Over the past week, I have questioned what I truly know. What I have always known.

I asked myself some hard questions. I began to unpack why I wanted the things I wanted and where they fit into the grand scheme of things.

In spite of my principles, I have always been quite laid-back about planning. I seldom plan unless it is something I absolutely cannot do without.

Not because I couldn’t see farther than where I was, but because that was often all I felt I could give.

But I don’t think that was all.

And so I started thinking: Why are the answers people give to their realities so different?

Some say it is exposure.

Others say it is environment.

Some argue that it is simply limitations.

Perhaps we all have an answer, but we are answering from different realities.

I realised that my teacher could only teach me what he knew. He could only show me what he understood because that was the way he knew things could work.

And no, my school wasn’t substandard by any means.

It simply showed me the limitations of what was possible within that particular environment.

Let’s talk about the books we read.

If you stay with one book long enough, you could eventually recite parts of it from memory. Better still, you might begin to interpret the same words at different depths.

But ultimately, the author put what they knew inside that hardback.

Their research.

Their experiences.

Their advice.

Their conclusions.

Knowledge.

And then came AI.

This mighty, sophisticated thing humans have produced.

It can search through an enormous amount of information. It can model possibilities, recognise patterns and solve problems quicker than we sometimes can. Now we are moving to agents swarm.

Give it a thoughtful prompt and it can think deeper with you.

Perhaps what fascinates me most is that it can bring things to your awareness that you didn’t even think were possible.

But as fascinating as that is, there lies a problem.

What you didn’t think was possible could simply be something someone else had already thought about.

I recently had a conversation with an AI model about an idea.

It told me that, based on the available research and data it had access to, the idea probably couldn’t work as proposed and perhaps I should refine it.

So I asked:

Could it be that I don’t need to refine the idea? Could it be that you simply cannot fathom it?

And that question gave me a theory.

Whatever the vastness of AI’s knowledge, it still has limitations.

The difference is that many of its limitations can be managed. Its systems can be updated. Its information can expand. Its reasoning can improve.

But what about you and me?

What is our intelligence-building process?

How deep is our thinking about the things we have been told to believe?

How often do we question what we have been handed?

How much of what we call “impossible” is actually impossible?

And how much of it is simply beyond our current exposure?

In the past, we had limited access to information.

Now we have an abundance of it.

But perhaps what we have a dearth of is discernment.

There is so much information to consume that we sometimes forget that we are supposed to think.

So I think it is wise to be discerning.

And sometimes, silent.

Not every thought needs to be immediately spoken.

Not every piece of information needs to be consumed.

Not every opinion needs to be adopted.

We need space to think.

We need valuable time to put to use.

Because I think we, as a people, have a lot to deliver.

A lot to give.

A lot to create.

The human mind is incredibly complex, adaptable and innovative.

The human being is one of the most intelligent beings Allah has created.

Of course, we have dolphins too. Hehe.

But seriously, we cannot always be hand-fed.

We have enormous problems to solve as a continent and as a people.

The idea of lack in the midst of abundance will not cease until our mindset and intelligent grow.

And perhaps it is time to move beyond consuming snippets of information and start thinking about production.

What are we producing?

What are we building?

What are we solving?

What are we creating that didn’t exist before?

Let’s start solving our own problems and stop outsourcing it.

Let’s think deeper than our circumstances.

Deeper than our backgrounds.

Deeper than the limitations we inherited.

Our backgrounds do not have to become our limitations as long as we do not allow them to become the boundaries of our imagination.

Be as open as a child seeing candy for the first time.

But be as discerning as a fox trying to determine whether the shepherd is watching his flock.

Be curious.

But don’t be gullible.

Be open.

But don’t be easily influenced.

Consume.

But think.

Question.

Then build.

It is time to erase and expand the box.

To begin living in the true possibilities of what Allah has created us capable of.

And perhaps to do that, we need to detox our thoughts.

Filter what we consume.

Create silence around ourselves.

Return to our default curiosity.

And remember that not knowing how something can be done is not the same as knowing that it cannot be done.

It is doable.

You can. And I can.

Allah says in the Quran in Surah Ar-Ra’d, 13:11: “Indeed, Allah will not change the condition of a people until they change what is in themselves.”

Curiously yours,

Hameedah

I come from the city of hills, where roads swerve and your stomach tumbles, making you dizzy from how deeply they rise and fall.

I come from the land of greens, so green that a ripe banana stands out like a sore thumb.

I come from the land of flour, lafun, where it spreads across the streets for miles. Here, on these streets, lafun is king; and on the dinner table, royalty.

I come from the streets of nothing and everything, where we sit together at night, roast yams, and tell moonlight tales.

Where a mother wonders where another child’s parent has gone, then feeds that child lunch before the parents return.

I come from the land of farmers and hunters, where roasted animals have found a second home in our soups.

Here, hard work is not taught in essays or books. It is taught in the bush, in the farms carved out of stubborn earth.

We are taught to set traps, to read tracks, to hide, to wait.

We are taught that survival is not always loud. Sometimes, it is patient. Sometimes, it is the work of hands returning to the soil each morning.

So no, these pens and books on the table do not fool me.

They will not colonize me after my independence.

No.

I refuse to understand colonization as civilization.

I refuse to believe that everything we traded away was backward simply because something else was presented to us as modern.

I can still recall the tales my books told about honesty, hard work, and contentment.

We read those texts several times in our classrooms on sunny afternoons, sitting on wooden benches and chairs while waiting for the bell to announce break time.

We were few, but almost everyone could recite those tales by heart. The picture of young, naughty Ade who forgets the clothes in the rain and his mother scolding him still sits somewhere in our memories.

Those stories taught us what our elders had always taught us: that character mattered, that hard work had dignity, and that contentment was not the same as poverty.

Perhaps that is why I struggle to understand some of the things we now call progress.

I cannot understand why you shaved off your eyebrows only to replace them with markers to look almost exactly like the ones you removed.

I cannot understand why my mother’s tongue should always need to be justified with a borrowed one.

And yet, I say I am independent.

I say I am civilized.

Perhaps a part of us will always remain colonized, not in our borders, but in our minds.

This is not only about how we dress or what we eat now.

Most of it is about the way we think.

The way we want to be accepted.

The way we sometimes mistake being admired by others for becoming better ourselves.

I remember my friend in secondary school, Adedoyin, who wrote a piece about society. It was beautiful and powerful. It showed the chokehold society has on us, the wrath of society, and the ways people bend themselves to survive its judgment.

But I wonder what that piece would mean today.

Would it still be a warning?

Would it become a laughingstock beside the reality of the society we now defend?

What a rat fight.

Do I question society?

Yes, I do.

But I also question the ideas we have been taught to admire.

I question civilization.

I question colonialism.

I question the names we give to change when those names make us stop examining what change has cost us.

Perhaps those ideas were shaped by people who understood how deeply the human mind could be influenced.

They did not always come with swords.

They did not always arrive in broad daylight to steal our gold.

Sometimes, they came as lessons about what was backward and what was in vogue.

Sometimes, they stole from our morals and values, then exchanged them for gold.

Perhaps that is why Allah’s words keep ringing through my mind.

