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@tradewindsjournal
Welcome to the Trade Winds Reading Room
Faith-rooted serialized stories, historical fiction, essays, and overlooked Muslim experiences in America.
Featured series include:
⢠After Wards ⢠The Story of San Juan Hill ⢠The Libraries That Raised Me ⢠Bronzeville ⢠Hijrah House Essays
New entries added weekly.
Stories rooted in memory, literacy, faith, migration, reentry, and the quiet realities shaping overlooked communities.
Abu Hudhayfah Edwards
Until We Meet Again
Part Four: Until We Meet Again
By Abu Hudhayfah Edwards
Winter arrived quietly.
The rose garden rested beneath the cold.
Its branches looked almost lifeless, yet Haleemah knew better than to mistake dormancy for death.
Some seasons asked plants to bloom.
Others asked them simply to remain rooted.
Perhaps hearts were not so different.
Months had passed since she first met the widower.
There had been several conversations since then, each one taking place exactly as she preferred, with family present, respectful boundaries observed, and no promises made before certainty had arrived.
They spoke about ordinary things.
Books.
Gardening.
Grandchildren.
The responsibilities that come with growing older.
Sometimes they remembered their late spouses.
Neither conversation became uncomfortable.
Neither felt the need to avoid speaking their names.
Haleemah found unexpected comfort in that.
She never felt as though she were being asked to replace the life she had lived.
Nor did she imagine replacing his.
They were simply two servants of Allaah who understood what it meant to thank Him for decades of companionship, and what it meant when He decreed that companionship should come to an end.
StillâŚ
She delayed her answer.
Not because she wished to keep anyone waiting.
Because she wished to keep her Lord first.
Her worship quietly increased.
She began completing the Qurâan more often.
Some mornings she remained seated after Fajr until the sun rose, reciting verses that had comforted believers for centuries.
Several nights each week she woke before dawn for Tahajjud.
The house, once so painfully silent, became filled with whispered duâaa.
She asked Allaah for neither marriage nor solitude.
Only guidance.
One night, while the world outside slept beneath a gentle snowfall, Haleemah stood alone upon her prayer rug.
Her hands rose.
Her voice barely rose above a whisper.
âO Allaah⌠If remarriage is better for my religion⌠better for my life⌠and better for my Hereafter⌠then open my heart to it.
And if remaining as I am is better⌠then make me content with what You choose. Do not let me follow my fears. Do not let me follow my desires.
Guide me only toward what pleases You.â
When she lowered her hands, she realized something had changed.
The questions were still there.
The anxiety was not.
Over the following weeks she continued seeking knowledge.
She reread the notes she had gathered from trustworthy scholars.
She listened once more to the advice of the Imam who had reminded her months earlier,
âThe unseen belongs to Allaah.â
She prayed Istikharah.
Not once.
Not twice.
But as often as she felt the need to place the matter before her Lord again.
Each prayer ended the same way.
Not with certainty.
With peace.
One afternoon her oldest daughter joined her in the rose garden.
The bushes had begun showing the first tiny buds of spring.
âTheyâre coming back,â her daughter smiled.
âThey never really left,â Haleemah replied.
âThey were only waiting for their season.â
Her daughter looked toward her.
âHave you decided?â
Haleemah remained quiet for a long moment.
âI have.â
Her daughter searched her motherâs face.
âAre you happy?â
A gentle smile appeared.
âI am at peace.â
No further explanation came.
None was needed.
Several days later Haleemah invited her children to dinner.
The grandchildren laughed through the house exactly as they always had.
The table was full.
The food was simple.
The evening ordinary.
After dessert, the grandchildren wandered outside to play while the adults remained around the table.
Haleemah folded her hands gently before speaking.
âIâve prayed.â
She looked at each of her children.
âIâve sought knowledge.â
âIâve spoken with people I trust.â
âIâve asked Allaah over and over to guide me toward whatever is best.â
She smiled.
âAndâŚâ
She shared the decision that had settled peacefully in her heart.
No one argued.
No one attempted to persuade her otherwise.
Because they could see something that had been missing for many months.
Their mother was no longer carrying uncertainty.
She was carrying contentment.
Whether her path would include another marriage⌠Or whether she would continue walking this road alone⌠Was no longer the heart of the story.
The heart of the story was that she had entrusted the unseen to the One Who knows it completely.
That evening, before retiring for the night, Haleemah stood beside the bedroom window.
The same room where thirty years of memories still lived.
The same room where grief had first taught her silence.
The same room where hope had quietly returned.
She looked toward the stars scattered across the night sky.
Her thoughts drifted to the stories she had loved since childhood.
Yaâqub, who embraced Yusuf after years of separation.
Musa, returned safely to the arms of his mother after she had cast him upon the river in complete trust of her Lord.
The believers promised gardens beneath which rivers flow.
How many reunions, she wondered, had Allaah already written that no human heart could yet imagine?
She smiled.
Not because she knew what tomorrow would bring.
Because she knew the One Who had already written tomorrow.
She whispered one final time,
âAlhamdulillaah.â
Then she turned away from the window and walked peacefully toward whatever future Allaah had chosen for her.
Until We Meet Again
Part Three: The Weight of Tomorrow
By Abu Hudhayfah Edwards
Autumn arrived with cooler mornings and shorter days.
The roses Haleemah had planted that summer now stretched proudly across the front garden, their blossoms catching the soft morning sunlight as though rewarding the months she had spent tending them. Every few days she carried a small watering can through the flower beds, trimming spent blooms and loosening the soil around their roots.
Gardens, she had learned, were patient.
They taught people to trust what they could not yet see.
Perhaps that was why she loved them.
Inside the house, however, life remained much the same.
Quiet.
Comfortable.
Lonely.
Her late husbandâs pension provided more than enough for her needs. The mortgage had been paid years before he returned to his Lord. Every bill was covered. Every necessity was met. If anything, she now spent less than they once had together.
She often smiled when remembering how carefully he had planned for the future.
âIf Allaah calls me home before you,â he had once said while reviewing their retirement papers, âI donât ever want you worrying about money.â
She hadnât realized then how much that simple sentence had been an act of love.
Money, she discovered, could purchase comfort.
It could not purchase companionship.
One windy afternoon a heavy branch broke loose from the old oak tree beside the driveway and landed across the front lawn.
Years earlier her husband would have disappeared into the garage, returned with his ladder and chainsaw, and cheerfully announced, âGive me an hour.â
Instead, Haleemah picked up the telephone.
A landscaping company arrived the following morning.
The young men were polite.
They finished quickly.
She thanked them as they loaded the last pieces of wood into their truck.
As they drove away, she looked toward the empty garage.
Nothing had gone wrong.
Everything had been taken care of.
Yet she still found herself whispering,
âHe wouldâve enjoyed doing that himself.â
The little reminders never seemed to stop.
One evening after Maghrib, the smoke detector chirped from the upstairs hallway.
Years ago she would have smiled and waited for the familiar sound of her husband dragging the stepladder down the hallway.
Now she climbed carefully herself.
Halfway up the ladder she stopped.
Not because she was afraid.
Because she realized she wasnât as steady as she used to be.
She climbed back down.
The next morning her youngest son replaced every battery in the house before leaving for work.
He kissed her forehead.
âCall me next time.â
She smiled.
âI was trying not to bother anyone.â
âYou never bother us, Momma.â
His words warmed her heart.
Even soâŚ
When the front door closed behind him, the silence returned.
A few weeks later Haleemah attended a womenâs lecture at the masjid.
By the time everyone left, the parking lot had grown dark.
Rain had begun falling.
She adjusted her glasses before starting the engine.
The headlights from oncoming cars seemed brighter than they once had.
The rain blurred the painted lines of the road.
She found herself driving more slowly than usual.
When she finally pulled into her driveway, she sat quietly for a moment before turning off the ignition.
Growing older had never frightened her.
Growing older without him sometimes did.
The conversations about remarriage quietly continued.
One Sunday afternoon her oldest daughter lingered after lunch while the grandchildren played upstairs.
âMommaâŚâ
Haleemah looked up from folding napkins.
âYouâve been thinking.â
Her daughter smiled.
âI always think.â
âYou know what I mean.â
She sat beside her mother.
âDaddy loved you.â
âI know.â
âHe spent thirty years taking care of you.â
Tears gathered gently in her daughterâs eyes.
âI donât think heâd want you to spend the rest of your life by yourself.â
Haleemah reached over and squeezed her hand.
âIâve wondered that myself.â
A few days later her youngest son stopped by after work to replace a porch light.
As he packed away his toolbox, he hesitated.
âCan I tell you something?â
âOf course.â
âI know Islam allows you to marry again.â
She nodded.
He looked toward the dining room.
âI justâŚâ
He stopped.
âI canât picture another man sitting where Dad used to sit.â
The words hung gently between them.
He quickly added,
âI donât mean you shouldnât.â
âI know.â
âI just⌠canât imagine it.â
Haleemah smiled sadly.
âNeither can I.â
They both laughed softly.
Not because it was funny.
Because sometimes laughter keeps tears from arriving first.
The sisters at the masjid were equally divided.
One elderly widow smiled while pouring tea.
âCompanionship is one of Allaahâs blessings.â
Across the table another sister shook her head gently.
âIf I had the marriage you were givenâŚâ
She smiled warmly.
âI think I would wait until Jannah.â
No one argued.
No one quoted the other down.
Each woman spoke from her own experience.
Each sincerely wanted what was best for Haleemah.
She realized everyone had an opinion.
No one had her answer.
Life continued teaching its quiet lessons.
One evening she prepared lentil soup and warm bread.
Without thinking, she opened the cabinet and removed two bowls.
She placed them both upon the table.
Only after setting down the second spoon did she stop.
She stood there for several moments.
Then smiled to herself.
âThirty years,â she whispered.
She carried one bowl back to the cabinet.
Not with sadness.
With gratitude.
Few people, she thought, are blessed with thirty years of memories strong enough to become habits.
Then another proposal arrived.
Her oldest daughter mentioned it almost apologetically.
âThis one is different.â
Haleemah looked up.
âHow so?â
âHis wife passed away last year.â
She waited.
âThey were married thirty-four years.â
For the first timeâŚ
Haleemah did not answer immediately.
The family arranged a meeting after âAsr at her oldest daughterâs home.
Nothing about it felt like courtship.
The grandchildren played in the backyard.
Tea was served.
Their adult children remained nearby throughout the visit.
He greeted everyone warmly before taking his seat.
His beard had become mostly silver.
His smile carried kindness more than confidence.
Conversation came easily.
They spoke about volunteer work.
