SPLIT SOUL-

Chapter 1: Narrow Escape; Saved by God.

.'Nur Afiya'- Nine Years Ago..

Endurance is born when determination walks hand in hand with surrender; the long-distance runner bends to the wind, yet never loses sight of the horizon.

___.

Eighteen-year-old Jamal walked a few steps behind Almeida and Jamila, the two sisters who had taken him as family since his mother’s death. His Qur’an bag thudded softly against his side. Just another evening after madrasa.

But tonight, the Shaykh’s words clung to him like smoke, refusing to leave. He could still hear his voice echo in his head.

“When truth dies among earthlings, corruption spreads. And those who allow it? Allah’s verdict is coming.”

That was how the Shaykh had rounded off the day’s soul class.

Direct. Heavy. Pure. Thoughtful.

As they turned the bend toward Almeida’s street, the evening thickened with jasmine, suya smoke, and something else; an unease that pricked at the back of Jamal’s neck.

A warning, if the soul could hear it.

Maghrib(evening prayer) had already passed; the sun had folded itself into the house of yesterday. By this hour, the road here was quieter than usual, muted, almost watchful. The girls’ giggles were the only sound that lingered, their words hushed, slipping beyond his ears.

He adjusted the strap of his bag and glanced at them. Sisters. Girls he trusted. Girls he would have defended without hesitation.

He didn’t know this ordinary walk would mark the last night he lived in Nur Afiya as a boy.

Ahead, Jamila scoffed, brushing her palm against her abaya.

“Next time we close this late, I’m sprouting wings and flying home. At least they won’t keep me waiting like you two snails.”

Jamal smirked faintly, slowing his steps behind her.

“You sure you want that? A chicken wishes it had the feathers of an eagle. An eagle wishes it had the speed of a peregrine. And a peregrine still envies the rocket to space. Contentment is key.”

Almeida chuckled under her breath. “Jamal and his sermons, always on cue,” she said, veering into her street.

Jamal pressed on, “Moreover, I don't understand why you're hurrying home. I’d only suggest you grow more patience for Allah’s timing. Even the Israelites would’ve sprouted feathers to Canaan if they could. But tomorrow can’t be rushed, can it? It unveils itself by seconds at only Allah's will.

Besides, it’s not like tonight was wasted. We’re walking home with more than enough knowledge.”

Jamila stopped mid-step, lips pursed.

“Knowledge..? Please. He could’ve just booked us a bed at the mosque. Honestly, Jamal, who survives three hours of the Shaykh’s bedtime stories? Did we really need to waste half the night at his so-called Soul School?”

Jamal chuckled, shaking his head.

“You always have names for everything. ‘Soul School,’ eh?” His eyes flicked to Almeida.

“Is that why she’s upset? Almeida, you’ll have to explain these things to her. These reminders are exactly what you need growing up as a woman. I trust your sense; you’re not like most girls in Nur Afiya. You can talk sense into her.”

Almeida only smiled sheepishly and shrugged.

The wind picked up, rattling the tin roof of a nearby stall. Dust skittered across the road.

Jamila exhaled loudly, dragging her feet. She glanced at Jamal sideways.

“Talking like you’re the Shaykh’s echo. Grow up, Jamal. The world’s sprinting, and you’re still walking barefoot in circles.”

Jamal’s gaze snapped to her, voice tightening.

“The world's sprinting towards the wrong direction. Believe me or not, that sermon is exactly what we need: youth, elders, everyone. To stay on the path, to cut through the noise, to live under Allah’s mercy, in obedience, and revive love for Him among earthlings. That is the pace. The only pace.”

He paused, eyes narrowing.

“Don’t tell me you were irritated the whole time?”

“No, I wasn’t irritated,” Jamila admitted. “But do we really have to sit for hours listening to words half the crowd won’t even act on? Not everyone is ready to change, Jamal.

And me: tonight was supposed to be my night. I’ve waited months for this new movie, and instead I sat there, losing precious time to sermons. You can’t imagine my relief that we’re almost home.” She quickened her pace, as if chasing a departing bus.

Jamal raised his voice after her.

