I took that lesson very seriously, so I braced myself firmly to fight any woman who might approach my husband under the guise of kinship, friendship, or—God forbid—love.
By God, I am capable of eliminating any woman who attempts to take Usman away from me. Even though I trust myself in knowing that Usman has never loved another woman and is not interested in entertaining one, he is constantly being targeted.
Since Mufidah sighed deeply, leaned back in her chair, and fixed her eyes on the television, she hadn’t looked at me again—until now.
She looked at me sideways and said,
“So how does this story concern me? Go straight to the point. What message are you trying to pass across to me?”
I adjusted my sitting position and said,
“I want you to understand the strength of the love between us and to remove yourself from interfering in my issues with my husband. I heard you saying you would take him to court on my behalf. Why would you take my husband to court? And you barged into our house almost naked in the name of saving me—religion does not permit a man who is not your husband to see you in that state.”
This time she stared at me intently, then smiled a smile that did not reach her heart and said,
“I opened my door to take out trash so I could sweep in front of my door. At that exact moment, you opened your door for him, he slapped you and followed you inside to hit you again. Out of shock, I rushed in and grabbed him without caring about what I was wearing.”
I said,
“Not every woman attracts Usman.”
She replied,
“Just as not every man attracts Mufidah—especially your husband. All the good looks and character you described, I have never seen them. On the contrary. Usman has never attracted me. He is not among the men I would ever consider.”
She continued speaking, and I felt deeply angry, but I restrained myself, stood up calmly, and said,
“That must be why trash is not swept from the front of the living room and staircase until morning—exactly when he is leaving—and again precisely when he returns.”
She glanced at her watch and said,
“You should go home and treat your face—the injury your beloved gave you, since even beating is now part of love.”
So she was capable of such bitterness. I was about to respond when she opened her living room door wide and silently pointed me toward the exit.
Overwhelmed with anger, I said,
“I was already leaving—you didn’t need to chase me out. But please, stop throwing trash in the morning and evening across my living room door. Come and respect your boundaries.”
When I stepped outside, she followed me and leaned against her door, arms crossed over her chest, playing with the flower patterns on her chest. As I spoke, I dragged my foot along the tile line, marking the boundary clearly.
Our living room door opened—Usman appeared, wearing shorts and a singlet. And there stood Mufidah, wearing that same flimsy dress, even thinner than before.
My heart raced, especially at the way they stared at each other.
Innalillahi wa inna ilayhi raji’un.
What is about to happen? What have I brought upon myself?
I pushed Usman and told him to come home. He refused, instead firing a series of long questions at me—while his eyes were fixed on Mufidah.
Mufidah wore a mixed smile, playing with her hair and the decorations on her chest deliberately.
She said,
“Your husband is asking you a question—answer him. Why did you come into my house in the middle of the night? Did you come to your lawyer so she could claim compensation for the slap he gave you?”
This time Usman looked at me in shock, mouth open in surprise.
May God grant me a tongue and wit, because Mufidah nearly destroyed my marriage that night.
I quickly grabbed Usman and said,
“God forbid I wish any harm upon my Usman. I came to warn you to stay out of my marriage and stop threatening court action against my husband. My husband, whom I love dearly, is decent and well‑mannered. He does not associate with loose women roaming the streets.”
Mufidah smiled with disdain and said,
“Your husband has never attracted me. He is not among the men I find attractive. I have never seen a man who does nothing for me like your husband Usman. All the beauty you praise—I have never seen it.”
Usman turned to look at Mufidah with deep hatred, then turned back to me angrily, pointing at her and saying,
“Do not ever involve yourself with this useless woman again. What business of yours is it to enter her house and stop her? Take me to court? If she drinks alcohol, she should do it in a bar—not in my house.”
Joy filled my heart—I praised God silently. They hated each other fiercely.
Usman opened our door, motioned for me, and said, “Go inside.”
Mufidah smiled and said,
“Your wife loves you deeply but doesn’t know how to manage love properly because she lacks maturity and education. If she were wise, she wouldn’t create the chaos she has created in her living room. Will you help her return to school? You’d be helping not just her, but yourself and all of us neighbors. Understand?”