Again and again, the Qur’an asks us to think:

“Will you not then think deeply” surah Al- Anam 6:50

It asks us to look closely, even when evidence lies in our own hands.

Yet we still believe in the glory of the past simply because it is the past.

Our grandfather did that, and it was fine.

But the past is not automatically wisdom, just as the new is not automatically progress.

Truly, the life of this world is nothing but a deceiving enjoyment.

Now the rain showers.

It falls over the land I come from: the land of growth and produce.

And maybe growth is not becoming Western.

Maybe growth is not becoming someone else.

Maybe growth is knowing what to keep, what to abandon, and having enough courage to question both.

Curiously yours,

Hameedah.

Or perhaps not entirely. There have been ventilators, school notes, Qur’an updates, mentorship conversations, and countless thoughts scribbled in margins. But I have not sat down to write like this in a long while.

And honestly, I am a little afraid of what I might discover about myself.

There is a new hotel directly opposite my hostel.

I watched it begin as piles of sand, stacks of blocks, and exposed foundations. Some afternoons, my roommates and I would laugh at the builders’ jokes drifting through the air. Other days, we listened to their arguments and speculated about the tiles they had chosen or what the finished structure would eventually look like.

Then, almost without notice, it stood tall.

Proud. Magnificent.

The noise faded. The workers left. The dust settled.

What remains now is a beautiful building.

The guests and residents who will eventually move into it will never know what we saw. They will not see the uneven foundations, the exposed rods, the mistakes that had to be corrected, or the countless hands that laboured beneath the sun. They will simply see comfort, security, and a place to rest.

Standing by my window, I found myself thinking about the builders.

Perhaps some of them will never sleep in a house like the one they built. Not because they lack the skill to build one, but because they may never be able to afford it.

That thought lingered.

Then another followed.

As I stared at the building, I suddenly realized there is really no “inside” or “outside.” We are all, in a sense, living on the same patch of earth. we are basically living outside. We erect walls, lay tiles, install ceilings, and convince ourselves that we have somehow separated ourselves from the field outside.

But have we?

Perhaps technology does not always solve our problems. Sometimes it merely amplifies the solutions we already possess.

Perhaps not everything old must be abandoned.

Perhaps, if we look carefully enough, we already have much of what we need.

And perhaps that is why Allah repeatedly reminds us not to be deceived by the life of this world.

The dunya is persuasive.

It shines.

It dazzles.

It presents itself as permanent.

Yet beneath the paint, the concrete, and the architecture lies the same fragile reality: we are travelers passing through.

But does that make life meaningless?

Not at all.

If anything, it makes life more precious.

The richness of this world is not found in buildings.

It is found in people.

In community.

In shared meals.

In kindness offered when no one is watching.

In conversations that linger long after they end.

And above all, in the worship of Allah.

The answer to the glitter of the dunya is not colourlessness.

It is clarity.

Worship does not prohibit brilliance.

Islam does not ask us to reject beauty, excellence, or ambition.

Rather, it teaches us to place them in their proper position.

To build and not become attached to what we build.

To appreciate beauty, not worship it.

To live in the world, while remembering that it was never meant to be our final home.

Perhaps that is what the hostel taught me.

Not that buildings are unimportant.

But that foundations matter more than facades.

And that the things we do not see are often the things that truly hold everything together.

Today, I want you to look more closely.

Look again at the things that seem ordinary. The things that feel too simple to matter. The things we often dismiss because they are familiar.

Many of the questions that appear complicated grow from the simplest realities.

Like the lines on our fingertips.

So ordinary, that we hardly notice them.

Imperfect. Unremarkable. Present every day of our lives.

Yet no matter how many times we wash our hands, they remain. And among billions of people, no two are exactly the same.

A sign hidden in plain sight.

Perhaps that is how many of Allah’s lessons are: not concealed in distant places, but scattered throughout our everyday lives, waiting to be noticed.

And perhaps the answers we spend so much time searching for have been there all along.

Not waiting to be invented.

Only waiting to be amplified.

With warmth,

Hameedah.

The Piece

No one questions the lion when it flees from fire or gets burned in it.
After all, it has always been the king of the jungle. Whether by dominance or survival, it has always shown up in the face of fear.

So perhaps this one moment of hesitation should be ignored.

Yet the cold breeze felt hot against my skin as I staggered home, face downcast.

It had been a good day at least, it should have been.

But I had just heard the people closest to me speak about me in a way they never would to my face.
They did not trust my dreams. They did not believe in my capacity to carry them.

The kettle in my hand had trembled as I moved to serve them.
Not violently just enough to betray me.
But as though something inside me had quietly loosened.

I have always wondered what community truly means.

Are they the ones who see your strength or the ones who wait for proof before they believe it exists?

I have lived mostly as a lone wolf.
But society has a way of placing us in rooms with others, whether we choose it or not.

And still, I was surprised when people who barely knew me stood up for me.
Spoke for me.
Held space for me.

I did not ask.
They offered.

And that unsettled something in me.

Perhaps we tell our dreams to the wrong people.
Perhaps we don’t.

But how did we arrive at a place where our sense of self leans so heavily on the quiet opinions of others?

They tell you to rest when you are strong.
And when you finally rest… they question your ambition.

Humans are unusual like that.

They say their doubts come from love, from protection.
But sometimes, they come from fear. Fear disguised as care.

The radio crackled softly in the background.

The signal got lost for a while and when it tuned back they were advertising.
The distant hum of a busy market filtered through the speakers and filled the room with aloofness.

Aunty Ada exhaled sharply.

“Nawa o. Today’s radio show is deep,” she said, turning my head gently as she continued braiding my hair.

She was quiet for a moment before continuing.

“I faced something like this after my divorce. When I wanted to open this salon, everybody discouraged me. I didn’t stop. No one would even lend me money, not even my father, nobody.”

She clicked her tongue.

“Overnight, I stopped being their ‘ada.’ I became something else… something less acceptable.”

Her fingers moved steadily through my hair.

“But look at me now,” she added, her voice softer.
“I am not where I want to be yet… but I am better than I was.”

She paused.

“I hope you are listening, Amy nwa.”

“Yes, ma,” I replied.

But my mind had already drifted quietly gathering thoughts, turning them over.

Later that night, I sat with myself longer than usual.

Not to defend my dreams.
Not to justify them.
But to examine them.

Perhaps there is truth hidden in doubt.
Not all of it but some of it.

And perhaps growth requires something I am still learning:

Intellectual humility.

The ability to listen.
To adjust.
To admit that others may see what you do not.

But even then…

Where does correction end,
and condescension begin?

And how do you remain open…
without becoming small?

I did not arrive at answers that night.

Only quiet decisions.

To speak less of ideas, and build more.
To show evidence of my ideas before defending them.
To listen but not surrender…. Not totally but also not destructive.
To take fear seriously, but not as final truth.
And to take my plans first to Allah, before I take them anywhere else.

Perhaps that is what it means to grow not louder conviction, but steadier direction.

And in the world of William Shakespeare, the world is your oyster.

With love, Hameedah.

To breathe on paper and let my thoughts run free like a horse in the wild.

These days have been hectic. Full. Stretching.

I never forget reaching out to you even when I fail to actually do it.

