A Word of Intention:
This book does not come to dis-mantle your beliefs.
Nor to replace what you hold sacred. No.
It is neither a weapon, nor doctrine.
It is simply... A mirror.
Held gently for those brave enough to see themselves in it,
for those ready to unlearn what was once survival,
and re-learn what might just be the soulful truth.
It is for those who wish to:
· Witness the trials and lessons of life, love, and leadership.
· Learn from the triumphs and falls of our fellows.
· Understand the power of patience in Allah, faith, and striving in goodwill.
· Experience the mercy of Allah through trials, blessings, and divine timing.
- A tale of the soul whispering beneath the worldly noise:
"What is my divine purpose here on Earth?"
A work of fiction.
A vessel of divine memory.
A home for those still remembering.
Here begins 'The Criterion'.
__________.
'Nur Afiya' __ NINE YEARS AGO...
Eighteen-year-old Jamal walked a few steps behind Almeida and Jamila, the two sisters who had embraced him as family since his mother's passing. His Qur'an bag swung gently against his hip with each step. A familiar rhythm, marking yet another evening after madrasa.
But tonight was different.
The Shaykh's final words still lingered like sacred smoke around him, refusing to fade. They echoed through his mind with a weight that felt both ancient and immediate:
"When truth dies among earthlings, corruption spreads. And to those who allow it? Allah's verdict is coming."
That was how the Shaykh had closed the day's 'Truth School'. Pure, deep, thoughtful.
As they walked farther from the Madrasa, the evening wrapped deeper around them: the perfume of night-blooming jasmine, the distant scent of suya smoke, and something else. Something subtle and sharp, a prickle of unease tracing the back of Jamal's neck.
A warning, if he was ripe enough to understand the soul's language.
Maghrib had long passed as the street now lay quiet, almost like it's holding its breath. Only the sisters' soft laughter broke through the silence, their words slipping just beyond Jamal's hearing.
'He didn't know it then, that this ordinary walk; would be his last night in Nur Afiya as a boy.'
He shifted the strap of his bag, as he watched them giggle and stroll ahead unhurriedly. Girls he trusted, girls he would protect without question.
Up front, Jamila scoffed, brushing dust from her abaya. "Next time we close this late, I'm asking Allah(SWT) for wings to fly home. At least the sky won't keep me waiting like you two snails."
Jamal offered a faint smirk. "Really? A guinea fowl wishes for the feathers of an eagle. An eagle dreams of the speed of a peregrine. Even the peregrine still envies the rocket's journey to space. Such is the nature of 'the human condition'. Which is why contentment remains the truest path to peace. At least thank Allah for your legs."
"Jamal and his sermons. Always on cue," Almeida murmured, turning toward the main road.
"Besides," Jamal continued, "I don't understand your rush when you'll eventually get home. Instead of asking for wings, why not ask for more patience with Allah's timing in your life? It's not as though tonight was wasted. We're walking home carrying knowledge that will shape our lives; in the best way possible."
Jamila halted, lips pursed. "Knowledge? Spare me that talk, please. The Shaykh could've just booked us a bed. Honestly, Jamal, we barely survive three hours of his so-called 'Time-Wasting School'." She raised two fingers in mocking quotation marks. "And he increased it to five. Who does that?"
Jamal shook his head, a quiet laugh escaping him. "'Time-Wasting School,' really? You always have names for everything, Jamila." He paused, his expression turning thoughtful. "Well... that's your take. But believe me or not, to the wise, it's a school of remembrance, for every soul journeying on this Earth."
His eyes shifted to Almeida, intent and earnest. "You're the only one who can help her understand. These reminders are important, especially for women growing up here in Nur Afiya. I trust you because you're wiser than the others. Speak to her heart before she strays too far to find her way back."
Almeida only gave a sheepish smile and a small shrug, her gaze slipping away from his.
The wind stirred again, rattling a loose tin roof somewhere nearby. Dust whispered like secrets across the darkened road.
Jamila exhaled loudly and slowed her pace, turning to face Jamal with a look of weary defiance. "Khaleefa Jamal," she said, her tone edged with sarcasm. "I hail you. Talking like you're the Shaykh's echo. Grow up chief. The world is sprinting, but you and your Shaykh are still walking barefoot in circle."