She turned and walked away toward her house.
Innalillahi wa inna ilayhi raji’un.
I knew what I saw—and Usman saw it too.
I angrily moved to respond, but Usman held me back as she entered her house and slammed the door. He turned and glared at me, shouting for me to keep quiet.
He stormed into the living room and said,
“Keep quiet. Mufidah spoke the truth. You lack education. How many entrance exams did you apply for and then abandon? Even when I secured admission for you, you said you wouldn’t go until after childbirth. After delivery, I suggested hiring help—you refused because of your excessive jealousy. Mufidah is right—more right than you.
“Why did you enter her house? I know what pushed you there. You accused her of wearing short dresses into our house, claimed I was staring at her. Why do you lack reasoning? Is every woman a man looks at someone he desires? By now you should know my character. This is not what I stand for.
“At midnight, you dragged a sleeping woman out half‑naked. I—whom you claim not to want to see such things—ended up seeing what I never saw before. You exposed my eyes to sin.”
I snapped,
“So you’re telling me you saw her? What made your eyes go there? I knew you stared long enough to memorize her body. She was shaking and touching herself deliberately. I cannot live in the same compound with a prostitute.”
He raised his hand angrily—I thought he would slap me. I shielded my face, but he stopped. His voice dropped, his eyes reddened with tears.
He said,
“I promise I will never slap you again in my life, God willing. I regret the one I did. There is a difference between humans and animals—I will not beat you. You are a human being who should think and distinguish right from wrong.
“I love you, but your extreme jealousy is forcing me to uproot you from my heart. You cannot live peacefully with anyone—not even with me. You deny me rest.
“Look at the time—it’s past 2 a.m. I haven’t slept, and I must leave for work at 7. How do you expect me to perform well? Any mistake could cost me my job. My work requires calmness, and I have none.
“Mufidah has work tomorrow—you deprived her of sleep. Legal work requires mental rest. And you—what will you do tomorrow after the children leave for school? Sleep all day, neglect chores? Even the neighbors have noticed your immaturity.”
I shouted,
“So you care about Mufidah? You’re upset that I didn’t let her sleep early?”
He replied angrily,
“Yes—she is a human being, a Muslim, and our neighbor. You know the Prophet (SAW) instructed us to treat neighbors kindly. She has rights over us.”
I exploded, but he stopped me and said,
“If you utter one more word between now and morning, I swear I will do something we will both regret.”
He had never spoken to me like that before. I knew what he meant—divorce. Losing Usman would be like losing my life.
I watched him enter his room and lock it. I said nothing—but I spent the night pacing, clicking my tongue in anger.
Mufidah… Mufidah… Mufidah.
She would never see my back—I would see hers. I resolved to make her hate this place until she left on her own.
The next morning, I bathed early, dressed elegantly, and prepared breakfast for my children and husband.
Usman emerged dressed sharply in a black banker’s suit. I greeted him; he responded coolly. I offered him his usual spiced tea. He refused, but when I acted pitiful, he relented.
He stared at my bruised cheek, red from the slap, and seemed uncomfortable.
I said softly,
“I trust you more than myself. I caused everything—even the slap. I see that you’ve been troubled since yesterday.”
He stared at his hand and said,
“I hate this hand that slapped you.”
I covered his mouth and said,
“Don’t ever say that.”
He pulled me close and apologized deeply.
“I promise never to raise my hand again. Please stop mentioning it. I don’t beat women. But please stop provoking me.”
I forgave him. The children ran out and hugged him. He spoke to them lovingly, dropped them at school, and left for work.
As we stepped out, we met Mufidah—dressed in a formal suit, hair visible, smelling expensive.
Nazifi jumped into her arms shouting happily.
For a moment, Usman and Mufidah stood close, holding the child together.
My jealousy flared like fire.
I rushed forward. Usman withdrew the child.
She smiled and wished the child luck.
She tried to give them candy—I dragged the children away angrily.
Usman frowned, angry at her influence.
The children nearly exposed everything—but I silenced them with a look.
Usman loaded them into the car, glared at Mufidah, and drove off angrily.
