When he sat up, he listened carefully, wondering if his ears were deceiving him. Was he truly hearing the call to end the dawn prayer?
"Innalillahi wa inna ilaihi raji'un…"
He murmured as he reached for his phone and checked the time: 5:12 AM. His stomach growled loudly—definitely hunger, since he barely ate anything meaningful the night before. Again, his stomach made a different, alarming sound. He jumped off the bed and rushed out of the room, heading straight toward Jamila’s room. He could not recall a single day when Jamila overslept; if not for her, he would have been counted among men who fail to appear for the Fajr prayer at the mosque.
"Jamila…"
He called as he pushed her door open. He found her lying on the prayer mat, still in her grey hijab, curled up—clearly she had fallen asleep right after the prayer. He approached and tapped her gently.
"Jamila."
She stirred, whispering God’s name, yawned, and tried to sit up.
"Are you okay today?"
She finished sitting up and replied:
“I prayed, I was doing my dhikr, I guess sleep carried me away.”
He clicked his tongue softly, relieved she was fine.
"Well, we are really late today."
Jamila’s face changed as she absorbed the situation.
"Subhanallah, late? Really?"
She grabbed her phone immediately.
"Wallahi, yes…"
After checking the time she sighed:
"Hmm, must be the sleep that fell on me. You know I don’t set alarms anymore because I’m used to waking up early."
He rubbed his forehead tiredly.
"May Allah make it easy. But I’m worried—I barely ate yesterday, and I have a lot to do at the shop today. I don’t think I’ve ever felt hunger like this in my life."
Jamila’s heart tightened with sympathy. She remembered his words:
"You don’t know how much help you give me by waking me. If not for you, I would end up like those men who oversleep and miss prayer…"
She smiled faintly at the memory.
"It is what Allah has destined. Please go and pray before more time passes. Let me enter the bathroom."
She stood, feeling his eyes on her until she closed the bathroom door. When she finished and returned, she removed her hijab and lay beside their sleeping child, Nana. Her chest felt heavy.
Since she married Baffa, he never hid his desire to marry more than one wife. She already accepted it in her heart, despite her strong jealousy. Sometimes, after praying for God to expand their wealth, she would almost want to withdraw her prayer, fearing that if they became too comfortable, he would marry again.
She remembered when he began building their house. He took her on his motorcycle to show her the land and said he wanted to build a two-level house with separate apartments.
"Then I want the upper floor," she had said.
He laughed: "What if that’s where I put the new wife?"
A sharp pain struck her heart, but she answered:
"Then she can stay downstairs. I am the first wife—I should get to choose my space."
Time passed. They completed the ground floor and moved in. As months went by, she relaxed because no construction materials for the upper floor arrived. But just before Ramadan, she noticed changes. Baffa was on his phone too often, even into the night—even at dawn.
He began returning from the mosque much later. Sometimes he went straight to his own room and locked the door. Jamila knew—another woman had found her way into her husband’s life.
When she saw him smiling at his phone, her heart burned. She remembered his sweet words during courtship, how he treated her like a fragile egg. She imagined him offering the same tenderness to someone else. Something ancient and painful resurfaced.
During Ramadan, she begged Allah:
"O Allah, do not let my husband turn away from me. Do not let me be humiliated in his eyes. Do not let another wife harm me, nor me harm her. Protect me from jealousy that destroys peace."
She repeated these prayers in every prostration, in every quiet moment—until her heart began to soften.
Yet she never imagined he would lie so boldly in Ramadan, claiming that if not for her, he would end up wasting life away, while he spent nights chatting with another woman instead of waking for Fajr.
The Decision to Stop Waking Him for Prayer
She whispered “Hmm…” remembering it all. In the early days of their marriage, she thought he would be the one to wake her for prayer, as it was done in her parents’ home. But she realized she had to wake for both of them, or she would end up missing the dawn prayer completely.
Yet now—after hearing him lie to impress another woman—she made a quiet decision:
She would no longer wake him for Fajr.
Let him follow the path he was choosing, she told herself. Even though it crushed her, she accepted it. Since she didn’t eat before dawn anyway, she could survive with only water. But Baffa? He loved to eat properly before fasting. Now he would have to wake himself.
Last night he returned, she prepared food, but he ignored it. His phone filled his attention, and when she reminded him the meal was getting cold, he said:
"Just clear it. I’m not hungry."
The phone rang again and again, and he said:
"I’m extremely tired. I need to rest well tonight."
That was his way of telling her not to come to his room.
She had swallowed her pain and gone to make du’a, sat in silence, listening.
This morning, she heard his steps only after Fajr had already passed, and she quickly lay down, pretending to be asleep, preparing herself for t
he scene that led to his shock.
She would no longer share in a lie he chose to live.
