Behind the Mosque

The adhan for Jummah echoes across Malindi.

I'm walking to the mosque with my aunt, Shangazi Maryam, both of us dressed in our Friday best. She's covered head to toe in her black buibui, only her eyes visible. I'm in my white kanzu and kofia.

We look pious.

We are not.

It started three months ago.

Maryam is my father's youngest sister—forty-eight, widowed young, never remarried. She manages the family's properties in Malindi while the rest of us live in Mombasa. I visit quarterly for business.

The first visit, she brushed against me in the kitchen. Accident.

The second visit, she held my hand too long. Comfort.

The third visit, she kissed me in the doorway of her bedroom. Neither of us called it an accident.

"We can't," I said.

"I know." She kissed me again. "But we will."

We haven't consummated it.

That's what I tell myself. We've kissed. Touched. Once, she let me feel her breasts through her dress—heavy, soft, nipples hardening under my palms. But we haven't done it.

Not yet.

"The storeroom," she whispers as we approach the mosque. "After the khutbah starts. When everyone is listening."

"Shangazi—"

"It's Jummah. The most blessed day. What better time to sin?"

Her eyes, above her niqab, are gleaming.

The men and women separate.

She goes to the women's section, behind the partition. I join the men, finding a place near the back, near the door.

The imam begins his khutbah. Something about patience. About resisting temptation.

I'm not listening.

I'm watching the door.

Twenty minutes in, I slip out.

The corridor is empty—everyone inside, listening to the sermon. I move through the mosque's back halls, past the ablution area, to the storeroom where they keep old prayer rugs and cleaning supplies.

The door is unlocked.

She's waiting.

"Lock it," she breathes.

I lock it. Turn. And she's already removing her buibui, unwrapping herself in the dim light that filters through the single high window.

"Quickly. We don't have long."

She's naked in moments.

Two hundred and fifty pounds of forbidden, revealed in a storeroom behind a mosque during Friday prayers. Her breasts are massive—dark-nippled, hanging heavy, swaying when she moves. Her belly is round and soft. Her thighs press together, hiding what I've been dreaming about for months.

"Touch me," she commands. "Before I lose my nerve."

I touch her.

I grab her breasts first.

Feel the weight, the softness, the way her nipples harden against my palms. She gasps—too loud for this place—and I cover her mouth with mine.

"Quiet," I whisper. "They'll hear."

"Let them." But she lowers her voice. "Let them hear what happens when you deny a woman for too long."

I drop to my knees.

She tastes like desperation.

Thirty years of widowhood. Three decades of nothing but prayers and property management. I eat her like I'm trying to give her back every orgasm she's missed.

"Astaghfirullah—" She's sobbing quietly. "Right there—don't stop—please—"

I hear the imam's voice through the walls. Something about hellfire. About the consequences of sin.

I make my aunt come twenty feet from where two hundred men are praying.

"Inside me," she gasps. "Now. Before the prayer ends."

I lift my kanzu. I'm already hard—have been since she whispered her plan. She turns, braces against the wall, spreads her legs.

"From behind. Quickly."

I slide inside my aunt in a mosque storeroom during Jummah.

She's tight.

Thirty years of nothing, and her body has forgotten. She gasps as I fill her, her hands gripping the shelves, prayer rugs tumbling to the floor.

"Move—quickly—"

I move. Hard. Fast. No time for tenderness. The khutbah could end any moment. The congregation could start moving. Someone could need something from this storeroom.

The risk makes it sweeter.

"Yes—na'am—harder—"

She's trying to stay quiet. Failing. Her moans escape despite her efforts, and I pray—actually pray—that the imam's voice covers the sound.

"I'm going to—" She's shaking. "So close—"

"Come for me, Shangazi. Come with the congregation praying on the other side of the wall."

She comes.

I feel it—her whole body clenching, her cunt milking me—and I follow. I bury myself deep and fill her while the imam calls the men to stand for salah.

Allahu Akbar.

God is great.

I'm coming inside my aunt during Friday prayers.

We dress quickly.

She wraps herself in her buibui. I straighten my kanzu. We slip out of the storeroom separately—her first, then me a minute later.

I rejoin the men for the final rakat. My lips move through the prayers.

Subhana Rabbiyal A'la.

Glory to my Lord, the Most High.

I'm still trembling from what we just did.

After the prayer, we walk home together.

Proper. Pious. Nephew and aunt, returning from Jummah like good Muslims.

"Next week," she murmurs.

"Shangazi—"

"Same time. Same place." She glances at me. "Unless you're too afraid."

I'm not afraid.

I'm hungry.

It becomes our ritual.

Every Friday. Every Jummah. While the imam preaches and the congregation prays, we sin in the storeroom behind the mosque.

Some weeks I take her against the wall. Some weeks she rides me on piled prayer rugs. Some weeks we only have time for my mouth on her cunt, her hand over her mouth to muffle the screams.

It's the most haram thing I've ever done.

It's the most alive I've ever felt.

"Do you think Allah sees us?" she asks one afternoon.

We're in the storeroom, her body draped over mine, the sounds of salah echoing through the walls.

"He sees everything."

"Then why doesn't He stop us?"

I think about it.

"Maybe He understands," I say. "That thirty years of loneliness deserves some mercy."

She laughs softly. "You're a terrible theologian."

"But a good lover?"

"The best I've ever had." She kisses me. "My only, and my best."

The imam's voice rises.

Rabbana atina fid-dunya hasanatan...

Our Lord, give us good in this world...

I look at my aunt, naked and satisfied, in a mosque storeroom.

Maybe this is my good in this world.

Maybe this is my prayer being answered.

Behind the mosque.

During Jummah.

Where no one would ever think to look.

Amen.