Gardening.
Books.
Grandchildren who seemed determined to leave toys in every room they visited.
Eventually he smiled.
âMy wife insisted on baking fresh bread every Friday.â
His eyes lowered for a moment.
âI still expect to smell it when I wake up.â
Haleemah nodded.
âMy husband refused to make two trips carrying groceries.â
A faint laugh escaped her.
âHe believed every bag could fit in one journey.â
The widower laughed.
âSo did I.â
Neither apologized for speaking about the spouse they had lost.
Neither seemed threatened by the otherâs memories.
InsteadâŚ
Each understood.
When the visit ended, he stood.
âI appreciate your familyâs hospitality.â
He looked toward Haleemah.
âIf you decide that friendship is all this meeting should become, I will understand completely.â
He smiled gently.
âAnd if Allaah writes something elseâŚâ
He paused.
âI pray He grants us both sincerity.â
After he left, the house grew quiet again.
That evening Haleemah stepped into her rose garden.
The autumn breeze carried the fragrance of the last blossoms before fall.
She looked across the yard her husband had once mowed every Saturday morning.
Then she looked at the roses they had planted together.
For the first time since his passing, her heart did not feel divided between yesterday and tomorrow.
It simply recognized that hope had quietly entered the conversation.
She still had not made a decision.
But for the first timeâŚ
She no longer feared the question itself.
Until We Meet Again
Part Two: When the Heart Is Asked Again
By Abu Hudhayfah Edwards
Spring arrived quietly.
The oak trees outside Haleemahâs kitchen window filled with new leaves. Flower beds that had slept through the winter began showing hints of color again. Children rode bicycles through the neighborhood until the evening adhan echoed from the masjid.
Life, as Allaah had decreed it, continued moving forward.
Grief, however, seemed content to walk at its own pace.
Haleemah settled into a new rhythm. Three mornings each week she volunteered in the masjid library, carefully repairing worn book jackets and organizing shelves that seemed to become untidy as quickly as she arranged them. On Thursdays she joined several sisters preparing meals for new mothers and elderly families. Sundays were usually reserved for her children and grandchildren, who refused to let more than a week pass without seeing her.
She smiled more often now.
Not because she had stopped missing her husband.
Because she had learned that love and grief could occupy the same heart without pushing one another away.
One Tuesday afternoon, after her grandchildren had returned home, Haleemah wandered upstairs with a basket of freshly folded laundry.
She hadnât intended to linger.
Yet one doorway after another quietly drew her in.
The first bedroom had once belonged to her oldest son. Although he had long since moved away, a few shelves still held baseball trophies, a framed certificate from high school, and several novels he insisted he would someday come back for.
The second room had belonged to her youngest daughter.
The walls had long since been repainted, but Haleemah could still remember where the posters once hung and where a small desk had stood beneath the window.
She smiled.
Some memories refused to leave simply because the furniture had.
Across the hallway sat the guest suite.
It had its own bathroom, a small sitting area, and a private entrance through the side garden. Over the years it had welcomed visiting relatives, traveling students, and grandchildren who insisted on âsleeping at Nanaâs house.â
NowâŚ
It waited.
She slowly looked from room to room.
Five bedrooms.
One woman.
She quietly shook her head.
âThis house is too much house.â
The thought stayed with her for days.
That Sunday, after dinner, the family gathered in the living room while the grandchildren played hide-and-seek upstairs.
Haleemah waited until everyone had settled before speaking.
âIâve been thinking about something.â
The conversation paused.
âYou know this houseâŚâ
She looked around the room her husband had spent decades filling with laughter.
ââŚit feels awfully large for one person.â
Her oldest son nodded sympathetically.
âIt does.â
âI wonderedâŚâ she continued carefully, ââŚif perhaps one of you might consider moving in.â
The room grew quiet.
âI could move into the guest suite,â she said with a gentle smile. âIt has its own entrance and everything Iâd need. Your family could have the rest of the house.â
Her oldest daughter looked surprised.
âYouâd give up your bedroom?â
âWhat do I need with all that space?â
No one answered immediately.
It wasnât because they didnât want to.
Each of their lives had grown roots of their own.
One family lived close to the childrenâs Islamic school.
Another had jobs on the opposite side of the city.
Another cared for aging in-laws nearby.
They loved their mother deeply.
But none of them could uproot their families.
Her youngest son finally reached across the coffee table and gently squeezed her hand.
âWeâll always make sure youâre never alone, Momma.â
She smiled warmly.
âI know.â
And she did.
Her children visited often.
They called almost every evening.
The grandchildren filled the house with laughter whenever they arrived.
Yet when everyone returned homeâŚ
The silence returned with them.
A week later, shortly after Dhuhr, her oldest daughter arrived carrying two grocery bags and an expression that seemed unusually careful.
âI need to ask you something.â
Haleemah looked up from peeling apples.
âThat serious?â
Her daughter smiled nervously.
âIt might be.â
She helped unpack the groceries before finally sitting across the kitchen table.
âThere was a phone call today.â
âA phone call?â
Her daughter nodded.
âA brother asked about you.â
Haleemah stopped peeling.
Silence settled between them.
âHe didnât ask you directly,â her daughter continued. âHe asked whether our family would even consider speaking with him.â
Haleemah lowered her eyes to the apple still resting in her hands.
âWho is he?â
âA widower.â
Her daughter paused.
âHis wife returned to Allaah three years ago.â
She knew the family.
He had raised his children well.
He was respected in the community.
Financially secure.
Known first for his manners before anything else.
Whenever his name was mentioned, people spoke about his character before mentioning his accomplishments.
âI told them I would ask you.â
Haleemah nodded slowly.
âAnd?â
âAndâŚâ
She smiled gently.
âPlease thank him.â
Her daughter already knew what was coming.
ââŚbut no.â
There was no awkwardness.
No embarrassment.
The answer was given with kindness.
Several days later the message was politely returned.
The matter ended there.
Or so everyone believed.
A month passed.
Another inquiry arrived.
This time it came through one of the older sisters at the masjid.
Another widower.
Retired school principal.
Known for sponsoring Qurâan competitions every Ramadan.
AgainâŚ
Haleemah thanked them.
AgainâŚ
She declined.
Summer arrived.
The grandchildren spent long afternoons at Nanaâs house building blanket forts and helping bake oatmeal raisin cookies. They still asked questions about PopPop almost every visit.
Sometimes they laughed while remembering him.
Sometimes they simply became quiet.
Both felt natural.
Then came another proposal.
And another.
One gentleman had recently retired after decades working as an engineer.
Another had spent years teaching Arabic.
One brother was several years older than Haleemah.
Another was almost exactly her age.
One proposal surprised everyone.
âHe isnât even sixty yet,â one of her friends whispered.
âHe could marry someone much younger.â
Another sister smiled.
âPerhaps he values character more than age.â
Haleemah appreciated every inquiry.
Each represented respect rather than flattery.
No one complimented her appearance.
Instead they spoke of her patience.
Her generosity.
Her years of service.
The way she welcomed people into her home.
The quiet dignity with which she had carried herself after losing her husband.
StillâŚ
Every time she considered what remarriage might meanâŚ
She imagined her husband smiling while stirring honey into her tea before Fajr.
The familiar sight of him carrying every grocery bag from the car in one trip, refusing to make a second journey.
The sound of him making duâaa after Salah, mentioning her by name with a sincerity she had never taken for granted until those prayers became memories.
Those moments had never seemed extraordinary while they were happening.
Now they felt priceless.
One evening she opened her laptop.
Not to answer messages.
Not to watch lectures.
She searched quietly.
âWhat do the scholars say about a widow remarrying?â
âWhat do the authentic narrations mention about spouses in Jannah?â
She filled a small notebook with references.
Some narrations brought her comfort.
Others required careful explanation from the scholars.
She quickly realized that isolated quotations were not enough.
Questions about the unseen deserved humility.
Several weeks later she requested a private appointment with the Imam after Maghrib.
She explained everything.
Not simply the proposals.
The loneliness.
The uncertainty.
The fear that whatever decision she made might somehow diminish the beautiful marriage Allaah had already blessed her with.
When she finished speaking, the Imam remained quiet for several moments.
Finally he smiled gently.
âYou are asking questions that many widows ask.â
âI still donât know what to do.â
âI would be more concerned,â he replied, âif you believed you already had every answer.â
She smiled faintly.
âI wish someone could simply tell me the right decision.â
âI cannot.â
He folded his hands upon his desk.
âNeither can anyone else.â
He paused.
âOur responsibility is sincerity.â
Then he added the words that remained with her long after she left his office.
âThe unseen belongs to Allaah.â
Driving home beneath a sky painted with the colors of sunset, Haleemah found herself repeating those words.
The unseen belongs to Allaah.
When she arrived home, she unlocked the front door and stepped once more into the quiet that had become part of her life.
She hung her keys beside the same dark gray jacket she still had not found the strength to move.
For a moment, she rested her hand lightly against the sleeve.
Not because she feared forgetting him.
She never would.
But because loving him had become part of who she was.
That night, after praying âIsha, she raised her hands.
She closed her eyes for a moment.
For thirty years she had never made an important decision without first talking it over with him.
Now, for the first time in her life, she had to carry this question to her Lord alone.
âO AllaahâŚ
Guide me toward whatever is best for my religion, my life, and my Hereafter.
Do not let loneliness make my decision.
Do not let fear make it either.
Guide me only to what is most pleasing to You.â
She wiped away a single tear.
The proposals continued.
The questions remained.
And though her heart had begun listeningâŚ
It still had no answer.
Until We Meet Again
Part One: The Empty Side of the Bed
By Abu Hudhayfah Edwards
The house had learned a new language.
For thirty years it had spoken in familiar sounds: the soft creak of footsteps before Fajr, the quiet whistle of the kettle, the rustle of Qurâan pages turning while the rest of the neighborhood still slept. Those sounds had become as much a part of the home as its walls.
Now, several months after her husbandâs passing, the house had become fluent in silence.
The visitors had long since stopped arriving.
The covered dishes neighbors had lovingly brought were replaced by ordinary dinners prepared for one. The sympathy cards that once covered the dining room table had been gathered into a small keepsake box and placed on the highest shelf of the hallway closet. Fresh flowers had come and gone. The phone rang less often now. Life, as it always does, had continued moving forward.
Only Haleemah remained standing where grief had first found her.
Every morning she woke before dawn just as she had for decades. Without thinking, her hand reached across the mattress toward the place where her husband had always slept.
Her fingers met only cool sheets and an untouched pillow.
She no longer gasped when she realized he was gone.