Jamal's gaze intensified, his voice dropping to a low, urgent tone. "If the world is sprinting towards the direction you claim it is, then maybe it's sprinting toward its own downfall. That class is exactly what we all need: Both young and old. To stay firmly on the path of truth. To live under Allah's mercy, in humble obedience, with the remembrance of the Last Day deeply rooted in our hearts." He quickened his steps, closing the distance between them, his words clear and unshaken. "That is the only pace that matters. What else could?"
He paused, studying her closely.
"Don't tell me you were irritated the whole time?"
"Not irritated," Jamila admitted. "But did we really need to sit for hours listening to words most of the audience won't act on? Not everyone is ready to change Jamal. And me? Tonight was supposed to be my night. I've waited months for this particular movie; I just got it today, and instead of being at home watching it, I sat there 'losing precious time'. You can't imagine my relief that we're almost home." She quickened her pace as if chasing a departing bus.
Jamal's voice rose in pursuit, earnest and unwavering. "Jamila, listen. Truth doesn't waste time. A good message only matters when someone lives by it. Whether you liked the lecture or not, the Shaykh has done his part. Allah will reward him. The real question is; how will you respond? Elders usually say; you can only lead a horse to water, but you can't force it to drink."
Almeida's soft laugh cut through the weight of his words; a sound so gentle it seemed she couldn't hurt a fly. It drew Jamal's eyes back to her.
"Look, Jamal," she said softly, "she's sixteen. Allah gave everyone free will, and I believe she already knows right from wrong. At some point, you have to accept there's only so much you can tell her. By sixteen, you're already shaping your own path."
Jamal exhaled, adjusting the Qur'an bag on his shoulder. "I hear you. But every dawn brings a new chance to grow, and know that she won't stay sixteen forever. In a world pulling so many away from their divine purpose, consciousness of Allah should be the anchor our choices. Remember; Jezebel was once sixteen, and so was Maryam(Mary). Their paths diverged completely. My prayer is that none of us make choices that break our spirits before we understand what's truly at stake, and may Allah continue to guide us all."
"Insha'Allah," Almeida murmured beneath her breath. 'By the grace of Allah'
Across the street, beneath the flickering glow of a fluorescent light, three boys kicked a worn ball down the dusty lane. Nearby, an elderly woman fanned glowing embers beneath blackened roasting maize. The evening air hummed with familiar sounds and scents, yet beneath it all lingered a deeper, almost sacred, quiet.
Jamila reached the compound gate and pushed it open with both hands, slipping inside without looking back. Almeida followed, holding the gate ajar before glancing over her shoulder.
Jamal stood at the roadside, brushing dust from his trousers with a folded handkerchief.
"You're coming in, right?" she asked.
Jamal paused, then scratched his head.
The hesitation wasn't shyness; it was instinct, learned at a young age. Home hadn't been a sanctuary since his mother's death two years ago, a loss as sudden as it was brutal. His father had vanished long before Jamal learned to speak. His sister, too, was gone; married off to the North, absorbed into another family's story. And Fawas, the only brother he'd chosen in his heart, lived in a house too volatile for frequent visits.
Aside from his uncle's house where he usually spent the night, this was what remained: a house full of women's voices and warmth. They had become his family in all but name. Bound not by blood, but by a kindness so steady it put many true families to shame. Not his home, yet not a place that turned him away either. That was why he rarely refused when they called.
"You're coming in," Almeida said again, her voice leaving no room for refusal. "My mom made tuwo before she left. Unless you've already eaten?"
A slow smile touched Jamal's lips and he blinked twice, as though gathering himself back into the moment.
"I haven't eaten. Wallahi, you had me at tuwo. How did you predict I must be hungry?"
She grinned, a flash of mischief in her eyes, then turned toward the inner compound. He followed, and behind them, the iron gate swung shut with a heavy, final clang.
_________.
Inside, the house breathed warmth. The rich, sweet scent of freshly fried puff-puff lingered in the air, mingling with the delicate fragrance of night-blooming jasmine drifting through the open window. Soft golden light from the chandelier spilled across crisp linen and warm surfaces.
Mariyah, Almeida's elder sister, sat cross-legged on a woven rug, picking at a napkin full of puff-puffs while low-tuned hip-hop hummed in the background.
She was already exchanging words with Jamila when they entered. Glancing up at them, she exclaimed, "Wow! Finally! I thought the Shaykh took you all to relive the Battle of Badr." She turned to Jamila, feigning a frown. "You should've just left that movie at home instead of taking it to Madrasa. All this attitude just because you bought it with your own money. Honestly... you won't believe i nearly ate the house waiting."