There’s a beautiful saying: feelings don’t last forever.

Maybe I wouldn’t find it beautiful if I’d heard it feeling happy,but I heard it feeling unwell; queasy in body and unsettled in heart. And suddenly, it became mercy

Moments of uncertainty, worry, near self-neglect, and illness. you remember what really steadies you. You remember to hold onto Allah.

Yes, the times are ba… they’re not the best.

But they sure wouldn’t last.

Because Allah is Al-Sabur.

He is the One who strengthens me when I can’t muster the effort.

He is the One who helps me see the best in the worst.

Perhaps working in the ICU has changed my mindset too.

I have seen patients become delirious and unbearably weary. I have seen bodies rely entirely on ventilation until, slowly, they are weaned off. Oxygen reduced. Support withdrawn in careful measures. And one day, they are stable enough to step down and leave the room.

It teaches a forbearance that cannot be rushed.

It is the best and worst place to be.

The best treatment but you must first be in the worst condition to show up for it.

So when this woman taught me what empathy meant to her,

I didn’t argue. I learned.

When she preached God in her language and religion afterward,

I wasn’t defensive. I saw her lessons.

Because it is only Al-Ahad who can put you in a scenario, bail you out, and make you the teacher of the lesson you learned.

So today is still quite hectic. But I must write you, because this place I’m in and this feeling I hold… might not last forever, but it is shared.

It is lighter now, and I’ll remember once again the grace to write.

Please make a lot of duas in these days—as often as possible.

Of course, I’ll make dua for you—as often as the moments allow. May Allah grant you strength beyond your own, ease in uncertainties, healing from any illness creeping in, and answered supplications that surprise you with their beauty. May He flood your path with peace, barakah in your work, and the joy of doing the things you love . Ameen.

To part with, I wish you the peace and blessings of the Most High.

With warmth,

Hameedah.

It is currently day four of Ramadan, and I cannot help but whisper Alhamdulillah.

For everyone, Ramadan carries unique meanings.
For me, it feels like the homecoming of a best friend. When it arrives, it feels like a blanket of peace, mercy, softness all wrapped gently around me.

It is not just a feeling.
It is real.
It is healing.

One of my sisters recommended the Ramadan series by the Yaqeen Institute for Islamic Research. I watched a portion of it today, and SubhanAllah, I began to understand words I have known for years in an entirely different light:

Ar-Rahman — The Entirely Merciful.
Ar-Raheem — The Especially Merciful.
Ar-Ra’uf — The Most Tenderly Merciful.

As I reflected on the meanings of Allah’s Names, I felt an overwhelming sense of peace.

How have you been?

There is something important to remember in Ramadan: striving to worship Allah, even in the acts we may not have done in years.

I hope you do not feel awkward or ashamed to return to Him.
I hope you go all in.

Whether you stagger in waking up, in reciting the Qur’an, in praying more nawafil… try. Strive. Do what you can.

Let us do it with the certainty that Allah has heard and accepted our duʿas.

Brothers and sisters, this is a small piece of hope I wanted to share.

Taqabbalallahu minna wa minkum.

Hameedah.

Well, I didn’t always think this way. The shift began during my first computer class in school. We were analyzing different topics when the inefficiency of the system we live in came up. Then my lecturer said something that struck me deeply:

“Nigeria doesn’t have a system failure problem. We have both bad leadership and bad followership.”

Those words stayed with me.

For days, I mulled over them. Sometimes, while listening to the news and watching the world lose its peace and essence, I wondered if that statement explained more than we were willing to admit. It led me to a question I hadn’t seriously considered before: what does followership really mean?

Leadership is admired. Especially now, when young leadership cohorts spring up almost every fortnight, promising to equip the next generation with leadership skills. But there is little to nothing about learning how to be a follower. Followership is treated like the lower piece on a chessboard. Everyone wants to be the queen.

Yet the reality is simple: most leaders are followers to another leader.

Perhaps this is where leadership truly begins to fail.

We are raising communities full of leaders, trained to lead, encouraged to be selfless yet disconnected from their own role as followers. In becoming leaders, we ignore a fundamental truth: leadership itself begins with followership.

To many, a follower is a mindless person, someone without an independent thought, someone with rights but no power to wield them. A person has what it takes but is never allowed to test the waters. I don’t agree with this idea.

I think we are all followers by choice and by system. A true follower, in being selfless and intentional, often becomes a leader among many. They become the divergence. Not by title, but by responsibility.

Afterall, A matchstick box is only a matchstick box because the matchsticks are inside it. Without them, it could just as well be a soap box.

We often ignore the importance of followers, yet they are the true kingmakers.

To be a follower is to actively participate, to support, and to perform. Yes, perform. A follower leads in execution. A commander of a ship. A herdsman. A steward of trust.

History reminds us of this. In the 570BC, a man called people to faith, and men fought, endured, and conquered alongside him not because of leadership alone, but because of committed followership. The Prophet Muhammad (SAW) would not have been the leader of the Muslim ummah without his Sahabah—without their trust, cooperation, and sacrifice.

We call the queen bee the boss, but if the worker ants abandon her, she becomes vulnerable. The soldiers build, protect, and produce. They sustain the colony. Leadership does not survive in isolation.

So who is this for?

It is for you, the one sidelined in leadership or governance, in your state, your class, your community. You who see yourself as grass beneath the fight of squirrels and mice. Unbothered until the rain falls and houses are built over you. Until the farmer comes and yield the land.

Read other posts from this writer.

You have not yet realized that you are both the beginning and the end of growth. That your ideas, skills, and knowledge can add value to your community. Therefore, you stay silent, watching the bulls fight, saying, “It’s not my business.”

But if we all fold our arms some hiding behind leadership titles, others behind passive followership we all lose in the end.

If leadership is only as strong as its followers, then our responsibility begins with action. Here’s what that looks like in practice:

• Showing up prepared, even when you are not in charge

• Carrying out delegated tasks as if the outcome belongs to you

• Questioning respectfully instead of withdrawing silently

• Resisting the urge to disengage just because you are not the “oga”

• Understanding that competence, not visibility, is influence.

It’s a dog fight out there and there is no avoiding it.

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For you, who believed- cheers to growth.

Until the wind carries our name in the sand.

Hameedah.

فَدَعَا رَبَّهُۥٓ أَنِّي مَغۡلُوبٞ فَٱنتَصِرۡ

So he invoked his Lord, “Indeed, I am overpowered,so help.”

وَفَجَّرۡنَا ٱلۡأَرۡضَ عُيُونٗا فَٱلۡتَقَى ٱلۡمَآءُ عَلَىٰٓ أَمۡرٖ قَدۡ قُدِرَ

Then We opened the gates of the heaven with rain pouring down.

Hello,

Today, I finally found my way back to writing again. Alhamdulillah.

Life has been a roller coaster, but hasn’t it always been? The highs, the lows, and the in-betweens all of it is what makes life an enigma, one which we are constantly in awe of but also can’t seem to understand.

Which is why you could be a master at one thing and a total learner at another.

Over the past few weeks, I have had to learn things from scratch, ask uncomfortable questions to grow, and do ridiculous things to change from being the unlettered to somewhat knowing. Scratch that… to being able to wield that knowledge.