That pain had softened into something quieter, yet somehow heavier.
Something heavier.
She sat up slowly and whispered, âAlhamdulillaah,â the same words he had spoken every morning before placing his feet upon the floor. It felt strange saying them alone, yet she knew gratitude did not disappear simply because happiness had changed its shape.
After making wudu, she prayed in the stillness of the early morning. The room seemed larger now, though nothing had moved. When she completed her prayer, she remained seated upon her prayer rug, making dhikr until the first light of dawn slipped through the curtains.
Only then did she make her way to the kitchen.
Without thinking, she reached for two mugs.
Her hand paused.
She smiled sadly, returned one to the cabinet, and filled the other with tea.
There had been a time when neither of them needed to ask how the other preferred it. She still remembered the careful way he would prepare hers every morning, adding just enough honey without measuring, somehow getting it exactly right every single time.
She had tried making it the same way.
It never tasted quite like his.
When the tea was ready, she carried it into the living room.
His Qurâan still rested on the small table beside his favorite chair. The green cover had faded from years of careful use, its corners softened by countless mornings and evenings of recitation. A folded bookmark remained tucked between its pages where he had last left it.
She had not moved it.
Not because she believed it should never be touched.
Because, somehow, seeing it there reminded her that a life spent with the Qurâan leaves traces long after its reader returns to his Lord.
His reading glasses rested neatly beside it.
The lenses had gathered a fine layer of dust.
She picked them up gently, wiped them with the edge of her sleeve, and placed them back exactly where they had been.
A few moments later, the front door opened.
âNana!â
The quiet disappeared beneath a chorus of excited voices.
Her oldest daughter stepped inside carrying a vegetable Quiche Lorraine while two grandchildren hurried past her toward the living room.
The youngest wrapped herself around Haleemahâs legs without asking permission before reaching up with small arms around her neck, as though she belonged there.
âYou smell like cookies,â the little girl whispered.
âI havenât baked any.â
âYou always smell like cookies.â
Haleemah laughed for what felt like the first time that week.
Perhaps grandchildren possessed a kind of honesty adults forgot.
The afternoon filled with ordinary blessings.
Small shoes scattered across the hallway.
Blocks stacked into crooked towers.
A coloring book spread across the coffee table.
The children asked questions only children could ask.
âDid PopPop really know every birdâs name?â
âWho taught him to fix bicycles?â
âDid he always smile during Fajr?â
Each question became another thread woven into memory.
Haleemah answered every one.
By Maghrib, the house was alive again.
By âIsha, it was quiet once more.
She stood at the front door watching the last car disappear down the street. She waved until the taillights vanished around the corner, then closed the door and rested her forehead against it for a moment.
The silence returned as faithfully as the dawn.
That evening she walked through the house, turning off lights one room at a time.
His jacket still hung on the hook near the entrance.
Dark gray.
Pressed neatly.
Ready for a day that would never come.
More than once she had thought about donating it.
More than once she had reached for it.
Each time she quietly changed her mind.
Perhaps one day.
Not today.
The weeks continued with their familiar rhythm.
The sisters at the masjid invited her for tea.
Neighbors stopped by from time to time.
Her children called almost every evening.
She volunteered again, organizing books in the masjid library and helping prepare meals for families welcoming new babies or recovering from illness. Serving others eased the loneliness for a little while, though it never erased it.
One Saturday afternoon, after a womenâs Qurâan gathering, Haleemah remained seated while most of the sisters prepared to leave.
An elderly woman everyone affectionately called Umm Safiyyah settled beside her.
She had buried a husband years earlier and carried herself with the quiet gentleness of someone who understood grief without needing it explained.
For a while they simply watched the younger sisters talking nearby.
Then Umm Safiyyah spoke softly.
âYou knowâŚâ
Haleemah turned toward her.
ââŚyour âiddah has ended.â
There was no pressure in her voice.
No expectation.
Only kindness.
Haleemah lowered her eyes.
âI know.â
Nothing else needed to be said.
She understood what the older woman meant.
Islam had lifted a waiting period. Her heart, however, had not yet lifted the weight of grief.
As they embraced before parting, Haleemah walked toward her car beneath the fading evening sky.
For the first time since her husbandâs passing, she realized the future had quietly begun asking questions she was not yet prepared to answer.
She looked upward and whispered the duâaa she had made every day since burying the man she loved.
âO Allaah, guide me to whatever is most pleasing to You.â
The breeze stirred gently through the parking lot.
No answer came.
Only peace enough to take the next step.
One Continent. Many Muslim Civilizations.
We followed the rivers of West Africa that connected kingdoms long before modern highways. We met the Bozo and Somono, whose lives revolved around the water. We discovered how scholars, pilgrims, and merchants traveled by river in search of knowledge, and we sailed aboard the graceful dhows of the Swahili Coast, where Muslim navigators crossed the Indian Ocean using the stars and seasonal winds.
But perhaps the greatest discovery is this:
Africa has never been home to just one Muslim civilization.
From the Amazigh communities of North Africa to the great empires of West Africa, from the Horn of Africa to the bustling ports of the Swahili Coast, and from the shores of Lake Chad to the Cape of Good Hope, generations of African Muslims built vibrant societies connected by faith, scholarship, commerce, exploration, and a shared commitment to Islam.
These civilizations were diverse in language, culture, and geography, yet united by the worship of Allaah and the greeting that echoed across rivers, deserts, caravan routes, and oceans:
As-salaamu âalaykum.
That rich legacy became the inspiration for Captain Muâawiya and the River of Secrets.
The story itself is fiction.
The civilizations that inspired it are real.
My hope is that this companion series has done more than introduce history. I hope it has sparked curiosity, inspired further reading, and reminded readers, especially young Muslims, that Africaâs Islamic heritage is vast, beautiful, and worthy of being remembered.
Every river leads somewhere.
May this journey be the beginning of many more.
Abu Hudhayfah Edwards
Trade Winds Books
http://youtube.com/post/UgkxQBPeDrOtmaVfzuJDHes3olqoWuZQszC9?si=IM2rTAJIh8NdNTtL
The Different Types of Prayers
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Have you ever wondered why Muslims perform different prayers throughout the day and throughout lifeâs special moments?
The Different Types of Prayers introduces readers to the beautiful variety of prayers found in Islam, from the five daily prayers to Jumuâah, Prayer for seeking Forgiveness, the two Eid prayers, the funeral prayer, the prayer for rain, and many others. Written in a clear and accessible style, this book helps readers understand not only how these prayers are performed, but also why they hold such an important place in a Muslimâs relationship with Allaah.
Whether youâre a new Muslim, a lifelong student of Islamic knowledge, or simply curious about Islam, this book is designed to strengthen understanding and appreciation for one of the greatest acts of worship.
đ Now available at Barnes & Noble.
One Continent. Many Muslim Civilizations.
By Abu Hudhayfah Edwards
The Legacy Behind Captain Muâawiya and the River of Secrets
By now, our journey has carried us across some of Africaâs greatest waterways. We have traveled the mighty Niger River, met the skilled fishing communities who made its waters their home, followed students and scholars whose boats became floating classrooms, and sailed aboard graceful dhows along the Swahili Coast of East Africa. Along the way, we have discovered that the adventures of Captain Muâawiya were inspired not by a single place, but by real Muslim civilizations whose achievements shaped the history of an entire continent.
Yet our journey has only scratched the surface.
Africa is the worldâs second-largest continent, home to thousands of languages, hundreds of ethnic groups, and an extraordinary variety of landscapes ranging from deserts and rainforests to mountains, savannas, lakes, and coastlines. Just as Africa has never been one single culture, it has never been home to only one Muslim civilization. Over the course of more than fourteen centuries, Islam spread through trade, scholarship, migration, diplomacy, and the example of righteous men and women who carried their faith wherever they traveled. The result was not one uniform society but a rich tapestry of Muslim communities, each contributing its own customs, languages, architecture, and traditions while remaining united by the worship of Allaah and the teachings of His Messenger .
In North Africa, Islam became deeply rooted in cities that connected Africa with the Mediterranean world and the Middle East. Morocco, Algeria, Tunisia, Libya, and Egypt became home to flourishing centers of learning, commerce, and craftsmanship. Indigenous Amazigh (Berber) peoples such as the Tuareg, Kabyle, Riffians, Chaouia, and Mozabites preserved their own languages and customs while embracing Islam. Arab and Bedouin tribes, including the Banu Hilal, Banu Sulaym, Awlad Ali, and Sahrawi, also helped shape the regionâs history through migration, trade, and scholarship. Great cities such as Fez, Marrakesh, Kairouan, Tlemcen, Alexandria, and Cairo became destinations where travelers exchanged not only goods but also ideas, books, and knowledge.
Far to the west, the great river civilizations we explored throughout this companion book continued to flourish. The Fulani traveled widely across the Sahel, becoming respected scholars, teachers, and community leaders. The Hausa developed prosperous city-states famous for trade and craftsmanship. The Mandinka and Soninke helped build some of Africaâs most influential empires, while Dyula merchants established commercial and educational networks stretching across forests and savannas. Along the Senegal River, the Wolof and Toucouleur contributed to the spread of Islamic learning, while the Songhai, Zarma, Kanuri, Nupe, and many Muslim Yoruba communities added their own chapters to the story of West African Islam. Although each people possessed its own language and cultural traditions, they shared a commitment to faith, education, hospitality, and commerce that connected them across great distances.
Our journey then carried us eastward to another remarkable world. Along the Nile Valley, Nubians, Beja, Jaâalin, Baggara, Fur, and Zaghawa communities developed rich Islamic traditions shaped by the great river that had sustained civilizations for thousands of years. Beyond them, the Horn of Africa became home to Muslim peoples such as the Somali, Afar, Harari, Jeberti, Tigre, Saho, and many Oromo communities whose histories were closely tied to the Red Sea and the Indian Ocean. Continuing south along the Swahili Coast, generations of Swahili sailors built thriving port cities where African, Arab, Persian, and Asian merchants met in bustling markets. Communities such as the Bajuni, Digo, and Shirazi traditions reflected centuries of maritime exchange, while skilled navigators crossed the ocean aboard elegant dhows using the stars, seasonal monsoon winds, and knowledge carefully passed from one generation to the next.