I took that lesson very seriously, so I braced myself firmly to fight any woman who might approach my husband under the guise of kinship, friendship, or—God forbid—love.
By God, I am capable of eliminating any woman who attempts to take Usman away from me. Even though I trust myself in knowing that Usman has never loved another woman and is not interested in entertaining one, he is constantly being targeted.
Since Mufidah sighed deeply, leaned back in her chair, and fixed her eyes on the television, she hadn’t looked at me again—until now.
She looked at me sideways and said,
“So how does this story concern me? Go straight to the point. What message are you trying to pass across to me?”
I adjusted my sitting position and said,
“I want you to understand the strength of the love between us and to remove yourself from interfering in my issues with my husband. I heard you saying you would take him to court on my behalf. Why would you take my husband to court? And you barged into our house almost naked in the name of saving me—religion does not permit a man who is not your husband to see you in that state.”
This time she stared at me intently, then smiled a smile that did not reach her heart and said,
“I opened my door to take out trash so I could sweep in front of my door. At that exact moment, you opened your door for him, he slapped you and followed you inside to hit you again. Out of shock, I rushed in and grabbed him without caring about what I was wearing.”
I said,
“Not every woman attracts Usman.”
She replied,
“Just as not every man attracts Mufidah—especially your husband. All the good looks and character you described, I have never seen them. On the contrary. Usman has never attracted me. He is not among the men I would ever consider.”
She continued speaking, and I felt deeply angry, but I restrained myself, stood up calmly, and said,
“That must be why trash is not swept from the front of the living room and staircase until morning—exactly when he is leaving—and again precisely when he returns.”
She glanced at her watch and said,
“You should go home and treat your face—the injury your beloved gave you, since even beating is now part of love.”
So she was capable of such bitterness. I was about to respond when she opened her living room door wide and silently pointed me toward the exit.
Overwhelmed with anger, I said,
“I was already leaving—you didn’t need to chase me out. But please, stop throwing trash in the morning and evening across my living room door. Come and respect your boundaries.”
When I stepped outside, she followed me and leaned against her door, arms crossed over her chest, playing with the flower patterns on her chest. As I spoke, I dragged my foot along the tile line, marking the boundary clearly.
Our living room door opened—Usman appeared, wearing shorts and a singlet. And there stood Mufidah, wearing that same flimsy dress, even thinner than before.
My heart raced, especially at the way they stared at each other.
Innalillahi wa inna ilayhi raji’un.
What is about to happen? What have I brought upon myself?
I pushed Usman and told him to come home. He refused, instead firing a series of long questions at me—while his eyes were fixed on Mufidah.
Mufidah wore a mixed smile, playing with her hair and the decorations on her chest deliberately.
She said,
“Your husband is asking you a question—answer him. Why did you come into my house in the middle of the night? Did you come to your lawyer so she could claim compensation for the slap he gave you?”
This time Usman looked at me in shock, mouth open in surprise.
May God grant me a tongue and wit, because Mufidah nearly destroyed my marriage that night.
I quickly grabbed Usman and said,
“God forbid I wish any harm upon my Usman. I came to warn you to stay out of my marriage and stop threatening court action against my husband. My husband, whom I love dearly, is decent and well‑mannered. He does not associate with loose women roaming the streets.”
Mufidah smiled with disdain and said,
“Your husband has never attracted me. He is not among the men I find attractive. I have never seen a man who does nothing for me like your husband Usman. All the beauty you praise—I have never seen it.”
Usman turned to look at Mufidah with deep hatred, then turned back to me angrily, pointing at her and saying,
“Do not ever involve yourself with this useless woman again. What business of yours is it to enter her house and stop her? Take me to court? If she drinks alcohol, she should do it in a bar—not in my house.”
Joy filled my heart—I praised God silently. They hated each other fiercely.
Usman opened our door, motioned for me, and said, “Go inside.”
Mufidah smiled and said,
“Your wife loves you deeply but doesn’t know how to manage love properly because she lacks maturity and education. If she were wise, she wouldn’t create the chaos she has created in her living room. Will you help her return to school? You’d be helping not just her, but yourself and all of us neighbors. Understand?”