“Jamila, listen. Truth doesn’t waste time. A message only becomes real when someone carries it forward. Whether you liked the lecture or not, the Shaykh has done his part; he’s delivered. Allah will reward him. The real question is; how will you respond?

Remember what he said: every habit, every choice: what you desire, what you chase, what you leave behind, either pulls you closer to Allah or farther away. That’s the measure we should hold ourselves to each day: Is this drawing me toward Allah’s love and mercy, or toward His displeasure?”

Almeida’s soft laugh broke the weight of his words. That sound; so gentle it made you wonder if she could ever harm an ant, drew Jamal’s eyes back to her.

“Look, Jamal,” she said quietly, “she’s sixteen. Allah gave everyone free will. She already knows right from wrong, and at some point her choices have to be her own. How much more can you tell her?”

Jamal exhaled, adjusting the Qur’an bag higher on his shoulder.

“I hear you. But we wake up every day to grow, until Allah decides otherwise. My prayer is that she doesn’t make choices that fracture her soul before she even understands what’s at stake. May Allah guide us all, InshaAllah.”

The street around them shimmered in twilight; violet melting into gold.

Three boys kicked a ragged ball down the lane. An elderly woman fanned the fire beneath roasting maize. Ordinary sounds and smells wrapped the air, yet beneath it all hung a hush; something weightier, harder to name.

Jamila reached the compound gate and pushed it open with both hands. She slipped inside quickly. Almeida followed, holding the gate wider, then glanced back.

Jamal was still at the roadside, brushing dust from his trousers with a folded handkerchief.

“You’re coming in, right?” she asked.

Jamal paused.

The pause wasn’t shyness. It was instinct. Learned early. Home had long stopped being a sanctuary since his mother’s death in a ghastly motor accident two years ago. His father had vanished long before Jamal even learned how to shave. His sister was gone too; married off to the North, tucked into another household’s duty. Fawas, his brother in all but blood, lived under the roof of a man too wild for Jamal to visit more than once a month.

So, aside from the uncle’s house where he usually laid his head, this was what remained: a house full of noise and women. A soft chaos. Not his home, but not a place that turned him away either. Here, they had become the closest thing to family; unrelated by blood yet bound by kindness, giving him a love even many foster families would struggle to match. That was why he rarely said no when they called.

“You’re coming in,” Almeida said again, her tone carrying a command that left no room for protest. “My mom made tuwo and miyan taushe before she left. You don’t say no to that.”

Jamal’s lips curved, the corners slow to yield. He blinked twice, as though steadying something in himself.

“You had me at tuwo. An hungry man is an angry man.”

She grinned, flashing a spark of mischief, and turned toward the inner compound. He followed her through, and the iron gate eased shut with a weighty clang, muting the outside world.

_________.

Inside, the house breathed warmth. The scent of puff-puff hung in the air, mingling with jasmine from the open window. Light from the chandelier spilled gold across linen.

Mariyah, Almeida’s elder sister, sat cross-legged on the rug, picking puff-puffs off a napkin.

She looked up as they entered.

“You people took forever. I thought the Shaykh dragged you on one of his pilgrimages. I even finished a whole documentary waiting.”

“You could’ve boiled beans instead,” Almeida shot back as she disappeared into the kitchen. “Your mates are out winning souls, you’re here finishing documentaries.”

“I could’ve won a lot, right…?” Mariyah replied with her mouth full. “But I didn’t. Maybe I’ll start tomorrow.” She smirked, then shoved another puff-puff into her cheek.

Jamal lingered at the side, watching their usual back-and-forth. A moment later, he slid off his sandals and sank into his usual corner of the couch. Familiar. Quiet. Safe.

Minutes later, Almeida came back with a tray: puff-puff, chin-chin, and steaming tea.

But something else had changed.

Gone was the loose abaya from madrasa. She now wore a grey sleeveless top and black shorts. Her scarf was gone, hair tied up with loose strands falling like whispers.

Jamal blinked. Not because he hadn’t seen girls dress like that. But because this was Almeida. And the change felt deliberate. Still, it was her house, and who was he to question her clothes?

She handed him a mug, her fingers lingering longer than usual, thumb grazing his knuckle.

He felt it.