Even these regions tell only part of the story. Across Central Africa, Muslim communities continued to grow through trade, scholarship, and migration. Around Lake Chad and into parts of Cameroon and the Central African Republic, pastoral peoples such as the Shuwa Arabs, Kanembu, and Mbororo Fulani maintained traditions that stretched back centuries. In the eastern regions of the Democratic Republic of the Congo, the Manyema developed vibrant Muslim communities influenced by the commercial networks of the Swahili Coast. Around Lake Malawi and northern Mozambique, the Yao embraced Islam through relationships with coastal merchants, while sections of the Makhuwa people also became part of this expanding Islamic world. Farther south, Cape Muslim communities preserved their faith through generations of hardship after arriving under Dutch colonial rule, while Muslim communities of Indian heritage added yet another thread to South Africaâs diverse Islamic history.
When we look at a map today, it is easy to focus on modern national borders. The people we have met throughout this book often viewed their world differently. Rivers connected distant villages. Caravan routes crossed the Sahara. Merchant ships sailed between continents. Pilgrims traveled toward Makkah. Scholars journeyed from one teacher to another in search of knowledge. Fishermen exchanged stories at river ports. Merchants carried salt, gold, ivory, cloth, spices, and books across thousands of miles. Whether someone spoke Fulfulde, Hausa, Songhay, Wolof, Swahili, Somali, Arabic, Amazigh, or countless other languages, one familiar greeting could often be heard wherever Muslims gathered:
As-salaamu âalaykum.
Those simple words reminded believers that they belonged to something greater than a single tribe, kingdom, or region. They belonged to an ummah connected by faith.
This larger picture is what inspired Captain Muâawiya and the River of Secrets. Captain Muâawiya himself is fictional. His crew, his adventures, and the mysteries they uncover exist only within the pages of the novel. Yet the world surrounding those adventures is firmly rooted in history. The rivers he travels were real. The ships that inspired his dhow truly sailed the Indian Ocean. The scholars, merchants, fishermen, navigators, and communities whose lives shaped this story all belonged to remarkable Muslim civilizations that deserve to be remembered and celebrated.
Historical fiction offers readers something unique. History teaches us what happened. Fiction helps us imagine what those moments may have felt like. It invites us aboard a river canoe carrying students eager to study the Qurâan. It allows us to stand on the deck of a dhow as its sail catches the monsoon wind. It places us beside merchants unloading goods at bustling river ports and lets us imagine conversations between travelers whose lives were shaped by faith, courage, and curiosity. Through stories, the past becomes more than dates and names; it becomes a world we can explore.
Perhaps that is the greatest lesson of this journey. Every river leads somewhere. Every voyage begins with a single step. Every question opens the door to another discovery. The story of Muslim Africa is far larger than any single book can contain, and every generation has the opportunity to learn more, preserve its history, and share it with others.
The River of Secrets may be fictional.
The civilizations that inspired it are real.
Their legacy continues to flow across Africa like the rivers and oceans that first carried their stories into history.
Alhamdulillaah⌠Thank You for Helping the Trade Winds Universe Grow
Every writer begins with a simple hope.
To write something that reaches another human being.
When Trade Winds Books first began publishing stories, essays, and historical articles, we never imagined how far those words would travel. We simply wanted to create thoughtful literature that reflected Muslim life with authenticity, encouraged beneficial knowledge, and reminded readers of the beauty of our faith.
Today, by the permission of Allaah, those stories have traveled farther than we ever expected.
Our work has now appeared across a growing number of respected publications and platforms. Readers have discovered our articles through outlets such as SoundVision, Pakistan Link, Muslim Home, Medium, YouTube, and many others. Most recently, seeing one of our articles translated and published for Swedish readers was a humbling reminder that beneficial words can cross languages, cultures, and borders when Allaah places barakah in them.
Every new reader, every comment, every review, every shared article, every library request, every book purchase, and every recommendation has helped expand what we affectionately call the Trade Winds Universe, a growing collection of historical adventures, halal romance, family stories, childrenâs literature, educational essays, and reflections rooted in the Islamic worldview.
Whether you first met Captain Muâawiya sailing the rivers of West Africa, explored alongside Muta The Tracker, reflected on one of our Hijrah House Journal articles, revisited history through our educational essays, or enjoyed one of our halal romance novellas, you have become part of this journey.
For that, we are sincerely grateful.
Most importantly, we thank Allaah, the One who opens doors that no person can open and places acceptance wherever He wills. Any good that has come from these writings is from Him alone, while our shortcomings belong to us.
We also extend our heartfelt appreciation to the editors, publishers, librarians, booksellers, reviewers, content creators, educators, and readers who have welcomed our work into their communities. Your encouragement has done far more than promote books, it has helped preserve and share stories that celebrate faith, family, history, knowledge, patience, courage, and hope.
The journey is still just beginning.
InshaâAllaah, many more stories are on the horizon. New novels, childrenâs books, historical explorations, essays, and educational projects are already in development, all with the same goal that inspired the very first page: to produce beneficial literature that Muslims can enjoy with confidence and proudly share with their families and friends.
From our family to yours:
Jazaakumullaahu khayran for reading, sharing, supporting, and making duâaa for this work.
May Allaah reward every person who has played even the smallest role in helping these stories reach another heart.
Alhamdulillaahi Rabbil-âAalameen.
Abu Hudhayfah Edwards
Trade Winds Books
Author, Publisher, and Community Advocate
Why Captain Muâawiya Sails a Dhow
By Abu Hudhayfah Edwards
How an Empty Space on a Library Shelf Became an Adventure Across History
Every book begins somewhere.
Some begin with an unforgettable journey. Others begin with an interesting question, a family story, or a dream that refuses to disappear. Captain Muâawiya and the River of Secrets began much earlier, long before the first chapter was ever written. It began with a young reader standing in the aisles of a public library, searching the shelves for stories that seemed strangely difficult to find.
Like many children, I loved adventure. I read science fiction that imagined distant galaxies, fantasy stories filled with heroes and mythical worlds, and history that introduced me to civilizations from every corner of the globe. Yet whenever I searched for stories about the history of people who looked like me, the selection often felt surprisingly narrow. Shelves devoted to African American and Foundational Black American history were important and necessary, but they were also dominated by stories that began with slavery, segregation, and hardships in the streets. Those stories deserve to be remembered, but they are not where our story begins.
Long before 1619, before 1492, before Portuguese ships reached the western shores of Africa, the continent was already home to remarkable civilizations, thriving kingdoms, centers of learning, and Muslim communities connected by rivers, deserts, and oceans. Their histories stretched across centuries, yet they rarely appeared in the kinds of adventures that first inspired my imagination as a child.
That empty space on the bookshelf eventually became an invitation.
Rather than asking why those stories were missing, I began asking what they might look like if they were written today.
That question eventually became Captain Muâawiya and the River of Secrets.
Although the novel is fictional, the world surrounding Captain Muâawiya is deeply rooted in history. Throughout this companion book we have traveled along the history of the Niger River, where waterways served as highways connecting merchants, scholars, pilgrims, and entire civilizations. We met the Bozo and Somono, whose knowledge of rivers sustained communities for generations. We discovered how students traveled in search of teachers, carrying the Qurâan and handwritten manuscripts between centers of Islamic learning. Finally, we reached the Swahili Coast, where Muslim sailors mastered the Indian Ocean aboard graceful wooden dhows that crossed thousands of miles using little more than experience, seasonal winds, and the stars above.
Each chapter has revealed another piece of the world that eventually shaped Captain Muâawiya.
Perhaps no decision reflects that inspiration more clearly than the vessel he commands.
Many readers are familiar with European sailing ships because they have appeared in countless novels, films, and television programs. Their towering masts and square sails have become symbols of adventure. Yet for centuries another vessel carried merchants, scholars, families, and explorers across one of the worldâs busiest trade networks. The dhow connected East Africa with Arabia, Persia, India, and beyond, becoming one of historyâs most successful ocean-going ships.
For me, the dhow represents something even greater.
Discussions about Africaâs maritime history sometimes become distracted by debates over what cannot yet be proven with complete certainty. Historians continue to examine traditions surrounding voyages such as those attributed to Mansa Abu Bakr II, and healthy historical debate is part of responsible scholarship. Yet the dhow quietly reminds us of something that requires no speculation at all. These remarkable vessels crossed the Indian Ocean for centuries, and they continue to sail today. They stand as living evidence that African Muslim shipbuilders and navigators possessed extraordinary maritime knowledge capable of connecting continents across vast distances.
Captain Muâawiya sails a dhow because the dhow itself tells a story.
It reminds readers that innovation, exploration, craftsmanship, and navigation were not confined to one civilization or one continent. They flourished in Africa as well.
Of course, Captain Muâawiya himself never existed.
That was intentional.
History has already given us extraordinary figures whose accomplishments deserve careful study in their own right. My goal was never to place words into their mouths or imagine adventures that history never records. Instead, I wanted to create someone readers could imagine standing beside. A young captain who learns as he goes. A leader who makes mistakes, depends upon his companions, seeks advice from elders, and grows through every journey. Someone who feels less like a legend and more like a person you might actually meet if you walked through a busy Swahili harbor six hundred years ago.
Historical fiction lives in that fascinating space between imagination and evidence.
The adventures may be invented, but they should unfold within a world that feels authentic. When I write, I often think about stories shared by parents, grandparents, elders, teachers, shuyukh, and mentors throughout my own life. Their memories remind me that history is not preserved only inside museums or academic journals. It also survives through families, communities, and the conversations passed from one generation to the next. Those memories encourage me to research the people, geography, architecture, trade, language, and daily life of each setting so that even fictional adventures remain grounded in a believable world.
Occasionally, storytelling also asks for a small measure of creative freedom. A vessel may appear where history leaves room for imagination. A conversation may unfold between people history never names. These moments are not intended to replace scholarship but to illuminate it, inviting readers to imagine what life might have felt like while remaining respectful of the civilizations that inspired the story.
Some readers have asked why I chose to write a novel instead of a traditional history book.
The answer is simple.
Historians possess a calling that deserves tremendous respect. They dedicate years to studying primary sources, archaeology, languages, and evidence so that the past can be understood as accurately as possible. I have benefited greatly from their work, and this companion book itself rests upon generations of historical scholarship.
My role is different.
Stories have a unique ability to awaken curiosity.
A young reader may finish an adventure novel and immediately begin searching for Timbuktu, the Swahili Coast, Mansa Musa, Ibn Battuta, or the Bozo people. Another reader may decide to study archaeology, African history, or Islamic civilization because a fictional journey first captured their imagination. If these stories encourage even a handful of future historians, teachers, librarians, or authors to continue exploring Africaâs rich Islamic past, then they have accomplished far more than entertainment alone.