The point of all of this is to tell you to appreciate life every time… during the slow, fast, lonely, bad, good, and most amazing moments.

Even though the distance between where we seek and where we are seems like decades apart, we could learn to appreciate the pauses, what we have, and what we currently don’t have. Perhaps, when we look back, they would be one of the most beautiful days we ever lived.

Feelings don’t last. That you feel overwhelmed, sad, anger, or resentment for where you are doesn’t mean you would always feel like that… and that’s where the enigma of life shifts in.

You won’t always be unhappy. Neither would you always be happy nor poor.

This is a reminder that we can always start over, but this time with much experience. This time with a timeless gem.

I truly hope that the harmattan hasn’t gotten to you, and if it has. I hope your barrier cream is strong to keep it off. Wishing you all the best things life has got to offer- let’s start off with good health, long life and me, of course. So keep reading🤭

Hameedah.

Some let theirs spill in strokes of ink across white canvases.

Some release theirs in voices so loud they pierce hearts without permission.

Some pour theirs into spoken words that drip with emotion and burst into flame.

And others like me let art move through the wind, through cries, through words typed or inked onto white screens and black casings.

Art is liquid.

Art is molten.

Art is fire.

Because behind every art is an emotion trying to breathe.

I met Aderonke in my first year of school a radiant sunshine who didn’t wait to be chosen, yet still chose me.

She thinks she truly met me when we first lived together.

But she didn’t.

I met her before that.

I was a sophomore then. Friendless, mostly. My only companions were my phone and the dark space above my bed where I counted ceilings. I was sick for over a week; constipated, weak, surviving on bread and barely any water because I had refused to cook. I thought it was impressive how little water I could drink.

Until my body protested.

I remember standing in the toilet, straining, panicking, wondering if this was how people died quietly, embarrassingly, alone. At some point, I genuinely considered writing a will.

So I went downstairs, hoping movement would help. Or was it exercise? I couldn’t remember. I drank four sachets of water, my stomach swollen and tight, my body in revolt. I couldn’t sit. I couldn’t stand. I just paced, groaning, not caring who saw me.

I didn’t want to die alone in my room. Sue me.

That’s when I heard her voice.

She was light-skinned, on a phone call, composed, put together while I looked like someone who had no idea what she was doing with her life. She stared at me like she recognized me but couldn’t place my face.

I said “hi,” just to break the awkwardness, even that felt like a punch to my gut.

She didn’t respond. She was still on her call.

Then she asked,

“Are you in pain?”

I tried to downplay it.

“Ah… yeah. But I’ll be fine.”

She asked what was wrong.

At that point, shame had lost its power. I told her everything.

She stood up immediately and told me to wait. Asked if I had been drinking water. I nodded and showed her my protruding stomach.

“I’ve had more than enough.”

She boiled water and told me to sit over it.

I had questions. Many of them.

We barely spoke.

We weren’t close.

Why would she do this?

“It will hurt,” she said gently. “But it’s normal.”

And so I sat there, listening to her phone conversations, straining, breathing, hurting. And she stayed. The heat worked eventually. Relief came slowly. I could breathe again.

She stayed until I was fine.

I was so grateful I wanted to cry.

That moment never left me.

Years passed. We stopped living together. We graduated. Life happened. Distance crept in. Silence too. But whenever she called for help, I did what I could in the ways I knew how.

She was my sister from another mother.

But today, after a call where we both sounded like strangers who remembered each other only in fragments, I knew something had changed.

We had lost each other.

Still, I will never forget that day.

It taught me how dynamic relationships are.

How kind people can be.

How distance isn’t always the enemy; growth, pain, and differing experiences are.

I am grateful we found each other when we did.

I am sad it is no longer the same.

But to me, she will always be my sister.

So I leave the door ajar.

For her, my heart will always remain open.

Till the winds whispers our names again,

Hameedah.

Surah Al-Insan (76:8-9):
“And they give food in spite of love for it to the needy, the orphan, and the captive, [saying], ‘We feed you only for the countenance of Allah. We wish not from you reward or gratitude.’”

The moon was still hanging in the sky, refusing to leave, but the people of Layungba were wide awake gathered at one of the chief’s houses, all murmuring their complaints.

Someone had stolen their plantains.

One woman, Iya Shalewa, was the loudest of them all.

Shouting. Pointing. Accusing.

“Let’s go to Okoro’s house! I’m sure he is the one stealing all our plantain!”

Everyone in Layungba knew who Okoro Emeka was — a man who had a job but behaved jobless, a man who preferred begging to working. He and his wife often told dramatic tales of their former glory in Akwa Ibom:

We were once rich… we just need time… we will rise again.

The chief, wise as always, refused to let the crowd search Okoro’s house simply because Iya Shalewa believed she was right.

He calmed everyone, asked them to return home, and promised that security officers would conduct a proper, house-to-house search.

Three men and two women walked away disgruntled.

The search happened. Nothing came out of it.

No plantains. No evidence.

Just suspicion circling the same man everyone assumed was guilty.

The chief returned home. His daughter, Sade, intelligent, troublesome, endlessly curious stepped forward.

“Papa, why were people gathered here?”

“It’s Okoro and Iya Shalewa o. She thinks he stole her plantains.”

Sade paused.

What if he didn’t do it?

Why disgrace a wounded man further?

That night, she acted on that thought.

Her father had just harvested plantains — enough to sell and share. She quietly took two bunches from the pile and walked them to Okoro’s doorstep.

The man was shocked to see her. They hardly ever spoke.

“Good evening, Mr. Okoro,” she said.

“Good evening, Sade,” he replied cautiously.

“I’m sure you’re surprised to see me. I’m here to warn you… and to gift you.”

His eyes widened with shame, fear, confusion mixing together.

“I know things are difficult for you and your wife,” she said gently. “But stealing from people’s farms isn’t the way. You could have asked for work, or even for a little support. When people see effort, they give chances.”

She handed him the plantains.

“This is not a reward,” she added. “It’s just something to help you and a wish for change. No need for thanks, and don’t mention this to anyone.”

He broke down crying.

Months passed.

Okoro started farming again.

People trusted him more.

He changed.

Sade and Okoro never became close just polite greetings when necessary.

But something had shifted.

That is the kind of intercultural and interreligious interaction I have witnessed all my life.

It’s the same reason I laugh when my Igbo roommates ask why I pray at specific times.

“If you don’t pray at those times, what will happen?”

They were curious so I taught them.

They teased me too.

Whenever I reached for my hijab, someone would shout:

“Ah ah, you will soon cover everything with raincoat!”

I laughed louder than all of them because I knew they meant no harm.

And when they spent too long in the bathroom one day, I complained only for Chigozirim to say:

“Amy, you know you cover your whole body and we expose ours. We are trying to scrub away those eyes so it won’t follow us around.”

My annoyance melted into loud laughter.

So when they said, “You are very chill o, I didn’t know Muslims were kind,”

I told them,

“I didn’t know you people were friendly too.”

They asked deeper questions too:

“Amy, why did you say Muslims don’t date how dem go take know the person dem wan marry?”

“Amy, do you believe people should be killed just because they don’t believe the same?”