Description
Late Awakening and Missed Dawn Prayer
When he sat up, he listened carefully, wondering if his ears were deceiving him. Was he truly hearing the call to end the dawn prayer?
"Innalillahi wa inna ilaihi raji'un…"
He murmured as he reached for his phone and checked the time: 5:12 AM. His stomach growled loudly—definitely hunger, since he barely ate anything meaningful the night before. Again, his stomach made a different, alarming sound. He jumped off the bed and rushed out of the room, heading straight toward Jamila’s room. He could not recall a single day when Jamila overslept; if not for her, he would have been counted among men who fail to appear for the Fajr prayer at the mosque.
"Jamila…"
He called as he pushed her door open. He found her lying on the prayer mat, still in her grey hijab, curled up—clearly she had fallen asleep right after the prayer. He approached and tapped her gently.
"Jamila."
She stirred, whispering God’s name, yawned, and tried to sit up.
"Are you okay today?"
She finished sitting up and replied:
“I prayed, I was doing my dhikr, I guess sleep carried me away.”
He clicked his tongue softly, relieved she was fine.
"Well, we are really late today."
Jamila’s face changed as she absorbed the situation.
"Subhanallah, late? Really?"
She grabbed her phone immediately.
"Wallahi, yes…"
After checking the time she sighed:
"Hmm, must be the sleep that fell on me. You know I don’t set alarms anymore because I’m used to waking up early."
He rubbed his forehead tiredly.
"May Allah make it easy. But I’m worried—I barely ate yesterday, and I have a lot to do at the shop today. I don’t think I’ve ever felt hunger like this in my life."
Jamila’s heart tightened with sympathy. She remembered his words:
"You don’t know how much help you give me by waking me. If not for you, I would end up like those men who oversleep and miss prayer…"
She smiled faintly at the memory.
"It is what Allah has destined. Please go and pray before more time passes. Let me enter the bathroom."
She stood, feeling his eyes on her until she closed the bathroom door. When she finished and returned, she removed her hijab and lay beside their sleeping child, Nana. Her chest felt heavy.
Since she married Baffa, he never hid his desire to marry more than one wife. She already accepted it in her heart, despite her strong jealousy. Sometimes, after praying for God to expand their wealth, she would almost want to withdraw her prayer, fearing that if they became too comfortable, he would marry again.
She remembered when he began building their house. He took her on his motorcycle to show her the land and said he wanted to build a two-level house with separate apartments.
"Then I want the upper floor," she had said.
He laughed: "What if that’s where I put the new wife?"
A sharp pain struck her heart, but she answered:
"Then she can stay downstairs. I am the first wife—I should get to choose my space."
Time passed. They completed the ground floor and moved in. As months went by, she relaxed because no construction materials for the upper floor arrived. But just before Ramadan, she noticed changes. Baffa was on his phone too often, even into the night—even at dawn.
He began returning from the mosque much later. Sometimes he went straight to his own room and locked the door. Jamila knew—another woman had found her way into her husband’s life.
When she saw him smiling at his phone, her heart burned. She remembered his sweet words during courtship, how he treated her like a fragile egg. She imagined him offering the same tenderness to someone else. Something ancient and painful resurfaced.
During Ramadan, she begged Allah:
"O Allah, do not let my husband turn away from me. Do not let me be humiliated in his eyes. Do not let another wife harm me, nor me harm her. Protect me from jealousy that destroys peace."
She repeated these prayers in every prostration, in every quiet moment—until her heart began to soften.
Yet she never imagined he would lie so boldly in Ramadan, claiming that if not for her, he would end up wasting life away, while he spent nights chatting with another woman instead of waking for Fajr.
The Decision to Stop Waking Him for Prayer
She whispered “Hmm…” remembering it all. In the early days of their marriage, she thought he would be the one to wake her for prayer, as it was done in her parents’ home. But she realized she had to wake for both of them, or she would end up missing the dawn prayer completely.
Yet now—after hearing him lie to impress another woman—she made a quiet decision:
She would no longer wake him for Fajr.
Let him follow the path he was choosing, she told herself. Even though it crushed her, she accepted it. Since she didn’t eat before dawn anyway, she could survive with only water. But Baffa? He loved to eat properly before fasting. Now he would have to wake himself.
Last night he returned, she prepared food, but he ignored it. His phone filled his attention, and when she reminded him the meal was getting cold, he said:
"Just clear it. I’m not hungry."
The phone rang again and again, and he said:
"I’m extremely tired. I need to rest well tonight."
That was his way of telling her not to come to his room.
She had swallowed her pain and gone to make du’a, sat in silence, listening.
This morning, she heard his steps only after Fajr had already passed, and she quickly lay down, pretending to be asleep, preparing herself for t
he scene that led to his shock.
She would no longer share in a lie he chose to live.
And so it began.