Islam also stands at the heart of Captain Muâawiyaâs world because it stands at the heart of the civilizations that inspired it. Too often, conversations about Islamic history focus almost exclusively on Arabia, North Africa, or parts of Asia, while the remarkable Muslim societies of East and West Africa receive far less attention than they deserve. Yet for centuries, Islam shaped African scholarship, trade, architecture, education, law, navigation, literature, and everyday life. It also remained alive in the hearts of many Africans who were carried across the Atlantic against their will, preserving fragments of faith through whispered duâaa, treasured memories, and quiet acts of worship in the hope that one day their descendants might openly practice the religion of their ancestors once again.
To tell African Muslim history without Islam would be to leave out one of the very foundations upon which these civilizations were built.
Ultimately, my hope extends beyond Captain Muâawiya himself.
I hope young readers finish this story eager to learn more than I could ever fit into a single novel. I hope they discover historians whose research reaches further than fiction ever can. I hope future writers create adventures set in Mali, Songhai, Kanem-Bornu, Kilwa, Gao, Timbuktu, and countless other places whose stories still wait to be told. Most of all, I hope that one day a child standing in a public library will no longer notice an empty space on the shelf because that space has been filled with stories from every corner of our shared history.
The River of Secrets has always been more than a river.
It is a pathway leading toward histories that remained hidden for generations, not because they never existed, but because too few people were invited to discover them.
Captain Muâawiyaâs journey is fictional.
The civilizations that inspired him are real.
If his adventures encourage readers to begin their own journey through history, then perhaps the greatest secret of the river will finally have been revealed.
The Duâaa Between Us part 4
And Allaah Knows Best
By Abu Hudhayfah Edwards
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The apartment looked different now.
Books that had once filled Muhayminâs shelves rested inside neatly labeled boxes.
His graduation gown hung pressed inside a garment bag near the closet.
The acceptance packet for graduate school sat on the corner of his desk beside a notebook filled with research ideas for the coming semester.
Life was moving forward.
Whether his heart felt ready or not.
The university had already elected a new president for the Muslim Student Association. During the final meeting of the semester, Muhaymin handed over binders, passwords, event schedules, and encouragement to the brother who would continue the work after him.
As everyone finished stacking chairs one last time, one of the younger brothers walked beside him toward the parking lot.
âSoâŚâ
Muhaymin smiled.
âSo?â
âI thought by now weâd be celebrating.â
He chuckled softly.
âCelebrating what?â
âYou know what I mean.â
Muhaymin opened his car door before answering.
âIâve learned that not every blessing arrives according to my timetable.â
The younger brother nodded.
âIâve been making duâaa for you.â
Muhaymin smiled warmly.
âThen ask Allaah only for what is best.â
âI always ask that He lets you marry Sister Nabila.â
Muhaymin shook his head gently.
âNo.â
The brother looked surprised.
âAsk Him to write whatever pleases Him most.â
He smiled.
âIf that includes me⌠Alhamdulillaah.â
âAnd if it doesnâtâŚâ
He looked toward the evening sky.
ââŚthen Alhamdulillaah all the same.â
Several days later, while packing another box, Muhayminâs phone vibrated.
The caller ID displayed a familiar name.
Brother Kareem.
He answered immediately.
âAs-salaamu âalaykum.â
âWa âalaykum as-salaam, Brother Muhaymin.â
âI pray youâre well.â
âAlhamdulillaah.â
A brief silence followed.
âI was wondering if you might have time to stop by this evening.â
âIâd be honored.â
âNo rush.â
âIâll see you after Maghrib, in InshaâAllaah.â
When Muhaymin arrived, the familiar warmth of the home greeted him once again.
The same lantern illuminated the foyer.
The same fragrance of tea drifted from the kitchen.
Nothing had changed.
Yet somehowâŚ
Everything felt different.
Brother Kareem welcomed him inside with the same kindness as before.
Nabila greeted him respectfully before returning to the kitchen with her mother.
They exchanged only the briefest of salaams.
Nothing more.
Tea was poured.
Conversation wandered through graduation, graduate school, the university, and the responsibilities awaiting Muhaymin in the months ahead.
No one mentioned marriage.
Not immediately.
When the cups had grown nearly empty, Brother Kareem looked toward Muhaymin.
âWould you mind taking a short walk with me?â
âOf course.â
The evening air was cool.
The neighborhood had settled into its familiar quiet rhythm.
Childrenâs laughter echoed faintly several streets away before disappearing altogether.
The two men walked without speaking for several moments.
Finally Brother Kareem broke the silence.
âIâve been thinking about our first conversation.â
âSo have I.â
He smiled softly.
âI realized something.â
Muhaymin waited patiently.
âI spent so much time asking where your family came fromâŚâ
He looked toward the pavement beneath his feet.
ââŚthat I nearly forgot to ask where your character came from.â
For a moment neither man spoke.
Then Muhaymin answered quietly.
âMy parents.â
Another pause.
âMy grandparents.â
Then he smiled.
âBut mostly⌠by the mercy of Allaah.â
Brother Kareem smiled.
âSo your father deserves some credit.â
âHeâd tell you otherwise.â
The older man laughed.
âSo would I.â
The tension that had quietly lingered between them for weeks seemed to disappear with that shared laughter.
Brother Kareem stopped walking.
He turned toward Muhaymin.
âI owe you an apology.â
Muhaymin looked surprised.
âYou have shown me nothing but respect.â
âI appreciate that.â
âBut I allowed assumptions to enter my thinking before I truly knew you.â
âYou were protecting your daughter.â
âYes.â
âAnd I respect that.â
Brother Kareem nodded slowly.
âI hope you understandâŚâ
âI do.â
âI wanted my daughter to remain connected to the traditions our family carried with us.â
âI think she should.â
The older man looked up.
âYou do?â
Muhaymin smiled.
âIf Allaah were ever to bless us with childrenâŚâ
He paused thoughtfully.
âI would want them to know every part of who they are.â
âI would hope they speak your language better than I do.â
âI would hope they know the stories youâve spent your life preserving.â
âAnd I would hope they love your traditions because you taught them⌠not because anyone forced them.â
Brother Kareem remained silent.
The sincerity in Muhayminâs voice left little room for doubt.
Finally he asked,
âWhat kind of husband do you hope to become?â
Muhaymin looked away for a moment before answering.
âThe kind whose wife never has to wonder whether sheâs respected and appreciated.â
Another silence settled between them.
Not awkward.
Comfortable.
The kind shared between two men who had finally begun to understand one another.
Inside the house, Nabila helped her mother clear the tea cups from the table.
Neither spoke immediately.
Her mother placed the last cup into the sink before quietly turning toward her daughter.
âYouâve been patient.â
Nabila lowered her eyes.
âIâve tried.â
âYouâve never argued.â
âI didnât want to.â
âYouâve never spoken against your father.â
âHe only wants whatâs best for me.â
Her motherâs eyes filled with tears.
She stepped forward and embraced her daughter.
For a long moment neither woman spoke.
Then, still holding her close, her mother raised her hands.
âO AllaahâŚ
If You know this young man to be good for my daughterâs religionâŚ
good for her life in this worldâŚ
and good for her HereafterâŚ
then open our heartsâŚ
make this path easyâŚ
and place barakah in it.
And if You know otherwiseâŚ
then turn every one of our hearts toward what pleases You mostâŚ
and make us content with Your decree.â
When the duâaa ended, neither of them moved.
The silence itself felt like worship.
Outside, Brother Kareem looked toward the sky as the first stars began to appear.
âI donât know what Allaah has written, but I believe Iâve spent enough time listening to my fears.â
He smiled gently.
âNow Iâd like to spend more time listening to Him.â
Muhaymin nodded.
âI think thatâs all any of us can do.â
The two men shook hands.
This time, neither felt like a stranger.
As Muhaymin drove away, Brother Kareem remained standing on the front porch.
Weeks earlier he had watched an American Muslim drive away.
TonightâŚ
He watched Brother Muhaymin Ali.
A young man of prayer.
A young man of patience.
A young man whose character had quietly answered questions words never could.
Inside the house, Nabila stood near the window.
She saw her father remain on the porch long after Muhayminâs car had disappeared.
She did not ask what had been said.
Some conversations belonged only to fathers.
Others belonged only to Allaah.
That night, four different people raised their hands in duâaa.
No two supplications were exactly alike.
Yet every one of them ended with the same hope.
Not, âMy will.â
But, âO Allaah⌠guide us to what pleases You most.â
And somewhere between two homes⌠between two cultures⌠between patience and hope⌠the answer to every sincere duâaa remained safely with the One Who had always known it from the very beginning.
The Duâaa Between Us part 3
Between Two Worlds
By Abu Hudhayfah Edwards
Three weeks passed.
Life at the university refused to slow down simply because someoneâs heart was waiting.
Final examinations approached.
Research papers accumulated.
Graduation announcements appeared across campus bulletin boards, and conversations increasingly turned toward careers, graduate school, and the next chapter of life.
For Muhaymin Ali, very little had changed.
He still arrived early for MSA meetings.
He still stayed behind until the last table was folded and every chair returned to its proper place.
He still attended Fajr at the masjid whenever his schedule allowed.
And every night, before sleeping, he raised his hands to Allaah.
He never asked Allaah to make Nabilaâs father answer quickly.
Only correctly.
One afternoon, after helping prepare for another campus program, one of the brothers walked beside him toward the parking lot.
âSoâŚâ
Muhaymin smiled.
âSo?â
âHave you heard anything?â
He shook his head.
âNo.â
The brother frowned.
âYou havenât called him again?â
âNo.â
âYou donât think you should follow up?â
Muhaymin adjusted the strap of his backpack before answering.
âWhen a father asks for time, the respectful thing is to give him time.â
His friend looked unconvinced.
âWhat if he forgets?â
Muhaymin smiled gently.
âI donât think fathers forget conversations about their daughters.â
The two laughed together before climbing into their cars.
Across town, Nabilaâs home remained peaceful.
At least on the surface.
Dinner was prepared every evening.
Her father returned home from work shortly before Maghrib.
Her mother continued calling relatives overseas every weekend.
Life looked exactly as it always had.
Except Muhayminâs name quietly found its way into conversations.
Not every day.
But often enough.
One Saturday afternoon, several relatives gathered for lunch.
After the meal, tea was poured and the conversation drifted naturally toward Nabila.
Her grandmother sighed softly.
âOur family has always married within our people.â
An aunt nodded.
âOur customs have survived because every generation protected them.â
Another relative added,
âIf she marries outside our culture⌠who will teach her children our language?â
Someone else wondered aloud,
âWhat will our relatives back home think?â
No one spoke harshly.
No one questioned Muhayminâs religion.
No one criticized his manners.
In fact, every compliment made the discussion more difficult.
