Sajdaa Taha

Malik drove the car in silence. We had dropped Alisha home, and now we were driving towards my place. I sat in the front next to Malik, who was listening to rap music on the radio as I cringed. Malik seemed to notice and he turned it off.

"You don't like rap?" he asked, his eyes focusing on the road ahead.

I looked out the window, "Rap music now sucks. It's all about sex and girls."

"I mean it's catchy," he shrugged.

"More like annoying," I muttered. 

Girls at my school would start shaking their butts as soon as a rap song came on, yet when a guy in real life talked like a rapper, then the girls got offended. I didn't understand why it was okay for rappers to say demeaning comments about women.

"Hey, not all rap is bad," he smiled, amused, as he gave me a sideway glance.

"The hardcore ones that teenagers listen to are," I replied, dryly.

He grinned, "I can't argue there."

The events of tonight came back to me. I couldn't get that lifeless body out of my head. What did that girl do to deserve merciless torture? Oh Allah, does the person who wants to kill me really that desperate to make my life a misery? It wasn't fair. She had to suffer because of me.

The car stopped at a red light. Malik eased his grip on the steering wheel. His fingers running through the delicate brown locks of his hair. I noticed that he did that a lot when he was stressed. Malik definitely was a stunning male. I shook my head. Great, someone is trying to kill me and I'm thinking about how attractive he looks.

"Sajdaa, are you alright?"

"Yeah," I mumbled.

The light turned green as he started to drive again. "Seriously, Sajdaa. I'm worried about you," he frowned.

"I told you I'm fine."

His grip on the steering wheel tightened. "Bullshit," he said. "I know that when a girl says that something is wrong."

"What do you want me to say, Malik?" I questioned in defeat. "That I'm terrified of what's going to happen to my family? That I'm scared that more little kids are going to get murdered because a killer is after me? Or that I still can't get over the fact that my only uncle is dead?!" I yelled hysterically at him. I felt tears well in my eyes, but I refused to let him see me cry.

Malik went silent.

"I'm scared," I whispered under my breath, "I'm terrified. I'm worried. I don't know what to do or what to feel."

I don't know why I was telling Malik all these things, but the look he was giving me earlier and even now, it made me feel comforted. His unwavering gaze of concern, the way his voice softened when I cried earlier, it all just seemed like I could trust him.

"Do you trust me?" he asked, careful of his words.

I tilted my head at him, "What?"

"Do you trust me?" he repeated.

"No offense, but you're not Aladdin."

"Sajdaa," he warned.

"Yes, I trust you."

"Then trust me when I say that we will find whoever is terrorizing you," he stated with determination lacing his voice.

I only nodded. Perhaps, not all police officers were bad, I thought as I gazed at Malik.

* * * *

Malik dropped me off home. He talked to my father about what happened at the masjid (mosque). I left the two men to talk as I instantly went in search for my mother. Lots of uncles and aunties were at our house to help my family cope. They also brought a lot of food for us. I went into my bedroom, where a small figure looked at the photo album that I left behind. It was my little brother, Hamza.

He sat on my bed, flipping through pictures of our uncle. Hamza was only twelve years old. He and my older brother, Ridwan, looked exactly like each other. The only difference was that Ridwan had facial hair. Both had dark wavy black hair, the same straight nose, and a well defined jaw. Hamza was almost as tall as me, and he was my little brother.

I quietly walked towards my dresser. Hamza noticed my presence, but he did not look up from the album. I took out some of the pins that held my hijab together and left it on loosely around my head.

"Is Mom okay?" I asked, quietly.

The air around us was thick. Hamza's face remained expressionless. His brown eyes not looking away from the picture as he croaked, "No." His voice was cracked as if he'd been crying.

I sat besides him on the bed. My eyes landed on the picture in front of us. It was my uncle. He held onto baby Hamza as he grinned widely for the camera. His oak dark eyes sparkled with amusement at the child on his lap. 

Baby Hamza was eating a mango that got all over his naked chest. Hamza gave a toothy smile to the camera. I remembered that day so well. I was the one who snapped the picture.

I placed a hand on his shoulder, "I miss him too," I said, softly.

Hamza didn't waver his eyes away from the photo. His fingers traced over my beloved uncle's face. "Why is Allah so cruel?" he murmured.

"Allah didn't do this to hurt us," I replied, carefully examining Hamza's shaking fingers.

Silent tears ran down his flushed cheeks as he finally looked up at me. The pain his eyes held broke my heart. I instantly pulled him close to me. His head settled against my own shoulder as I cuddled him close. His arms wrapped around me as his breathing became uneven.

"Shh, deep breaths," I advised in his ear gently.

He listened.

"Nice easy breaths," I continued while patting his hair.

"W-Why did Allah d-do this?" he cried in broken words.

I placed a small kiss on his forehead. "It's a trial. This life was not meant to be easy, sweetheart. It was meant to be hard. Some trials are easier than others. This is our test, Hamza. This is when our iman (faith) goes up. This is when we ask Allah for guidance."

"Sajdaa is right," said a strained voice. It was Ridwan, my older brother. Hamza and I both looked to the doorway. Ridwan stood leaning against the door frame. A sad smile planted on his face. "Allah never gives His believers a test that they can't handle," he said as he joined us on the bed.

"But it hurts so much," whispered Hamza.

Ridwan simply brushed a stray hair away from Hamza's forehead. Hamza still stayed in my arms. "Sabr, Hamza. We need to have Sabr," replied Ridwan.

Hamza rubbed the tears from his eyes as he sat up, "Patience?"

"Yes. With patience comes ease. All good things come, but it takes a while," I said softly. "This pain right there," I pointed to his heart, "it will heal over time. It's a wound that needs to repair itself."

Ridwan ruffled Hamza's hair. "Kiddo, we're family. We will get through this together," he reassured.

I felt pride swell in my chest as I watched my older brother step out of his comfort zone to help others. Ridwan is usually a quiet person, who kept to himself. After our uncle's death, Ridwan had been helping our father manage. My father was completely distraught knowing that his brother-in-law was no longer walking this dunya (world) anymore. Ridwan had taken up the leadership role as my parents healed.

"Will Allah make this pain in my heart go away?" asked Hamza, sorrow coating his every word.

"Yes because Allah will never abandon you," said Ridwan as he closed the photo album.

The three of us sat quietly. No matter what happened, I knew that I would always have my family to support me. As my brothers and I sat, we relished in the fact that at least Allah kept us together during this difficult time. Thank you, Allah, for blessing me with my family.

Assalamualaikum!

I have a chemistry and spanish test tomorrow, so I'm currently stressed beyond belief. But, hey, it's Ramadan. My favorite time of the year.

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