounge. My head throbbed lightly. Mujahida entered, greeting politely.
I turned — and met his eyes. The glasses were gone. His pure white eyes shone like pearls. I couldn’t look away. Flustered, I turned my head aside as Mujahida handed him a bottle of water.
“You can both go now,” he said gently.
She helped me up, and as we reached the door, I turned back — he was drinking the water, and it dripped down his beard. The sight left me trembling.
Outside, Mujahida burst into laughter.
“Khadeeja! You froze against Sheikh Rayyadeen like a statue! Four of us had to carry you there, and he stayed by your side reciting Qur’an until you breathed normally again!”
I said nothing. My mind replayed every moment — his arms, his scent, his voice.
By the time school ended, my niqab was missing. I asked Mujahida, but she didn’t know. I was too distracted to care.
When I reached home, I saw Daddy had returned — the dining table full of fruit and juice.
“Where’s your niqab?” he asked from the stairs.
I froze. “It fell… I didn’t notice,” I stammered.
He frowned slightly. “You know you shouldn’t go out without it.”
I ran to him, hugging him tightly. “You didn’t tell me you were coming back!”
“I told your Momy to tell you.”
I pouted. “You know she’s jealous — she wanted to see you first.”
He laughed softly. “Maybe she feared you’d skip school if she told you.”
Just then, Momy appeared in her elegant lace outfit. “Seems father and daughter are gossiping again,” she teased.
We all laughed, and I slipped away to my room upstairs. After bathing, I dressed in a long atampa gown and joined them for iftar. As I sat beside Daddy, eyes closed, I silently prayed:
Ya Allah, make Sheikh Rayyadeen my husband.
---
SHEIKH RAYYADEEN
A young scholar in his early forties, yet his skin and calm composure betrayed no sign of age. His father was Kanuri from Diffa, Niger Republic, and his mother a proud Arab from Niamey. This mixed heritage gave him a beauty that even he couldn’t deny — a beauty that drew many women to him, all offering love he silently rejected.
Teaching ran in his bloodline. His family were scholars for generations, but unlike them, he combined traditional Qur’anic study with advanced Islamic jurisprudence after years in the Arab world.
He founded NOOR-RULLAH Academy, staffed it with learned teachers, and appointed a director while he chose to teach quietly. Only his mother knew his secrets; he was a man who valued silence, trust, and fragrance — but despised gossip.
Driving home that evening, her image haunted him — the frightened girl who had fainted in his arms. “Not like my mother at all,” he muttered bitterly. “Who even gave that girl such a noble name?” He honked irritably as the school gate opened.
Inside, he heard his grandmother’s voice before he even entered.
“Here comes the Ustaz!” she mocked.
His mother — Ammy — sighed in relief when she saw him. “Don’t mind her,” her eyes seemed to say.
“Welcome, Sheikh,” his grandmother said sarcastically. “You look upset — did another girl send you a love letter today?”
He smiled faintly. “Grand-Maa, you’ll never run out of jokes. How could they send me letters when I barely smile at anyone?”
He turned to Ammy and gently took her hand. Inside her room, she said,
“Don’t let her words bother you. She’s just old.”
He frowned. “But it hurts to see her treat you like this.”
Ammy sighed. “Since the day I bore your father’s only son, that’s how she’s been. You’ll understand when you marry — your wife may upset me, and your son will take her side.”
He smiled faintly. “I’d never marry a woman who disrespects you.”
She laughed softly. “You’d be surprised — most of these new wives are spoiled. I can’t stand seeing you neglected.”
For some reason, Khadeeja’s face flashed in his mind. His jaw tightened.
“I despise that girl, Ammy. She embarrassed me today — crying because the driver was late!”
“Who?” Ammy asked quickly.
He froze, realizing what he had just said. Embarrassed, he rushed toward the stairs.
“Make sure you come back down for iftar,” she called after him, smiling knowingly. “We’ll talk later — about that girl.”
He stopped halfway, looking back — realizing she’d already guessed everything.