âHe is respectful.â
âHe is educated.â
âHe seems sincere.â
âHe would probably make a good husband.â
The room grew quiet.
Finally someone whispered,
âButâŚâ
No one finished the sentence.
They didnât need to.
Nabila listened without interrupting.
She neither defended Muhaymin nor argued against her family.
When her grandmother asked,
âWhat do you think, child?â
She lowered her gaze respectfully.
âI think you all love me.â
Her grandmother smiled.
âOf course.â
âAnd I know every opinion being shared today comes from that love.â
The older woman reached across the table and gently squeezed her granddaughterâs hand.
No one spoke for several moments.
That evening, Nabilaâs mother found her folding laundry in her bedroom.
âYouâve been very quiet.â
Nabila smiled.
âIâm listening.â
âYou arenât upset?â
She folded another blouse before answering.
âI donât want my parents to choose between loving me and honoring what they believe is right.â
Her motherâs eyes softened.
âMy daughterâŚâ
âIf Baba says noâŚâ
She paused.
ââŚthen I will trust that Allaah knows something I donât.â
Her mother looked at her for a long time.
Then quietly left the room.
Later that week, Brother Kareem sat alone after Fajr inside the masjid.
Most of the congregation had already departed.
He remained seated, turning his prayer beads slowly between his fingers.
The imam noticed him.
âYou seem deep in thought.â
Brother Kareem smiled.
âI am.â
The imam sat beside him.
Without mentioning names, Brother Kareem described the situation.
A righteous young man.
Excellent manners.
Committed to his religion.
Educated.
Respectful.
Patient.
Then he admitted,
âMy hesitation isnât about him.â
The imam nodded.
âItâs about your expectations.â
Brother Kareem looked surprised.
The imam smiled gently.
âMany fathers carry expectations they never realize theyâre carrying until Allaah tests them.â
Brother Kareem lowered his eyes.
âI donât want my grandchildren to lose our language.â
âThat is a noble concern.â
âI donât want my familyâs history to disappear.â
âNeither do I.â
The imam remained quiet for a moment.
Then he asked softly,
âHas the young man given you reason to believe he would prevent that?â
Brother Kareem hesitated.
âNo.â
âThen perhaps youâre fearing something that hasnât happened.â
The words lingered between them.
The imam wasnât telling him what decision to make.
He was inviting him to examine his own heart.
That evening, Brother Kareem sat on the back porch watching the sun disappear beyond the neighborhood rooftops.
His wife joined him with two cups of tea.
âYou visited the imam.â
He nodded.
âWhat did he say?â
âHe asked me one question.â
She waited.
âHe asked whether Muhaymin had actually given me reason to fear losing our culture.â
âAnd?â
Brother Kareem stared quietly into his tea.
âI couldnât answer yes.â
His wife smiled gently.
âNeither could I.â
Inside the house, Nabila spread her prayer rug after âIshaa.
She prayed slowly.
Deliberately.
When she finished, she remained seated.
Her hands rose once more.
âO AllaahâŚ
You know what I do not know.
If Muhaymin is good for my religion, my life in this world, and my Hereafter, then make it easy in a way that pleases You.
And if he is not, then remove this hope from my heart and replace it with something better.â
Outside her bedroom, her mother paused as she passed the hallway.
She had not meant to stop.
She certainly had not intended to listen.
But hearing her daughterâs duâaa brought tears to her eyes.
Not because Nabila was asking for Muhaymin.
She wasnât.
She was asking for Allaahâs choice.
For the first time since Muhaymin had entered their lives, Nabilaâs mother realized her daughter wasnât clinging to a young man.
She was clinging to her Lord.
Quietly, she returned to her own room.
She closed the door.
Spread her own prayer rug.
And for the first time, she raised her hands for Muhaymin by name.
The house remained silent.
But somewhere within its wallsâŚ
Another heart had begun to soften.
The Duâaa Between Us part 2
Expectations
By Abu Hudhayfah Edwards
The folded piece of paper remained tucked inside Muhayminâs Qurâan for two days.
Not because he was uncertain.
Because he wanted to approach the matter with patience.
His father had always reminded him that important conversations deserved preparation, not haste.
After Maghrib on Monday evening, he sat quietly at the kitchen table of his apartment, looked once more at the handwritten phone number, and made a short duâaa before dialing.
The phone rang twice.
âAs-salaamu âalaykum.â
âWa âalaykum as-salaam.â
The voice was calm, measured, and older.
âMy name is Muhaymin Ali, sir. Your daughter, Nabila, and I serve together in the Muslim Student Association at the university.â
There was a brief pause.
âMashaâAllaah, Brother Muhaymin. Nabila mentioned that you might call.â
Relief settled gently into Muhayminâs heart.
He thanked Allaah silently before continuing.
âI wanted to ask permission to visit you. Over the past several months Iâve come to respect your daughterâs character, and I hoped to introduce myself properly.â
Her father did not answer immediately.
Instead he asked,
âWhat evening are you free?â
They agreed on Thursday after Maghrib.
The conversation lasted less than ten minutes.
When the call ended, Muhaymin sat quietly for another moment.
No celebration.
No excitement.
Only gratitude.
âAlhamdulillaah.â
Across town, Nabila helped her mother prepare dinner.
Her father entered the kitchen carrying his tea.
âHe called.â
Her mother looked up.
âThe young man?â
He nodded.
âHe asked permission before asking for anything else.â
She smiled.
âThat is a good beginning.â
âWhat did he say?â
âHe spoke respectfully.â
Nabila lowered her eyes, pretending to concentrate on slicing vegetables.
Her mother noticed but said nothing.
Thursday arrived sooner than expected.
Muhaymin dressed simply.
Pressed slacks.
A clean button-down shirt.
A navy blazer.
Nothing expensive.
Nothing intended to impress.
Before leaving his apartment, he prayed two rakâahs and asked Allaah only for sincerity.
The neighborhood was quiet when he arrived.
Children played basketball several houses away while the scent of dinner drifted through the evening air.
He rang the bell.
Within moments the door opened.
A dignified man with kind eyes greeted him warmly.
âAs-salaamu âalaykum.â
âWa âalaykum as-salaam.â
âIâm Brother Kareem.â
âMuhaymin Ali.â
The two men shook hands.
âWelcome.â
Inside, the home reflected years of careful love.
Arabic calligraphy hung neatly upon one wall.
Bookshelves held Qurâans, books of hadith, family albums, and well-worn Islamic literature.
The aroma of tea filled the room.
Nabila greeted him briefly from a respectful distance before returning to help her mother in the kitchen.
The evening belonged to the men.
For nearly an hour they spoke easily.
Not about marriage.
About life.
Brother Kareem asked about chemical engineering.
âWhat attracted you to it?â
âIâve always enjoyed solving problems.â
âAnd graduate school?â
Muhaymin smiled modestly.
âIâve already accepted a program, insha'Allaah.â
âMashaâAllaah.â
No boast.
No lengthy explanation.
Just another answer.
The conversation continued.
They spoke about the university.
The MSA.
Volunteer work.
Community service.
Brother Kareem listened carefully.
Finally he leaned back.
âSo⌠tell me about your family.â
Muhaymin smiled.
âMy grandfather accepted Islam in the early nineteen-seventies.â
Brother Kareem nodded with interest.
âAnd before that?â
âThey were Christians.â
âI mean⌠where is your family from?â
âBrooklyn, sir.â
Brother Kareem chuckled softly.
âNo⌠originally.â
Muhaymin smiled politely.
âMy grandparents always said our family has been in America for generations. After accepting Islam, they legally changed our surname to Ali.â
The room grew quiet.
Not uncomfortable.
Just⌠thoughtful.
Brother Kareem nodded slowly.
âI see.â
The conversation continued.
They discussed the importance of prayer.
Serving the Muslim community.
Honoring parents.
Marriage as a trust.
Nothing unpleasant was said.
Nothing offensive was implied.
Yet something had undeniably changed.
Muhaymin couldnât explain it.
He simply sensed it.
As the evening came to a close, Brother Kareem walked him to the front door.
âI appreciate you coming.â
âThank you for welcoming me into your home.â
âInshaâAllaah, weâll speak again.â
âIâd like that.â
The two men shook hands once more.
As Muhaymin drove home, he replayed the evening in his mind.
He smiled.
Brother Kareem had been thoughtful.
Intelligent.
Easy to speak with.
Perhaps, he thought, things had gone well.
Inside the house, silence settled over the living room.
Brother Kareem returned to his chair.
His wife brought him another cup of tea.
âWell?â
He looked toward the kitchen where Nabila quietly continued washing dishes.
Finally he spoke.
âHe is everything I hoped he would be.â
Her mother smiled.
âAlhamdulillaah.â
âHe is respectful.â
She nodded.
âHe is educated.â
âAlhamdulillaah.â
âHe carries himself well.â
She smiled again.
Then he hesitated.
âHe is an American.â
The room fell silent.
Not because anyone was angry.
Because everyone had imagined something different.
Her mother slowly sat beside him.
âYou thoughtâŚâ
âI assumed.â
She looked toward the kitchen.
âSo did I.â
Neither spoke for several moments.
Finally her husband said quietly,
âI need time.â
From the sink, Nabila heard every word.
She neither cried nor protested.
Instead she quietly finished washing the final plate.
Later that night, after âIshaa, she remained seated on her prayer rug long after completing her salaah.
She raised her hands.
Not asking Allaah to change her fatherâs heart.
Not asking Allaah to change Muhayminâs circumstances.
Only asking Him to guide everyone involved toward what pleased Him most.
Outside her bedroom door, her father stood for a brief moment before walking away.
He had not intended to overhear her duâaa.
But the sincerity in his daughterâs voice lingered in his heart long after the house had fallen asleep.
The Duâaa Between Us part 1
Different Homes, One Qiblah
By Abu Hudhayfah Edwards
The first time Muhaymin Ali noticed Nabila, she was carrying a stack of folding chairs taller than herself.
He had just finished helping the Muslim Student Association prepare for its guest speaking event on campus a locally known Shaykh. As president of the organization, he usually stayed behind until the last table was folded, every extension cord was rolled neatly, and the borrowed classroom looked exactly as it had before the students arrived.
It was a habit his father had taught him years earlier.
âIf the masjid, or any place serving the Muslims, is cleaner when you leave than when you arrived, perhaps Allaah will allow that deed to remain long after people forget your name.â
Although the MSA met in classrooms instead of a masjid, Muhaymin carried the lesson with him wherever he served.
He crossed the room and reached for the chairs.