"Sands are plenty outside; no need to render us homeless," Almeida muttered as she slipped toward her room. Your peers are out there winning souls, while you sit here whining over a movie."
"I could've won plenty, you know..." Mariyah retorted, her voice muffled by puff-puff. "Maybe I'll start tomorrow." She nodded solemnly, then dipped another piece of puff-puff into her already full cheek. "I'll be like, 'O people of Nur Afiya! Alla..'" Her words dissolved into a sudden, choking cough. "Water, water; Jamila, help!"
Jamila shook her head and handed her a glass of water, a faint smile touching her lips. "If you choke yourself to death over puff-puff, just know we'll still share thousands of them at your funeral."
Mariyah couldn't reply; she just gulped down the water, trying to calm her racing heart.
Jamal lingered near the doorway, quietly taking in their familiar back-and-forth. After a moment, he slid off his sandals and settled into his usual corner of the couch. A spot that felt familiar, quiet, almost like a refuge.
Minutes later,
Almeida returned carrying a tray laden with puff-puff and cups of steaming tea.
But something else had changed.
Gone was the loose abaya from madrasa. She now wore a grey sleeveless top and simple black shorts. Her scarf was gone, her hair tied up loosely with a few stray strands framing her face.
Jamal blinked; not because he hadn't seen girls dress like that, but because this was Almeida, and the change felt subtle, yet deliberate. Still, it was her home. Who was he to question how she chose to dress within it?
She handed him a mug, her finger lingering longer than necessary as her thumb grazed his knuckle.
He felt it.
Not just the touch; but a shift inside.
A fight-or-flight kind of tug.
"Jazakillah," he murmured, eyes fixed on the tray.
Almeida smiled faintly and settled beside him, picking up her own mug.
"That's your eighth puff-puff since we came in, Mariyah," Jamila teased as she slid a cassette into the DVD player. "I wonder how many you've swallowed before we got back."
Mariyah mumbled something, her mouth still full. Cheeks round and guilty.
The screen flickered to life. Jazz tune spilled from the speakers, soon followed by intimate scenes; lips meeting lips, roaming hands, breathless sounds filling the room.
Five minutes in, Jamal's stomach tightened. This wasn't their usual lighthearted drama. The kind they'd laugh about, debate, or even feel sympathy for the characters. This felt raw. Uncomfortably raw. The silence in the room grew heavier than the sounds coming from the television.
"You're quiet," Almeida whispered, leaning closer until her thigh brushed against his. "Not enjoying the movie? Or has the cat got your tongue?"
Jamal adjusted a little, "I didn't expect Jamila to pick a movie like this," he replied quietly. "This kind of temptation is harder to withhold; than the role of leadership. And i usually stay quiet when temptation speaks."
"But we grow, right?" Almeida teased softly. "Isn't that what you told me on our way from madrasa? If temptation has stolen your voice, maybe I could give you a beautiful one to reply with."
She leaned in once more, and Jamal shifted further toward the edge of the couch, his jaw visibly tightening.
"You're taking it too far. When I said 'we grow,' is this really what you had in mind?" He paused. "You know I wouldn't be here this late if it weren't for hunger strong enough to bring a man to his knees," he said flatly.
"Relax, Jamal. Have I ever lied to you? I'll bring the tuwo right after the movie," Almeida replied smoothly.
"Hooking me with food now? Okay.." Jamal quipped, a dry edge to his voice.
"And romance," Mariyah chimed in with a sly smile. "Deadly combo."
He leaned back into the couch, his tone low but firm. "Just remember; Allah dislikes deceit."
Almeida's voice carried a playful challenge, soft but sharp at the edges.
"Deceit..? When I'm no Shaytan. Yet here you are, pulling away; afraid I might bite?"
"You probably would; if chanced," Jamal shot back, his voice tense. He half-closed his eyes. "The way you're dressed tells me you're capable of more than just biting." He gestured sharply toward the screen. "And this movie... Why not just bring the food now?"
She didn't answer.
From the opposite couch, Jamila snickered. "Jamal's just scared of women, that's all. He always does that... turtling thing, when things get heated."
"What's 'turtling thing'?" Jamal retorted, raising an eyebrow.
"One little flirt," Jamila grinned, "and you retreat right back into your shell."
"Little flirt..." Jamal grumbled under his breath, the words tight with fraying patience. Still;
these were girls he trusted. Like blood sisters.