And when it turned political

“Why did they arrest Nnamdi Kanu dem for kukuma kill am make we see war?”

I took it all in… not as attacks, but as curiosity.

And I answered the best I could.

We respected each other.

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And oh I learnt too, about their beliefs, and even changed some misconceptions I had too.

When they told me I was the first Muslim who had ever explained things to them,

I simply said,

“I am probably the first Muslim you’ve been close friends with.”

One day, I went to buy groceries and got into an argument with a man I thought was Hausa because of his looks.

He refused to reduce his price.

Annoyed, I wished out loud that I knew his language.

Turns out he was Igbo.

So I put my little Igbo practice to work:

“Adịrọ mma — I have money.”

The man burst into laughter.

Then I added, “Abịaghị m — I have come.”

He looked at me, fully covered in hijab, and said,

“I didn’t know Hausas were friendly.”

“I’m not Hausa,” I laughed. “I’m Yoruba.”

He was shocked.

I made him pronounce my name he failed and I mocked him.

He still didn’t reduce the price, but we left the conversation as humans.

This is the same reason I kept quiet when people argued endlessly about Christians and Muslims.

“Haba, Hadiza, why didn’t you say anything?” my friend asked.

And I said what I now say to you:

Islam does not enforce compulsion.

‘To you your religion and to me mine’ (Qur’an 109:6).

But I am commanded to be kind, fair, and just.

One day, returning from a gathering, I saw a woman in white Cele attire (the flowing garment) worn by members of the Celestial Church lying by the roadside, bleeding.

I jumped out of the cab and crossed over.

Another man joined me.

We waved down cars for help.

Three cars, all Christian men wearing sutanas, the long white robes used in their worship, drove past us.

The man beside me muttered,

“Religion isn’t our problem in this country. Humanity is. Why didn’t they stop?”

Eventually, a pastor stopped.

We lifted the woman into his car and took her to the hospital.

As we stepped out, the pastor said,

“Alhaja, thank you.”

No one saw a job tag.

No one saw a religion.

They saw a human being who cared.

It reminded me of a hadith recorded by Imam al-Bukhārī and Imam Muslim.

A Jewish funeral once passed by the Prophet ﷺ, and he stood up out of respect.

Someone said, “But it’s a Jewish funeral.”

And the Prophet replied:

“Was he not a human soul?”

(Bukhārī & Muslim)

A reminder that dignity isn’t selective — it is universal.

Allah says in the Qur’an:

“We have certainly honored the children of Adam.”

not ‘the Muslims,’ not ‘your tribe,’ not ‘your people,’ but all humans.

And again:

“O mankind, We created you from male and female and made you into nations and tribes so that you may know one another.”

(Qur’ān 49:13)

Today, the world turns religion into rivalry and tribes into fortresses.

But at the end of the day, we are simply humans with different stories, different backgrounds, the same heart.

A heart capable of coexistence.

A heart capable of kindness.

So no, do not make me your enemy.

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Until hearts yearn again in sync,

Yours,

Hameedah.

I miss the bravery that came naturally, the innocence that protected me, the softness I didn’t even know I had.

I miss her… the girl I used to be.

The girl who flew across the fields and rode horses.

The girl who ran with the wind.

Bold. Mouthy. Confident. Sure.

The girl I’m not anymore.

Today unfolded like any other day: questions rising in my throat, dissolving before they reached the air.

Why?

Confidence? Maybe.

Fear? I still don’t know.

I just knew I felt unsure of everything.

When I finally gathered myself to speak, the teacher said, “Hang on… what is your name?”

Why?

Nobody asked the people before me.

Did my fear lace itself into my voice?

And suddenly, I felt invisible again and stupid.

As I stuttered through my response, I missed that little girl who wouldn’t have thought twice, who would have gladly told the world who she was.

So I wrote my questions down. I tried to give myself a voice.

But I was told, “You should know the answers.”

Tell me how do you ask a brilliant question without feeling stupid?

It’s the same heaviness I carry when I fall asleep during an online class I fought so hard to attend.

The same weight that comes with realizing no one is coming to pick you up, clean up after you, or guide you home.

Even when you want to rest, you can’t because you’re the one driving.

I’ve come to love a certain saying:

“There are rooms you cannot enter unless someone carries you.”

And when my little wings can’t even lift my own weight, when I feel stuck, tired and drained.

I realized that “carrying” wasn’t always a person.

Sometimes it was grace, a strange, unpredictable kindness, an untraceable moment of visibility.

No pattern. No promise.

Maybe that’s why I couldn’t understand adulthood.

Or why people call it a joy,

when so much of it is tending to your own wounds

and holding yourself together even when you want to collapse.

So what’s the point of all this, little bird?

All these words I spew?

The truth is this:

Life will still be heavy.

Still painful.

Still uncomfortable.

But just as the eagle soars, we will too…

if you don’t give up,

if you keep learning,

if you adapt,

and above all,

if you pray.

One day, little bird, we won’t be little anymore.

We will become mothers and leaders.

We will anchor the ones who come after us.

But before then…

We will have to fly first.

And even if we fall just to catch the momentum, we must try.

So let’s start eating well.

Let’s choose better.

Let’s listen to the quiet voice of reason over the loud craving for less.

Let’s keep the promises we make to ourselves.

Because nests don’t build themselves.

And if we ever inherit one, let it be held gently:

“Don’t tear down my nest to build yours.”

And most importantly don’t tear your nest down before you even build it.

-Hameedah

How have you been? How is everyone in the village?

I am doing well myself, if you remove the fact that simple words feel difficult on some days, and my willpower can be softer than a pillow on days it should be strong as steel.
It is new here, new faces, new feelings, but I don’t feel lost.

In fact, I would have you know that I can lead a troupe.
A troop of people trying to find an incinerator, that is.
I think I majored wrong.
I should have tried something along the lines of a map.
Map-bearer, perhaps.

Enough yapping already.

I missed you.
Yes, there I said it.

I miss the smell of ewa agoyin, how the aroma of that beans stew could make me attempt a money laundering I don’t even have access to.

I miss your hugs, even though they were cold.
I miss crying, though I never should have.

You never really cared.

Maybe feelings take time to settle, or time to make sense.
Maybe that’s why we yearn for people we love and trust, even when they give nothing in return.

Is love unconditional?

No.
I don’t think so.
It is conditional on time, availability, kindness, and sacrifice.

I thought I knew love when you left me.
To rid myself of losing it again, I pulled up a wall and anchored your memories and your promise —
your promise not to leave.

I did all you said not to, because you claimed it would teach me how to survive.
I remember it clearly. Even though your “timeless” advice was decades ago, your instructions were not to be missed.
You told me to keep them in my left hand never to “eat with it.”

LIES.
You forgot yours.
That, or you never made them.

God… how could you do that?
And why?

You said not to trust anyone.
You said to wait for you.
To find you.
To love only you…
To believe…only you.

But God knew that doing the exact opposite would free me and allow me to survive.

Lade, it has been twelve years, and you never called.

I was sick in those times.
I won in those years.
I lost. Oh, how lost I was.

I couldn’t even hurt properly because no one wanted to hear about you.
Everyone was angry at you except me.

Well… joke’s on me, right?