Not just the touch; but a tug inside. A fight-or-flight kind of tug.

“Jazakillah,” he murmured, eyes fixed on the tray as though it might rescue him.

Almeida smiled faintly and settled beside him.

“That’s your third puff-puff since we came in, Mariyah,” Jamila teased as she slid a cassette into the DVD player. “I wonder how many you swallowed before we got back.”

Mariyah mumbled, cheeks round and guilty, her mouth still full.

The screen flickered to life. Jazz spilled from the speakers; then lips on lips, roaming hands, breathless moans.

Five minutes in, Jamal’s gut tightened. This wasn’t their usual tragicomedy, the kind they’d laugh at, debate, even pity the characters for. This was raw. Too raw. The silence in the room now pressed heavier than the sound from the TV.

“You’re quiet,” Almeida whispered, her thigh brushing his as she leaned closer. “Not enjoying the movie? Or cat got your tongue?”

“I didn’t expect Jamila to bring this kind of film,” Jamal muttered. “This temptation is worse than leading a crowd in prayer. And I usually stay quiet when temptation talks.”

“But we grow, remember?” Almeida teased, leaning in further. “That’s what you told me on the way back from madrasa. If temptation’s voice is louder than yours, let me give you one to answer back.”

She leaned closer and Jamal shifted to the far end of the couch, jaw tight.

“I wouldn’t even be here by this time if not for hunger that could kill a man,” he said flatly.

“The food will come Jamal. Have I ever lied to you? But why’re you moving away?” Almeida’s tone snapped, sharp with challenge. “Scared I’ll bite?”

Silence.

"You could probably do that,” Jamal said finally, voice edged, “the clothes you’re wearing tell me you can do more than bite.

And this movie..." He paused. "Why don’t you just bring the food now?”

She didn’t answer.

From the rug, Jamila snickered. “Jamal’s just scared of women, that’s all. He always does that… turtling thing whenever it gets hot.”

“What’s ‘turtling thing’?” Jamal shot back, brow raised.

“One little flirt,” Jamila grinned, “and you’re back in your shell.”

Jamal only grumbled, a sound low and tight, like patience fraying. Still; they were girls he trusted. Like sisters.

On screen, the scene softened. Still not halal, but less brazen. Jamal forced himself to breathe. He trusted them. He had to.

He didn’t know.

He couldn’t have known.

That as the sky over Nur Afiya deepened into amber, the night ahead would unravel everything he thought he understood.

Almeida tried to lean closer again, her breath warm against his ear.

“This is going beyond ordinary, Almeida,” Jamal snapped. “And you know it. You understand what you're doing very well.”

“And what’s that?” she asked, half-smiling.

“Striking matches in a room soaked with gasoline.”

Her smile faltered. “So…?”

“Even Yusuf felt the pull. But Yusuf ran.” He added.

“And you think running makes you stronger?” she whispered.

“No,” Jamal said. “It keeps you from breaking divine rule.”

Almeida drew back slightly, searching his face. “Next time, maybe you’ll understand better.”

Jamal didn’t smile. “I don't think there'll ever be a next time,” he said, voice softer now. “I already made a promise to Allah that i won’t have neither s*x nor any romantic relationship with any woman I don’t intend to marry.

That’s how we humans as: youths, teenagers and even adults are supposed to plan to live our lives, living it to the glory of our creator. Because this was Allah’s plan for every human right from Eden.”

Mariyah licked sugar off her fingers. “Jamal really thinks he’s living in Yusuf’s time.”

“Whatever you think of me, that’s your opinion of me, not mine.” Jamal shot back. “I’m only working towards fulfilling Allah's divine purpose for me on Earth.”

Silence pressed down, thicker than dusk.

“I know what you’re pushing for Almeida,” Jamal added gently. “But I don’t see you that way. Not you. Not Jamila. Not Mariyah. You’re all beautiful, yes. Enticing, no doubt. But protecting our sacredness; that’s what draws in Allah’s mercy early in our life.”

He turned back to the screen, his thoughts burning.

The laughter was gone. The air had changed.

The movie played on. Softer now, but the room stayed heavy.

“Tuwo’s after the movie,” Almeida said.