âAllow me, Sister.â
Nabila smiled politely and stepped aside.
âJazakâAllaah khayr.â
Her voice was gentle but confident.
There was nothing extraordinary about the exchange.
Within moments they returned to their work.
For Muhaymin, it became one of many ordinary encounters over the following months.
They served together without ever truly serving together.
She organized food drives for local shelters.
He coordinated volunteers.
She prepared sign-in tables for guest lectures.
He handled logistics with the university.
She quietly reminded sisters about prayer times.
He made certain there was always a clean space reserved for salaah.
They rarely spoke beyond what was necessary.
When they did, their conversations remained focused on whatever task lay before them.
Neither lingered.
Neither searched for excuses to continue talking.
Neither crossed boundaries that Allaah had placed for believing men and women.
Yet character has a way of introducing itself without many words.
Muhaymin noticed that Nabila never competed for attention. When guest speakers visited campus, other students often gathered around them after the program ended. Nabila usually disappeared into the background, collecting abandoned water bottles, stacking books, or helping younger sisters carry supplies to their cars before quietly leaving for the evening.
She seemed content allowing others to receive recognition.
That quality stayed with him.
Nabila, in turn, noticed different things.
The MSA president never raised his voice.
He never spoke over others during meetings.
Whenever disagreements arose, he listened far longer than he spoke.
She watched him thank the university custodians after every event and remain behind sweeping floors long after many students had gone home.
One afternoon another sister leaned toward her and whispered with a smile.
âI think Brother Muhaymin spends more time cleaning than giving announcements.â
Nabila smiled.
âPerhaps thatâs why people enjoy following him.â
The semester passed quickly.
Ramadhan arrived.
Together with dozens of other volunteers, they helped organize nightly iftars for Muslim students unable to return home during the blessed month. The work was exhausting, but no one complained. There were tables to arrange, meals to distribute, dates to unwrap, and classrooms to prepare before Maghrib arrived each evening.
One night, after most of the students had left, Muhaymin found himself carrying empty serving trays toward the kitchen.
He noticed Nabila wiping down the final table.
âYou donât have to stay,â he said respectfully. âWeâve almost finished.â
She smiled.
âI know.â
Then she continued cleaning.
It was such a simple moment that either of them could have forgotten it.
Neither ever did.
As graduation approached, conversations across campus shifted toward internships, job offers, graduate schools, and uncertain futures.
One afternoon, after an MSA executive meeting had concluded, several students gathered in small groups discussing their plans after commencement.
âSo whatâs next for you, Brother Muhaymin?â one of the brothers asked.
âInshaâAllaah, graduate school.â
Another brother nodded.
âI heard you already accepted an offer.â
Muhaymin smiled modestly.
âAlhamdulillaah.â
No university name.
No discussion of rankings.
No mention that he had been accepted months earlier into a respected chemical engineering graduate program.
The conversation drifted naturally toward someone elseâs internship before he ever had the opportunity to elaborate.
Nabila happened to be organizing paperwork nearby.
She paused for only a moment.
Not because of where he was going.
Because of how little he seemed interested in talking about it.
Most students celebrated every acceptance letter.
Brother Muhaymin appeared grateful⌠then immediately changed the subject.
Later that evening, while driving home, he found himself thinking about something his mother had once said.
âCharacter is easiest to recognize when no one knows theyâre being observed.â
For months he had observed Nabila.
Not intentionally at first.
Simply through shared service.
He admired the way she carried herself, the respect she showed elders, the kindness she extended to younger students, and the sincerity that seemed to guide everything she did.
He performed two rakâahs before going to bed that night.
Afterward, he remained seated on the prayer rug a little longer than usual.
His duâaa was quiet.
âO Allaah⌠if there is goodness for both of us in this life and the next, then open a path that pleases You. And if not, then place contentment in my heart with whatever You have written.â
The following weekend he visited his parents.
After dinner, while his mother poured tea and his father leaned back comfortably in his chair, Muhaymin cleared his throat.
âI wanted to ask your advice about something.â
Both parents looked toward him.
His mother smiled knowingly.
âWhat is it?â
âThere is a sister in the MSA whose character I have come to respect.â
His father pause for a moment, and then asked:
âHas anyone else approached her family?â
âNo, sir.â
âGood.â
âThen remember this: whether they accept or decline, honor them. We donât compete for daughters.â
A smile spread across his motherâs face before she quickly hid it behind her teacup.
His father smiled too.
âAlhamdulillaah.â
Then his expression became thoughtful.
âHave you neglected your studies because of this?â
âNo, sir.â
âYour graduate program?â
âIâve already accepted the offer.â
His father nodded.
âGood, alhamdulillaah.â
Then he leaned forward.
âMy son, if she is righteous and Allaah has written her for you, no one can take her away from you.â
His mother gently added,
âAnd if she is not written for you, chasing her harder will not bring her any closer.â
Muhaymin nodded.
âI understand.â
His father smiled.
âFinish this semester with excellence. Continue making duâaa. If, after that, you still feel the same, approach her family properly.â
A week later, after another successful MSA event, Muhaymin respectfully asked if he might speak with Nabila for a brief moment where others remained nearby.
She agreed.
He lowered his gaze.
âI wanted to ask something, and if youâre uncomfortable, please feel free to say so.â
She listened quietly.
âIâve come to respect your character over these past months. If youâre open to it, I would like to speak with your wali.â
Nabila remained silent for a moment.
Then she reached into the notebook she carried.
She removed a small folded piece of paper.
âMy father always says that important conversations should begin with honesty.â
She extended the paper toward him.
âThis is his number.â
Muhaymin accepted it carefully.
âBarakâAllaah feekum.â
She nodded.
âMay Allaah guide us all to what is best.â
As they walked in opposite directions across campus, neither of them knew that a single phone call would soon bring two families together⌠and reveal just how differently each understood the meaning of home.
The Invisible Ocean
By Abu Hudhayfah Edwards
Puerto Rico, 1623
At nineteen years of age, Omar ArĂŠvalo had crossed an ocean few men of his village could have imagined.
His father often said that a family could lose its home without losing its history. They had carried little across the Atlantic besides a few treasured possessions, worn memories, and a surname chosen with quiet purpose. ArĂŠvalo was not merely the name of a Spanish town. Within Morisco circles it also honored a young Muslim writer whose secret manuscripts had preserved faith during an age when even possessing an Arabic page could cost a person his freedom.
âIf books can survive persecution,â his father would remind him, âthen so can ideas.â
Before Omar was born, his family had lived as Moriscos, Muslims compelled to hide their religion while quietly preserving whatever fragments of Islamic learning they could. His grandfather had memorized passages that no longer existed in written form. His father taught astronomy without diagrams, mathematics without libraries, and navigation without maps. They understood that rulers could confiscate books, burn manuscripts, and scatter families across oceans, but they could never confiscate a mind that reflected upon the signs of Allaah.
Those lessons had crossed the Atlantic with Omar.
Puerto Rico was beautiful, though it was not home.
The mountains rose sharply from the sea, wrapped in forests alive with unfamiliar birdsong. Clear rivers tumbled over smooth stones before emptying into the brilliant Caribbean. Giant palms swayed with every passing breeze, while clouds gathered each afternoon along the emerald peaks before dissolving again into endless blue.
At night, however, something remained wonderfully familiar.
The stars.
He found comfort knowing that the same heavens stretched over every land. The constellations his ancestors had studied above CĂłrdoba, Granada, Fez, and Marrakech now shone above Puerto Rico. Kingdoms changed. Empires rose and fell. But the stars remained faithful witnesses.
Many of the young men around him believed survival left little room for scientific thought.
âWhat use is pondering the heavens?â one asked while mending fishing nets. âWe are half a world away from the scholars.â
Omar smiled.
âThe scholars are gone,â the man continued. âTheir libraries are gone. Those days belong to the old country.â
Omar gently shook his head.
âTruth does not belong to Spain.â
He looked toward the sea.
âNor Marruecos (Morocco).â
His eyes drifted toward the mountains.
âNor Timbuktu.â
Finally, he looked upward.
âTruth belongs to Allaah. Wherever His creation exists, His signs remain.â
One afternoon Omar climbed a rocky overlook high in the mountains where he could see both the forests below and the vast Caribbean beyond. Frigatebirds drifted overhead for nearly an hour without appearing to flap their wings.
âThey are remarkable fliers,â an older fisherman observed.
Omar smiled.
âThey are remarkable swimmers.â
The fisherman laughed.
âIn the sky?â
âIn an invisible ocean.â
He bent down, picked up a smooth stone, and tossed it into the water far below.
âWe call fish swimmers because we see the water surrounding them.â
Then he pointed toward the birds.
âBut those birds are surrounded as well.â
âThere is nothing surrounding them.â
âIf there were nothing there,â Omar replied, âyour lungs would draw no breath. Your voice would make no sound. Clouds would never travel. Ships would never sail. Neither birds nor kites would ever leave the earth.â
He slowly waved his hand through the air.
âFeel the resistance.â
The fisherman copied the motion.
For perhaps the first time in his life, he noticed that his hand was pushing against something.
âYou have lived inside this ocean since the day you were born,â Omar said softly. âYou simply stopped noticing it.â
A cool breeze drifted inland from the Caribbean, carrying with it the scent of salt and rain.
âThe wind has arrived,â someone remarked.
âNo,â Omar answered. âA current.â
He pointed toward the sea.
âThe ocean contains rivers within itself. Warm waters travel across great distances while colder waters return beneath them. Experienced sailors learn these hidden pathways.â
He then gestured toward the heavens.
âThe sky possesses rivers as well. Warm air rises while cooler air descends. Great currents flow across the earth carrying clouds, birds, insects, seeds, and rain.â
Above them, a frigatebird tipped one wing and climbed effortlessly higher.
âIt is not fighting the air,â Omar said.
âIt is reading the current.â
For days the thought refused to leave him.
If water carried shipsâŚ
Could not air carry birds?
If rivers possessed currentsâŚ
Could not the heavens possess them as well?
One evening he knelt beside a tide pool left by the receding sea. A straight twig resting beneath the water appeared bent. Shells seemed closer than they truly were.
He smiled.
He had seen this as a child in Spain.
Light itself was changing direction.
Later that evening the setting sun cast a golden road across the Caribbean. The light shimmered upon the waves before passing through the warm evening air into his eyes.
The realization struck him all at once.
Light did not merely travel.
It conversed with creation.
It slowed through water.
It bent through air.
It reflected from the sea.
It warmed the earth until rivers, lakes, and oceans released invisible vapor into the heavens. That vapor became clouds. The clouds returned rain to the mountains. Rivers carried the water once again to the sea.