But still, I hurt.
I didn’t like those who talked badly about you.
I thirsted for any news of you…
anything, anything at all.

I mourned your absence, but you never called or visited.

I remember on my special days, I would ask for your number to be dialed.
Dad would stare at me sadly and refuse.
I would insist, but it always ended the same way.

You never picked.
You never called back.

So I stopped.

When I stopped, I don’t know.
Maybe somewhere between the years I wore the clothes of grief and burst out crying in unexpected places.

But I think I always knew I would stop, ever since that evening she overheard me planning an escape to run away and find you.

She couldn’t believe her ears whether it was bravery or a suicide attempt.
She sounded so hurt.

That day I wondered: Who was she crying for?
Why did someone you forced me to hate look sincere?
Why did her eyes shine with unshed tears?

Did she hurt for me?
Or for herself?

And as she spoke, I realized how much my words wounded her, all because you made her the villain in your story.

How wrong of you to ask me to hate that woman.

So I learned.
I learned everything all over again, how to crawl,
how to walk in love,
how to accept help,
how to accept what was happening.

I learned to embrace the love, support, and anchor right in front of me.
To accept the new life you put me into but never guided me through.

I was loved.
I was fought for.
I was comforted, pampered, taught.

On the days when I felt alone and unworthy,
she stood for me.

In the earlier days, I didn’t want to speak because I couldn’t speak English, and my Yoruba sounded different.
They didn’t laugh — she hugged me and he got me teachers.

When I came home ashamed of being bullied,
they dispelled my worries.

When I sat at the table, unable to use a fork,
I was taught.

When I hid my hunger,
they didn’t let me.

They loved me.

I stopped being yours then.
I became theirs.

Not your Ayo,
I became their Ayomide.

So no, I don’t hate you.
And I don’t hate the smell of ewa agoyin, I love it because they taught me that love could be unconditional.

These days, when I think of you, I don’t feel hurt or betrayal.
I feel nothing.

I am only afraid you might stand against me in front of Allah.
So I made du‘a for you,
for peace to find you wherever you are.

So when I saw your calls thirteen years late, demanding to be heard…
I wasn’t angry.
I wasn’t sad.
I felt nothing but disrespect.

A disrespect for the love I was given when you took all that I knew.
A disrespect for the kindness and strength I received when you left me dry.

Please don’t.
Don’t disrespect them.
Don’t disrespect me.

I wish you peace without me in it,
and peace for me without you.

Because I have so much love to give now but my map bearings don’t recognize you anymore.

To the ones who hurt and bleed but finally learnt to breathe free.

-Hameedah

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Have you ever written “original copy received by me” for a certificate or letter you received and then you lost it? Yes, that was me.

I was called on a Tuesday to come collect an important letter, one I had been praying for.
Strangely, when I got the call, I felt no excitement. No rush, no joy. Still, I went, collected the letter, and even made a few copies.

The next day, I stayed home and did nothing with it. Life went on… until it didn’t.

By Sunday evening, I finally decided to fill and submit the correspondence related to that letter. I pulled out my file, searched through it and suddenly, something didn’t add up. My eyes searched faster, my hands trembled, and in panic, I flung the papers aside desperately, begging for the letter to appear.

But alas — it was gone.

Only the copy I had made stared blankly back at me.
The letter I didn’t feel excited about was now lost.

I was devastated. Tears came fast. I found myself on the floor, trying to make sense of it all. The room blurred as I retraced every step I had opened that file twice during the week. Could I have misplaced it at the office? Would they keep it? If they had it, wouldn’t they have called me?

Fear, anger, and regret all mixed inside me. Most of all, I was sad.

I had prayed so hard for that paper, yet when I received it, I wasn’t even thankful enough. Now I had lost it.
“Where are your thanks?” I asked myself.

Was this a punishment from Allah?
That thought broke me even more.

But amidst the tears, I remembered Prophet Ibrahim (AS) how he had no child until old age, and when he finally did, Allah asked him to sacrifice that very child. I remembered Prophet Muhammad ﷺ, who lost all his children in his lifetime except one yet continued his mission with strength and patience.

So, I carried on.

I wanted to talk to someone, but who would understand? My parents would only worry or scold. So, I turned to the One who always listens.

I found my way to the prayer mat no, to the bare floor and whispered, “Ya Allah, please find it for me.”
I poured my heart out in sujood. And in that moment, peace filled me because Allah never fails.

I made two raka’at and left the house, smiling and joking as if nothing had happened.

On Monday, I felt uneasy. I knew this was the day I’d find out if it was truly gone. I couldn’t tell my parents. I just waited.

Finally, I went back and subhanAllah, the secretary had found it and kept it safe.

I was overwhelmed with gratitude. I wanted to cry, but not yet. I stepped out of the office, saw people passing by, but in that moment, nothing else mattered.

I went down and made sajdat ash-shukr — the prostration of gratitude. I thought it would be brief, but I stayed longer than expected. My heart overflowed with thanks.

Because truly, what would I have done without His mercy?

I had already written on the paper, “Original copy received by me.”

And that hit me differently.

So, what is it that you have lost?
What is it that you want?

Meet Allah. Tell Allah. And He will get it done.

That day, during a lecture, an Ummu said something that stayed with me:

“Put Allah in the most beautiful parts of your life.”

I almost asked her how, but deep down, I understood.

Whether life feels soft or hard, easy or heavy….meet Allah.
Because when you crawl to Him, He walks to you.
And when you walk to Him, He runs to you.

I pray mercy continues to find us until the wind whispers our names into eternity.

— Hameedah

This man called Aye.

I have always wondered why life is often viewed as a woman.

When life lies in layers.

Defined by experience.

Some days are tough, others are rough.

But everyday man stand unshaken,

Even though his mind lays in debt.

Torn by uncertainties and unresolved needs.

He uffs in pain but hides it behind close doors.

So dear Aye,

How do I explain this?

To a man who doesn’t stutter about who he is,

Who doesn’t ask but takes,

Who doesn’t owns but owes.

Oh Aye,

I have always been particular about things I cherished.

If I was okay with a particular clothe, I got used to it.

It didn’t matter if there were new ones.

I just appreciate the comfort and the knowledge of knowing this was mine.

So today as I walked in the rain.

Anchored by the umbrella.

I remember that in few days I would be packing out of my house.

A house I once made sujud to Allah to give to me.

A house that anchored my failure,

My tears, my laughter.

My loneliness…

Covered my shame, my brokenness and provided me security and sense of belonging.

It wasn’t just a single piece of apartment I paid yearly rent on.

No, to me it was the patio that provided me a view of stars while I laid in bed.

Some days, when I have it bad, Aye.

I remind myself that I can always go home and cry on my bed.

In a way, it was my safe haven.

At least there would always be my home.

To pray, cry and eat in.

Even though it wasn’t the most comfortable, beautiful or aesthetically pleasing.

But to me, It was family.

It was home.

When I looked at the cracked walls, they don’t look bare. They look like support and strength.

Aye,

My world isn’t free of your earthly tentacles because I often see cockroaches who keep my house company while I travel and work.

Still to me…

It is the best place after my parent’s place.

My first place of independence.

Shall I scream another reason why I will miss this house?