“Hooking me with food now?”Jamal quipped.

“And romance,” Mariyah added and smiled. “Deadly combo.”

He leaned back into the couch, "Just know that Allah dislikes deceit."

An hour passed and the movie ended as jazz hummed low.

Almeida stood, “I’ll get the tuwo now.” she whispered and turned towards the kitchen.

“BarakAllahu,” Jamal muttered, his tummy already grumbling.

Mariyah checked her phone and stepped out. “Be back soon.”

Now it was just Jamal and Jamila in the parlor. Then Jamila stood. “Let me check on Almeida.”

“Alright,” he said. “Tell her to hurry. The worms are already preaching. Might as well stay a bit and say hi to your mom.”

“Okay… be right back,” she replied, making for the kitchen door.

He smiled and let out a deep sigh. The ache from that damned movie had already planted something restless in him. The soft erotic scenes, the word exchanges during the movie, the silence now swallowing the house, everything felt like a trap disguised as comfort, but he was too tired to fight suspicion. Moreover, he's only here for the food.

And like a man lulled by warmth and weariness, he drifted. Not asleep. Not awake. Somewhere in between.

Eyes shut.

Mind cloudy.

Chest rising and falling like waves against a stone shore.

The scent of puff-puff still lingered in the air, faint and cloying. The jazz on the television had faded into silence, the screen now dimmed to a restless flicker. Outside, the soft hum of life beyond the window had dulled, Isha had long passed, and the night had deepened into that strange in-between hour where shadows stretch longer than they should.

Jamal stirred as something in the setting felt off.

Not the air.

Not the light.

A pressure. A presence.

Fingers moving silently inside his underwear.

Cold.

Soft.

Unmistakably deliberate.

His breath caught, his eyes flung open. And time stalled.

Almeida bent over him, half-unclothed, her grey sleeveless peeled off one shoulder, now drooping low enough to bare more than it concealed. Her thighs pressed against the edge of the couch, and her other hand held something sacred.

His prayer beads.

Dangling loosely from her fingers like decoration. The same tasbih he’d worn like armor, now stripped from his neck.

His voice cracked. “Almeida… what are you doing..?”

She didn’t answer immediately. She removed her hand slowly.

Her gaze wasn’t wild, It was intentional. Composed. Controlled.

Her lips parted slightly, her chest rising with slow, deliberate breath. “You’re awake,” she whispered, leaning in closer as Her knee brushed his thigh.

His heart thundered in his chest. Not l**t. Not even fear.

Panic.

The kind that came when something once familiar turned into a stranger right before your eyes.

"Stop this Almeida. This is haram" he retorted. But Her eyes didn’t waver. “.Why do you always pretend?” she asked, her voice low and smooth. “You want this. You’ve always wanted it.”

He sat up abruptly, backing into the armrest, his voice rising. Not yet a shout, but loud enough to betray the tremor beneath it. “No. Don’t twist this. You don’t get to rewrite me into your fantasy.”

She laughed; soft, bitter. "Fantasy? You say fantasy?" Then leaned closer. "You play pure Jamal, but you’re just afraid."

“Afraid of Allah, Yes." he snapped. His body shook now, every nerve awake. “Almeida, I came here for food, not… this madness.”

She tilted her head, smiling faintly. “But this is food enough, why are you shaking"

“Because this is wrong! Almeida.” He hissed. "I thought I could trust you.”

“You don’t want it?” she whispered, leaning closer.

He stood up abruptly, heart pounding. “This is madness Almeida. Fear Allah, this isn’t..”

“..If you don’t want it,” she said quietly, “I’ll scream. I’ll tell them you forced me.”

Jamal blinked. “What!? Me?”

“Don’t act like you don’t understand how this works,” she said, voice low, cruelly calm. “You’re older. You’re a man. You stayed late. Who do you think they'll believe?”

The room blurred and He felt heat crawl up his spine. Shame, fear, the sting of betrayal.

Almeida tried to approach again, More confident, more... rehearsed. He flinched away, heart in his throat.

“I said stop Almeida. Hand over my Tasbih please, I need to leave.

