DAULAH

A Shared Grief of Regret

"Do not be attached to this world. It is a temporary abode, a bridge to the Hereafter. Build your palace in the Hereafter, for that is your eternal home. Spend your time and energy on what will benefit you in the afterlife, not on what will only distract you in this fleeting life. Remember that every breath you take brings you closer to your appointment with your Creator."

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MAIMUNATU

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I have what I call Sheikh phobia. If that's even a word, or if it makes sense, but what I mean is, I've always been wary of the Sheikh, mostly because of how very saintly the man is, a stark contrast to who I am...was. He embodies a kind of piety that feels so far removed from the messy, complicated person I used to be. It's like looking at a perfectly calm lake from a turbulent ocean. So I've always stayed away from him, a safe distance maintained by years of feeling unworthy. But today, circumstances leave me with no other choice but to come to Sheikh for help, seeing that at the moment, he's the best person I should come to. He's the one who should be able to understand these things, the things that are tearing my life apart.

So here I am, parked in front of Sheikh's Zawiya, draped in a hijab. I drove here straight after seeing Ammah off, my mind a whirlwind of her words, of the impossible truth she revealed.

Mukhtar didn't return last night; he hasn't slept in the house. Making it clear that he really can't be under the same roof with his sister. A knot of worry tightens in my stomach thinking about where he is, if he's safe, if he's okay. But I push it down. I can't dwell on worrying about that right now. That's another problem for later. What I need is to pluck the problem out by its roots. This...this sihr...it's the core of everything.

I take another breath, the air thick with the scent of dust and something sweet, maybe burning incense from somewhere inside. And then another. My heart pounds a frantic rhythm against my ribs. Getting out of this car feels like stepping off a cliff. Another long, shaky breath. What is wearing me out more than the daunting prospect of meeting the Sheikh is meeting Karima. My lost friend. The thought of her face, of how she might look at me, after everything...it's a different kind of wariness.

Knowing very well that I cannot bypass Karima and go straight to Sheikh, that would be disrespectful, a blatant disregard to our once relationship. Whatever might have transpired between us, whatever wounds were inflicted and received, Karima has always been the only link that I have in the Zawiya. So I have to meet her, I have to go through her, though what the outcome of our meeting is going to turn out remains utterly unknown to me. Will she turn me away? Will she be cold, distant? The uncertainty is a heavy weight.

I take the familiar route inside Sheikh's house, the path I walked so many times in a different life, a different version of myself. And when I say *Salamalaikum* into the bustling compound, the sound feels small and hesitant in the morning air, I am greeted by several eyes of Sheikh's household. They pause in their morning routines – a woman sweeping, children playing quietly, someone carrying a tray of tea. I offer tentative smiles, feeling exposed despite the covering.

There, on the other side, Karima stands. She's spreading wet clothes on the drying ropes, her movements practiced and efficient as always. She seems to have just washed them, the fabric dark and damp against the bright sunlight. She is dressed in a simple A-shaped tailored ankara, the kind of modest, practical clothing that defines her. Karima stops moving. She stands like she's frozen in one place, her hands still holding a wet cloth, simply staring at me. Her eyes are wide with surprise, perhaps shock. And I return the stare from where I stand, trying to read her expression. Is it anger? Indifference? It's impossible to tell from this distance, from behind the veil of our shared past.