I had a say on the time I woke, how I lived.

But now…

I have to say goodbye.

This reminds me heavily about how nothing is truly ours.

Not my house, not yours.

Again not mine.

So Yes, I am sad.

I am moving out of the comfort those walls provided.

Yes, I am obsessed with what I have gotten used to.

Yes, I am afraid of change…

Even though I step into its space every night.

Yes Aye,

I am scared of the unknown.

Dear Aye,

What do you tell this lady?

Obsessed with familiarity,

Isn’t enamored by what is coming.

She lies in the void of losing a known feeling

Without knowing what is ahead.

She thinks, “can I just keep this… while I take a look at what you have?”

A fool, she is.

Because she fell too hard.

Hameedah.

Surah Al-Ankabut (29:64)

“And this worldly life is not but diversion and amusement. And indeed, the home of the Hereafter — that is the [eternal] life, if only they knew.”

And then it hit me.
Maybe this is that moment. The one they say defines who you are.
The one where you don’t feel like it, but you do it regardless.

But my bones scoffed at me.
“How delusional,” they seemed to whisper, as my head slumped against my pillow.
A nap? A random scroll through social media?
“Old habits die hard,” they say, and whoever wrote that line, oh boy, e really try.

That was when I realized how important having a system is.
How a consistent system saves you in moments like this.

But here’s the thing: I don’t believe consistency is the real hero everyone celebrates.
It is persistence that keeps you alive.
Consistency might set the pace, but persistence fights through the pain.
To be stinkingly and disgustingly persistent at life, that is the next level.

I remember typing into Google, one evening hell-bent on finding answers to this argument in my head.

“Is consistency the same as persistence?”
My thoughts rolled with the 3G Glo network, slow and uncertain.
Then came the answer: short, quiet and final.
No.

When I read books about life, effort, and success,
I don’t see consistency. I see persistence.
A burning need to survive. To win.

Because to continue regardless of how you feel is not consistency.
That is persistence.
Consistency plus discipline births persistence.

I once saw a movie about a girl who needed someone to sign a form for her.
He wouldn’t, not until he saw she had something.
She had never run a men’s race before, let alone a marathon.
But she had a goal.
She ran, drained of strength, almost of life, and she won.

To survive isn’t just about those fancy “C” words, consistency, commitment, control.
Haha. But sometimes, maybe it is.

That day I learned that “talent is another name for hard work.”
But life has shown me that hard work can outwork talent, though they’ll never be the same.

Tonight, I’m reminding myself to be persistent.
To keep going.
Whether it is through high effort or sheer self-summoned will,
to persist and to exist, regardless.

Insanely so.
That’s the only way to stay alive.

The Prophet ﷺ said:
“The strong believer is better and more beloved to Allah than the weak believer, though there is good in both. Be eager for what benefits you, seek help from Allah, and do not give up.”
— Sahih Muslim, 2664

Until the rain writes our names again in the sand,

Yours,
Hameedah.

So I am wondering… like I always have… about what true love is.
It feels like a myth at times, but other times when I am conscious of what love truly stands for, it overwhelms me.
A love without boundaries.
It is intense.
It is pure.
And I cry… because I am loved.
And as you read this, you will realize how loved you are too.

I was in class one evening when my teacher randomly asked us what our kunyah was.
“I don’t want to keep calling you by your first names. What is your kunyah, Sister Hameedah?” she asked.

I don’t usually like to share my kunyah because it carries a special meaning for me — only one of my friends knows it. She was the one who taught me what a kunyah was.

There is a name of Allah that I love so much apart from my own name and that is Al-Wadūd (The Ever-Loving).
It speaks to my inner child; it speaks to my whole being.
I love love and this is my favorite kind of love.
And so, I named myself Umm Widaad — Mother of Love.

When I said this kunyah, she asked me why I chose it.
But I went quiet.

Why, you may ask?

Allah’s love toward humans is nothing short of a blessing.
It is encompassing…soft, careful, untouched, and special.
When you fall, He guides you up.
He is forgiving, and to the transgressors He is severe in punishment.
My favorite Protector.
He… SubhanAllah, is not human.

He gave me a life worth living.
He gave me beautiful eyes and a soul.
To know Allah, to truly know Him… I repeat, is heaven on earth.
He is brilliant.
Ageless in grace and mercy.
His commandments are protections that I can never fully comprehend until He lets me.
And yet, for every one that I obey, I am rewarded.

When men stand to close doors on me, He yanks them open.
When they stand in threes or fours, He is the fifth.
When people condemn me, He… gives me another chance.
That love. That devotion.
Alhamdulillah.

I once told someone:
“If you want to get to know me, I want to get to a point where you need to get close to Allah to know me.”

Am I there yet?
No.

But when I read stories of people living the kind of life I long for, I realize someday, that could be me.

There’s this lady who wakes up every night, when everyone else is asleep, and stays awake to talk to her Rabb, the utmost Love.
A love worth living and dying for.
A love that won’t do unless it is the exact same one.

You will say to them, “You can have it all, but I will strive to be His servant.”

So, have you ever been in love with truly being the servant of Allah?
Truly and infinitely?
A love that requires you to reciprocate by worshipping Allah, by believing in Him, by accepting Him and only Him as your Lord.

This is the love that doesn’t give up.
That’s your true love story.

Hameedah

1

Not because there aren’t new ones,

Nor because they don’t still exist,

But because my existence will cease to exist.

I don’t believe in coincidence.

I find it hard to accept that certain events happen just because.

And that’s why I didn’t sit still after that conversation with a stranger.

It was Saturday night, and I was trying to update my phone,

When a message pinged: “Salamualakum.”

The number was random, so I ignored it at first.

Perhaps just spam.

But the messages kept coming.

Then something strange happened: the user started typing in Arabic.

I opened the message and checked the number;

We were in the same group, but the name was unfamiliar.

“Should I report him to the ustadh?

Or just ignore it?” I wondered.

Though I understood a bit of Arabic,

The intro was unclear, mentioning a school but little else.

I searched on Facebook for the name…

Nothing, except this wasn’t spam.

I asked him to write in English since my Arabic wasn’t strong.

He introduced himself and said he graduated from the hifdh school I had attended.

That must have blown my cover.

He thought I was someone else because of my WhatsApp name.

When I said I didn’t understand Arabic,

He realized I wasn’t the person he wanted.

He explained, and I was fine with that.

That should have ended the conversation, but it didn’t.

He asked, “When did you become a hafidh?”

That question hit me hard.

A sharp sting of shame and shock I couldn’t ignore.

It had been three years since I left that school,

And I wasn’t even close to memorizing the Quran.

It stung.

I’d had opportunities to learn Arabic writing and speaking,

And to memorize the Quran, too,

But I had let my excuses outrun my goals.

There I was…,

A stranger in my DMs asking a question meant for another sister,

Probably one who had finished,

Who could speak Arabic fluently.

I wasn’t jealous—

Only deeply challenged.

That conversation wasn’t meant for me,

But it wasn’t a coincidence.

So yes, my excuses have to go.

No, they will go.

I will not be found dead without the Quran alive in me,

Nor without fulfilling my goals.

So perish, thy excuses!

Hameedah

How unfair.
How totally unfair it is.