She turned and walked away toward her house.
Innalillahi wa inna ilayhi raji’un.
I knew what I saw—and Usman saw it too.
I angrily moved to respond, but Usman held me back as she entered her house and slammed the door. He turned and glared at me, shouting for me to keep quiet.
He stormed into the living room and said,
“Keep quiet. Mufidah spoke the truth. You lack education. How many entrance exams did you apply for and then abandon? Even when I secured admission for you, you said you wouldn’t go until after childbirth. After delivery, I suggested hiring help—you refused because of your excessive jealousy. Mufidah is right—more right than you.
“Why did you enter her house? I know what pushed you there. You accused her of wearing short dresses into our house, claimed I was staring at her. Why do you lack reasoning? Is every woman a man looks at someone he desires? By now you should know my character. This is not what I stand for.
“At midnight, you dragged a sleeping woman out half‑naked. I—whom you claim not to want to see such things—ended up seeing what I never saw before. You exposed my eyes to sin.”
I snapped,
“So you’re telling me you saw her? What made your eyes go there? I knew you stared long enough to memorize her body. She was shaking and touching herself deliberately. I cannot live in the same compound with a prostitute.”
He raised his hand angrily—I thought he would slap me. I shielded my face, but he stopped. His voice dropped, his eyes reddened with tears.
He said,
“I promise I will never slap you again in my life, God willing. I regret the one I did. There is a difference between humans and animals—I will not beat you. You are a human being who should think and distinguish right from wrong.
“I love you, but your extreme jealousy is forcing me to uproot you from my heart. You cannot live peacefully with anyone—not even with me. You deny me rest.
“Look at the time—it’s past 2 a.m. I haven’t slept, and I must leave for work at 7. How do you expect me to perform well? Any mistake could cost me my job. My work requires calmness, and I have none.
“Mufidah has work tomorrow—you deprived her of sleep. Legal work requires mental rest. And you—what will you do tomorrow after the children leave for school? Sleep all day, neglect chores? Even the neighbors have noticed your immaturity.”
I shouted,
“So you care about Mufidah? You’re upset that I didn’t let her sleep early?”
He replied angrily,
“Yes—she is a human being, a Muslim, and our neighbor. You know the Prophet (SAW) instructed us to treat neighbors kindly. She has rights over us.”
I exploded, but he stopped me and said,
“If you utter one more word between now and morning, I swear I will do something we will both regret.”
He had never spoken to me like that before. I knew what he meant—divorce. Losing Usman would be like losing my life.
I watched him enter his room and lock it. I said nothing—but I spent the night pacing, clicking my tongue in anger.
Mufidah… Mufidah… Mufidah.
She would never see my back—I would see hers. I resolved to make her hate this place until she left on her own.
The next morning, I bathed early, dressed elegantly, and prepared breakfast for my children and husband.
Usman emerged dressed sharply in a black banker’s suit. I greeted him; he responded coolly. I offered him his usual spiced tea. He refused, but when I acted pitiful, he relented.
He stared at my bruised cheek, red from the slap, and seemed uncomfortable.
I said softly,
“I trust you more than myself. I caused everything—even the slap. I see that you’ve been troubled since yesterday.”
He stared at his hand and said,
“I hate this hand that slapped you.”
I covered his mouth and said,
“Don’t ever say that.”
He pulled me close and apologized deeply.
“I promise never to raise my hand again. Please stop mentioning it. I don’t beat women. But please stop provoking me.”
I forgave him. The children ran out and hugged him. He spoke to them lovingly, dropped them at school, and left for work.
As we stepped out, we met Mufidah—dressed in a formal suit, hair visible, smelling expensive.
Nazifi jumped into her arms shouting happily.
For a moment, Usman and Mufidah stood close, holding the child together.
My jealousy flared like fire.
I rushed forward. Usman withdrew the child.
She smiled and wished the child luck.
She tried to give them candy—I dragged the children away angrily.
Usman frowned, angry at her influence.
The children nearly exposed everything—but I silenced them with a look.
Usman loaded them into the car, glared at Mufidah, and drove off angrily.
I smiled in satisfaction.