On screen, the scene had softened. Though still not appropriate, but it was visibly less brazen. Jamal forced himself to relax, drawing a slow breath. He trusted them. After all, it was just a movie.
Almeida leaned in once more, her breath warm against his ear. "I don't know why I just can't get over you Jamal, I.." she whispered.
Jamal froze, every muscle tense. He cut her off before she could finish. "This is going beyond our usual banter, Almeida, and you know it," he said sharply. "You understand exactly what you're doing."
Her lips curled into a faint, defiant smile. "And what's that?"
"Striking matches in a room soaked with gasoline." Jamal shot back, holding her gaze, unwavering. "You can possibly get scarred if the fire outbreaks."
Almeida's smile wavered, but she pressed on. "So...?"
"Just know that; whatever is your plot, it cannot happen," Jamal said firmly. "I know these are just tests from Allah. Even Prophet Yusuf had his tests, but he held onto his dignity."
Almeida's eyes darkened, voice dropping low. "And what did dignity get him? A prison cell."
"No," Jamal's voice rose, clear and unwavering. "Allah raised him above those who wronged him. He was honored while they were shamed. And look at Samson; he gave in to desire. Where did it lead him? You should hold onto one thing for yourself, Almeida: dignity. It's what keeps you from breaking divine law."
She drew back slightly, studying his face, her playful demeanor fading. "So you're basically saying; I have no dignity?" she asked coolly, turning back toward the television. "Maybe next time you'll see things differently."
Jamal's voice was soft, yet edged with resolve.
"There won't be a next time. I've made a promise to Allah; no romance until I'm ready to honor it with marriage and family. I won't lay with a woman I haven't respected through nikah, nor without the approval of her family. Intimacy is sacred; meant to please Allah, not defy His command. This is how it was written. This is how it should be."
Mariyah licked sugar from her fingers, smirking. "Jamal really thinks he's living in the time of Prophet Ibrahim. Bet he needs a wake-up call."
Jamal's gaze didn't flinch. "Whatever you say I need, that's your opinion; not mine. I care only about how I present myself before Allah."
The silence that followed felt as though an angel just passed. Thick, heavy, more palpable than the evening air.
Finally, Jamal broke the stillness, his voice gentle yet layered with conviction. "It's not that you're a bad person, Almeida; not at all. I understand what you're feeling, but I don't see you that way. Not you, not Jamila, not Mariyah. You're all beautiful, yes. Intelligent, without a doubt. But to me, you're like sisters. And protecting our honor and sacredness now, while we're young; that's what draws Allah's mercy into our life early. Don't wait until it's too late to understand that."
With that, he turned back to the screen, his thoughts simmering beneath the surface.
The laughter had vanished. The atmosphere in the room had shifted palpably after Jamal's words.
The movie was still on, but the scene was softer now, yet the air itself seemed to hang with unspoken weight.
An hour and a half passed before the film finally ended, leaving only the low hum of jazz lingering in the background.
Almeida stood. "I'll get the tuwo now," she whispered, heading toward the kitchen.
"BarakAllahu," Jamal murmured, his stomach already growling softly.
A few moments later, Mariyah's phone chimed. She glanced at the screen, smiled, and rose to leave. "Be right back."
"Oookkaaay..." Jamila teased. "They've started calling you already."
"Who's calling You? ..Our grandmother's parrot." Mariyah retorted playfully as she made for the door.
"Our grandmother's peacock," Jamila shot back. "Just be mindful of who you follow in this Nur Afiya."
Now only Jamal and Jamila remained in the parlor. Then Jamila stood abruptly. "I'm going to check on my phone."
"Alright. Don't be late," he said, lying back on the couch. "Tell Almeida to hurry, please. The worms in my stomach are already preaching. I might as well stay a bit longer and say hello to your mom when she returns."
"Very well… back in a jiffy," she replied, turning toward the main door.
He smiled faintly and let out a deep sigh. The tension from the movie, the charged exchanges, the heavy silence now enveloping the house; all planted a restless unease in him. It felt like a trap disguised as comfort, but he was too tired to entertain suspicion. After all, the food will be here soon.
And like a man lulled by warmth and weariness, he drifted. Not quite asleep, not fully awake either; somewhere in between.
Eyes shut. Mind clouded. Chest rising and falling like waves against a stony shore.
He didn't know, he couldn't have known;
that as the night in Nur Afiya deepened into amber stillness, the hours ahead would unravel all he thought he understood about trust and friendship.