Life doesn’t owe you….
and neither do you own anything.

Your limbs?
You’ll never understand the power of one moment until it’s taken away from you, like it never existed.

Your eyes?
You think they’re yours so you wear mascara and fix lashes.
You think your skin is the most beautiful, so you leave it out on display?

Wait till one moment happens.
Just one.

Scientifically, it might make sense or not.
But the Giver is supreme.

We live on borrowed time, borrowed hours, minutes yet we suffer from a chronic disease: delusion of grandeur in all its forms.

How bizarre.

Scientists say the atom is the smallest indivisible matter.
Wait till you get reduced to dust — a mere speck of sand.
Yes, you.

The Qur’an reminds us again and again:

“Do they not think?”
— Surah Al-A’raf 7:184

And truly, half the time, we aren’t thinking.

The Prophet ﷺ said:

“Be in this world as though you were a stranger or a traveler.”
— Sahih al-Bukhari 6416

and

“Increase in remembrance of the destroyer of pleasures — death.”
— Sunan al-Tirmidhi 2307 (authentic)

Yet, we keep playing.
Until we become the very people we used to sympathize with.
Until our end comes.

A small, fragile sperm clot….
transformed into bones and flesh
for one purpose: to serve Allah.

Make no mistake about it.

Yet, we grow on the embers of fake promises…
entertainment, distraction, delusion.

I don’t want to wait till then.
No.

How do I worship Allah correctly?

When I remember the righteous before us —
how they valued every breath and every prayer.
I wonder how lightly we treat the same seconds they treasured.

Look at me.
Look at yourself.

Are we really on the right path?

We cannot escape that one moment —
the inevitable one.
But we can pray that when it comes,
our scales will be heavy with good and accepted deeds.

Hameedah.

Why are some minds so easily swayed,
while others stay resolute?

I’ve thought about it deeply.
Some see defiance as stubbornness,
others lack the creativity or intuition to choose.

They say learning should bring a change in behavior.
Some say it should be an active involvement,
building on past experiences and knowledge.
Others say learning is about cognition, a matter of the brain, not behavior.

Yet here I am, wondering on this bleak, cold morning
why, in spite of all these theories,
true as they are in many dimensions of life they seem to fail when it comes to social media learning.

Where societal norms are now shaped
by what certain generations decide is true.
And when others think otherwise,
those with the connection, the numbers, the power…
bend the truth just a little.
Oh, it surely bends any way.

Another group raises an eyebrow
at a part of societal norm
that has kept centuries of minds sane.
And if they, too, have influence,
another chip of that value gets chopped away.

It goes on and on,
the minority becoming the resolute,
the unchanging,
the weird,
and ultimately, the lonelier.

But I digress.

I never quite understood what it was
about makeup, Botox, wigs,
and clothes two sizes too small
that unsettled me.

For a long time, I tried to see
if it was posture,
a tic in character,
or just my personal judgment.

So I turned to the older generation for clarity
but got no answer.
Because change is a generational thing.
As new values are brushed and shaped,
some from the older generation change too.
Some even lend their voices.

Decades ago, such behavior
would have been an abomination,
the laughingstock of society.

But in a bid to protect their “sanity”
their so-called “mental health”
they now find ways to conform to the world.

So I thought back in history,
but memory is a petty little thing.
What is a societal norm, really?
Why is it in place…
if some people get a pass on it
while others take advantage of it?

It shows how much humans lack
in judgment and law.
Yet we abide by these rules
or risk getting judged.

Then a memory surfaced,
my plastic doll my mother bought.
We called it sigidi or baby oníke back in Iseyin.

I remember caring for it like it was my child,
backing it, cooing softly.
I remember standing in front of my mother’s mirror,
dabbing a bit of powder and lipstick on my face,
trying to look like her,
beautiful, like an adult.

At my friend’s house,
we’d sneak into her mother’s room,
trying on her heels, koikoshoe as we fondly called it,
envying her poise,
trying to walk in her steps.

Then we’d throw ourselves onto the bed,
laughing at the ridiculous sight of our made-up faces
and “grown-up” clothes.

It was a play,
a necessary part of childhood.

But what happens when adults do the same?
When they put on a persona
pictured as bold, confident,
and “the new adult”?

Perhaps we’d gather in a circle
and laugh at how impossible they were.
But instead, we act coy,
pretend it’s not what it seems
chipping off the values,
denying the evidence.

So then, what’s left?
Where is my sanity in all this mix?
Where do the young grow?

In the past, lack of access was the problem.
Now, too much access…,
to unfiltered, uncategorized knowledge
has become an environmental pollution.
The worst kind!
A curse and a blessing.

So when you ask,
“Why do you act differently?”
“Why are you so weird?”
“Why does your curiosity never end?”

This is why.

And now,
you see me.

-Hameedah

“And if you obey most of those upon the earth, they will mislead you away from the way of Allah. They follow nothing but assumption, and they are only guessing.”
— Surah Al-An‘am (6:116)

Sometimes, before the day truly begins,
I jot down my thoughts in a way that isn’t poetry or prose.
It’s simply how my mind connects the dots.

Today’s reflection is on time:
its silent power,
its omnipresence,
its mysterious influence over every part of our lives.

Eulogy of Time

Time, the most powerful of all.
The soldier that is never defeated.
Long live Time,
He who has seen it all.

Owner of the three swords: seconds, minutes, and hour,
Yet the average human leaves him in a corner of the room,
A mere source of information.

A sneaky man who doesn’t budge.

Whether you are late,
He will be your nemesis.
And if you are early,
You will still meet him at your end.

He who doesn’t run but ticks.

We all blame death.
But no one ever catches his friend,
The one who helps serve the orders:
Mr. Time.

He who competes with no one but himself,
Yet everyone is racing with him.

Everyone has a timeframe.
Everyone has a time clause.
When?
When will it be?
Nobody knows.

They say time heals all pain.
But we forget, pain is measurable.
So pain and time are not foes.

Time will count,
Until your scars eventually fade.
What you see is a faded scar,
But nobody hears the tick-tick-tock
As the scars fades away.

We grow plants and farms,
And we expect growth.
But in the dark,
Time doesn’t stop.
It watches.
It counts.

And as I write this,
It doesn’t pause to glare at me.
It ticks.

Everyone talks about now, present, and future,
Forgetting that with every tick,
The now is already washed into something new.

There is no now.
It’s either just passed
Or is yet to come.

And so, when the egg woman tells me
That a boiled egg costs ₦300,
Is that an additional ₦100 for her time and water?
I thought: “Labour is time.”

And as I looked at the clock,
It gave a wink,
The long hand sitting on 20 minutes.

So I paid.
Time always wins.

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Closing Reflection

I’m learning not to fight time,
But to honor it.
To live inside it,
Instead of letting it slip by unnoticed.

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Maybe we don’t need more time,
Maybe we need more awareness of it.

Maybe honoring time
Is how we honor Allah’s gift of life.

“By time, indeed, mankind is in loss,
Except those who believe and do righteous deeds,
and encourage one another to truth,
and encourage one another to patience.”
(Surah Al-‘Asr, 103:1–3)

Until the silence sings our names once more,
Hameedah