"Jamila!!” Almeida shouted, Her voice cracking against the room wall. Jamal froze. “Almeida, what are you doing?! Don’t do that. Don’t twist this event!” Just then, the door swung open.

Mariyah’s eyes scanned the room first. Then Jamila appeared behind her, confusion drawing thin lines across her brow.

“What’s going on?” Mariyah asked stepping in.

Jamal stepped back in relief, hope clawing its way to the surface. “Please come to my rescue.” he said, voice shaking, “It's Almeida, I don't think she's herself anymore?!”

But Almeida stood calm. Composed. Unbothered. Her sleeveless top gone, her body barely veiled by the bum short.

Mariyah looked between them, and for a moment, Jamal saw something shift in her gaze.

He thought. Maybe this is it. Maybe they’ll finally see. Maybe I’m safe.

But instead... Jamila closed the door softly behind her.

Mariyah sighed and walked closer to where Jamal is standing “You’re overreacting Jamal. It’s not like we’re strangers here.”

“Overreacting?” His voice cracked as he stepped back. “Is that what this is to you?”

“Don’t act like you don’t feel things too,” Mariyah said, circling the couch. “You’re not a robot. Moreover..”

"I'm no Robot?" Jamal cut in. "does that mean i can't make my decisions."

“You stayed." Jamila added. "It's something you'll enjoy also. Don’t start pretending now.”

Jamal looked between the three of them,

And reality hit him.

This wasn’t Almeida’s idea alone.

The glances during the movie. The teasing. The strange coordination.

They’d planned this.

Or perhaps, they’d all allowed it.

It was all making sense to him now.

He stepped back, fists clenched. “You invited me for food.”

Almeida laughed coldly. “And I offered you.. something better.” She pointed to her bare chest, her face daring him. “Isn’t this what you really wanted?”

Something inside him broke. No hunger could justify this. No loneliness could excuse it. His soul screamed for escape.

Mariyah’s tone shifted; no more flirt, no more teasing. Just ice.

“If you don’t want us to scream r**e,” she said slowly, deliberately, “and spread it through every corner of Nur Afiya that you came here to defile Almeida…” Her eyes flicked down, then back up to meet his, sharp as a blade.

“…then you’ll make out with the three of us tonight.”

Jamal blinked.

The words didn’t register at first. They couldn’t be real.

His gaze darted from Mariyah to Jamila to Almeida.

But no one was laughing.

"Really? they must be joking right?" he thought.

Jamal’s mouth went dry. His throat tightened as if the air itself had betrayed him too. He looked at Almeida.

He's had her on a pedestal for years. He thought she could do no wrong nor harm, until she shattered that illusion

How did we get here?

Is it because I have no one else to run to?

Or Because they thought I was safe to prey on?

His eyes burned. Not with tears, but with something deeper. Shock. Fury. Heartbreak.

“Ya Allah,” he whispered inwardly, fighting for breath.

“Like You saved Yusuf, save me.”

His fingers clenched at his side. Legs tense.

He scanned the room.

Then, to the door where Jamila stood like a bouncer from night clubs.

He stared at Almeida; bare, smirking, the stolen tasbih still looped around her wrist like a trophy.

His pulse thundered in his ears. Three of them. All eyes on him. All angles cornered. No tuwo. No exit.

“Alright, Fine.” he said finally. Voice stripped of heat. “If this is happening..." He turned, "then let’s start with Jamila. Somehow I must still get to decide.”

A shift in the room.

Jamila blinked. “Me?”

She glanced at Mariyah, who offered only a shrug.

Almeida laughed softly, running a finger across the stolen prayer beads. “Thought you were the righteous one,” she murmured. “Guess all it takes is pressure.”

He ignored her.

Jamila approached, slow, intrigued, still playing it like a game. She reached the center of the room.

And Jamal ran. He dashed past her like wind, heart a hammer in his chest, hand swinging the door open with a slam so loud it knocked a decorative plaque from the wall.

“WALLAHI!” Almeida’s voice cut behind him. “JAMAL.. COME BACK HERE!”

But he was gone. Gone into the dusk of Nur Afiya, barefoot, breathless, and broken.

Only one thing left behind:

His tasbih.

Still wrapped around her wrist, glowing like a stolen relic.