Water.
Air.
Light.
None existed in isolation.
Each served the other according to laws established by Allaah long before mankind gave those laws names.
His thoughts raced faster than his pen could follow.
Perhaps people divided creation into earth, sea, and sky because they appeared different.
Yet perhaps they were parts of a single masterpiece whose harmony reflected the wisdom of its Creator.
He removed a rolled parchment from the satchel slung across his shoulder and carefully wrote:
âWe walk each day upon the floor of an invisible ocean. Fish swim beneath its surface while birds swim within it. We seldom notice the sea above us until Allaah sends a breeze across our faces. The unseen is no less real simply because it cannot always be seen.â
He paused before adding one final thought.
âExile may separate a man from his homeland, but it cannot separate him from the signs of his Lord. Wherever knowledge is sought with sincerity, every mountain becomes a classroom, every river a teacher, and every breeze an invitation to reflect.â
Omar rolled the parchment closed and looked once more toward the endless Caribbean sky.
For the first time since leaving the land of his ancestors, Puerto Rico no longer felt like the end of his familyâs story.
The Other Great Waterway
By Abu Hudhayfah Edwards
Meeting the Muslim Sailors of East Africa
If the Niger River was one of Africaâs great highways, it was not the continentâs only remarkable waterway.
While merchants, scholars, and fishermen traveled the rivers of West Africa, another network of Muslim communities flourished thousands of miles away along Africaâs eastern shores. There, the Indian Ocean served as an immense highway connecting dozens of bustling ports from present-day Somalia to Mozambique. Every year, ships sailed across its blue waters carrying merchants, families, scholars, pilgrims, craftsmen, and explorers whose journeys linked Africa with Arabia, Persia, India, and Southeast Asia.
This region became known as the Swahili Coast, one of historyâs greatest maritime civilizations.
Like the river towns of the Niger, the cities of the Swahili Coast were shaped by water. Instead of looking toward inland rivers, their homes, masajid, marketplaces, and harbors faced the sea. Ports such as Mogadishu, Barawa, Mombasa, Malindi, Pate, Kilwa, Zanzibar, and Sofala welcomed travelers from across the Indian Ocean, creating communities where many languages could be heard in a single marketplace. African, Arab, Persian, and Indian merchants traded peacefully for centuries, sharing ideas, technology, and culture alongside commerce.
Islam spread naturally through these relationships.
As Muslim merchants settled in coastal towns, masajid were established, children learned the Qurâan, scholars taught students, and communities grew around the principles of faith. Over generations, these towns developed a rich culture that blended local African traditions with influences from the wider Muslim world while remaining unmistakably African in character. The Swahili language itself reflects this history, rooted in Bantu languages while incorporating many Arabic words through centuries of interaction.
Yet perhaps the greatest symbol of the Swahili Coast was not found in its marketplaces or stone houses.
It was the dhow.
With its graceful wooden hull and distinctive triangular sails, the dhow became one of historyâs most successful sailing vessels. For centuries these ships crossed the Indian Ocean carrying ivory, gold, timber, spices, cloth, ceramics, dates, books, and countless other goods between continents. Some dhows were small enough to fish near the shoreline, while others were built large enough to transport cargo and passengers across thousands of miles of open ocean.
Unlike modern ships powered by engines, dhows relied upon nature itself.
Experienced captains understood that the Indian Ocean followed a predictable rhythm. Every year, seasonal monsoon winds shifted direction. During one season the winds carried ships eastward toward Arabia and India. Months later, those same winds reversed, helping sailors return to Africa. Instead of fighting the wind, Muslim navigators patiently planned their voyages around it, sometimes remaining in foreign ports for months until the favorable season returned.
The stars became their trusted companions.
Long before satellites, GPS devices, or electronic charts, sailors learned to recognize familiar constellations that appeared night after night above the ocean. They carefully observed the position of the sun, the moon, the stars, ocean swells, cloud formations, and even the behavior of birds. These observations, combined with generations of experience passed from one captain to another, allowed them to navigate astonishing distances across open water with remarkable accuracy.
Much of this knowledge was never written in books.
Instead, it was taught from parent to child and from experienced sailor to apprentice. Young boys often grew up helping repair boats, learning the names of the winds, memorizing coastlines, and listening to stories shared by older captains. Over many years they gained the confidence needed to command their own vessels. Navigation became more than a profession; it became a family tradition preserved across generations.
These sailors were far more than merchants.
Many carried scholars traveling to centers of learning, pilgrims making the journey toward Makkah, diplomats representing distant rulers, and families seeking new opportunities in lands across the sea. Their ships helped spread ideas, architecture, scientific knowledge, literature, and religious learning throughout the Indian Ocean world. Every voyage strengthened the bonds connecting Muslim communities separated by thousands of miles of water.
The Swahili Coast reminds us that Africaâs history was never isolated.
Its ports welcomed visitors from across the Muslim world while African sailors confidently navigated the same seas in return. Rather than standing at the edge of civilization, East Africa occupied one of its great crossroads, where continents met through trade, scholarship, and shared faith.
This maritime world also helps explain one of the most recognizable features of Captain Muâawiya and the River of Secrets.
Captain Muâawiya sails a dhow.
Although the adventures in the novel are fictional, the vessel itself was inspired by the real ships that carried Muslim sailors across the Indian Ocean for centuries. Their remarkable craftsmanship, courage, and understanding of the sea continue to inspire stories of exploration today.
In the next chapter, we will step aboard the dhow itself to discover why this elegant vessel became one of historyâs greatest ships and how its remarkable design helped inspire the world of Captain Muâawiya.
Floating Classrooms
By Abu Hudhayfah Edwards
How Rivers Carried Scholars, Pilgrims, and Knowledge
The Niger River carried far more than merchants, fishermen, and cargo. Every season, its waters also transported students eager to learn, scholars seeking new teachers, pilgrims beginning long journeys of worship, and handwritten manuscripts filled with generations of knowledge. The same boats that delivered fish to busy marketplaces often carried young men and women whose greatest treasure was not gold or salt, but the opportunity to study the Qurâan, Arabic, law, mathematics, astronomy, medicine, and other fields of learning that flourished throughout the Muslim world.
By the time the great empires of Mali and Songhai reached their height, West Africa had become home to a remarkable network of Islamic scholarship. Masajid served not only as places of worship but also as centers of education where children memorized the Qurâan, learned to read and write, and studied the foundations of their faith. Those who wished to continue their education often traveled from town to town in search of respected teachers. In a world without automobiles, trains, or airplanes, rivers became some of the safest and most efficient pathways for these educational journeys.
Imagine a young student standing beside the Niger with a small bundle of belongings tied carefully over one shoulder. Inside might be a change of clothing, writing materials, and perhaps a treasured copy of a few handwritten lessons. Nearby, a boatman prepares his pirogue for another journey upstream. Around him gather merchants carrying trade goods, families traveling to visit relatives, and pilgrims setting out toward distant lands. Before long, they all climb aboard together, each traveling for a different reason, yet sharing the same river.
As the boat glides through the calm morning waters, conversations naturally begin. A merchant describes markets farther downstream. A scholar answers questions about a verse from the Qurâan. An elder shares stories of earlier generations who traveled these same waterways. Children listen with curiosity while watching birds soar overhead and fishermen cast their nets into the river. Learning happens long before anyone reaches a classroom.
Many of West Africaâs greatest centers of learning depended upon these river connections. Cities such as Timbuktu, DjennĂŠ, and Gao became renowned throughout the Muslim world not only because of their wealth but because of their scholars and libraries. Students arrived from surrounding villages and distant kingdoms to study with respected teachers whose reputations extended far beyond the Niger River itself. Boats regularly brought new students while carrying graduates home to teach others within their own communities.
Knowledge during this period was precious in ways that are sometimes difficult for us to imagine today. Books were copied by hand, one page at a time, by skilled scribes whose careful work could require weeks or even months to complete a single manuscript. Every volume represented countless hours of labor, making books among the most valuable possessions a person could own. Boatmen handled these manuscripts with great care, protecting them from water and weather as they transported them between centers of learning.
The river also played an important role in one of Islamâs greatest acts of worship: the Hajj pilgrimage to Makkah. Although no river could carry pilgrims all the way across Africa and Arabia, the Niger often served as the first stage of a much longer journey. Pilgrims traveled by boat to larger cities where they joined caravans crossing the Sahara before continuing toward North Africa and eventually the Arabian Peninsula. Along the way, many met scholars from distant lands, exchanged ideas, and returned home with new knowledge that strengthened their own communities.
These journeys created a remarkable exchange of ideas. A scholar who studied in Timbuktu might later teach in a riverside village hundreds of miles away. A traveler returning from Makkah could introduce new books, legal opinions, or scientific observations learned during the pilgrimage. Merchants who regularly traveled between cities often carried letters, manuscripts, and news alongside their commercial goods. In this way, rivers became channels through which knowledge flowed as steadily as the water itself.
Education in West Africa was never limited to famous cities alone. Countless villages maintained Qurâanic schools where children learned the foundations of their faith before pursuing more advanced studies if their families and circumstances allowed. Many respected teachers spent their lives quietly educating generations of students whose names would never appear in history books. Their classrooms might have stood beside a masjid, beneath the shade of a large tree, or within a modest gathering place overlooking the river. What mattered most was not the size of the building but the commitment to preserving and passing on knowledge.
This culture of learning reflected an important principle within Islam itself. The Prophet Muhammad  taught the importance of seeking beneficial knowledge, and Muslims throughout history responded by building schools, libraries, observatories, and centers of scholarship across many civilizations. West Africa became an important part of this wider intellectual tradition. The rivers that sustained daily life also helped sustain a civilization that valued reading, writing, teaching, and lifelong learning.
Readers of Captain Muâawiya and the River of Secrets may recognize these themes throughout the novel. The crew member who share stories aboard Captain Muâawiyaâs vessel, the respect shown toward teachers and elders, and the importance of knowledge within the story all reflect historical realities found across the river civilizations of West Africa. While Captain Muâawiya himself is fictional, the educational world surrounding him draws inspiration from real communities where rivers connected far more than marketplaces. They connected minds.
For many African Americans and Foundational Black Americans whose ancestry reaches back to West Africa, this history offers another window into the lives of their ancestors. Along these rivers lived families who valued education, memorized the Qurâan, copied books by hand, and traveled great distances in pursuit of knowledge. Their intellectual traditions remind us that Africaâs past was not defined solely by commerce or political power, but also by a deep commitment to scholarship, faith, and learning that shaped generations across the continent.