The Friday Sermon | خطبة الجمعة
"The imam's wife hasn't been touched in years. The young scholar who comes to study notices her loneliness—and decides to fill it."
The Friday Sermon
خطبة الجمعة
Sheikh Mahmoud's sermons are legendary.
Every Friday, Al-Azhar's lecture hall fills with students eager to learn from the master. He speaks of piety, of devotion, of turning away from worldly temptations.
He doesn't speak of his wife.
I notice her anyway.
I'm Ziad.
Twenty-seven, studying fiqh at Al-Azhar. I rent a room in Sheikh Mahmoud's house—it's common for senior scholars to host students. Good for mentorship.
Good for being close to Sitt Amina.
She's forty-eight.
The Sheikh's third wife—the first two died, he never mentions them. She manages the household, cooks our meals, exists in the margins of his important life.
And she watches me.
I catch her eyes when I come from the bathroom. Feel her gaze during dinner. Notice how she lingers when she brings tea to our study sessions.
"You're not from Cairo," she says one afternoon.
The Sheikh is at the mosque. We're alone—for the first time.
"Alexandria."
"I can tell. You have the sea in your eyes."
I don't know how to respond to that.
"My husband speaks highly of you," she continues. "Says you'll be a great scholar."
"Inshallah."
"But scholars forget things." She moves closer. "They forget that learning isn't only in books."
"Sitt Amina—"
"He hasn't touched me in four years. Did you know that?"
I didn't know that.
I suspected—they sleep in separate rooms, he never looks at her—but hearing it confirmed...
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be sorry. Be..." She stops. Looks away. "Forgive me. I shouldn't have said anything."
"Wait."
I catch her hand.
We both freeze.
"You deserve better," I say.
"Better doesn't exist for women like me. I'm his wife. That's all I'll ever be."
"That's not true."
"It is true. Unless..." She meets my eyes. "Unless someone proves otherwise."
This is wrong.
She's my teacher's wife. I live in his house. I study his words, pray behind him, aspire to be like him.
But the way she's looking at me...
"Prove what?" I ask.
"That I'm still a woman. Not just a servant."
I kiss her.
Right there in the kitchen, where she's spent a decade preparing meals for a man who barely sees her.
She melts into me.
"Not here," she gasps. "He could come back."
"Where?"
"Tonight. My room. After Isha. He sleeps early."
I spend the rest of the day in agony.
Trying to focus on my texts. Trying to pray. Trying not to think about what I'm about to do to my sheikh's wife.
The Friday sermon echoes in my head.
Turn away from temptation...
I turn toward it instead.
Midnight.
Her door is unlocked, as promised.
She's sitting on her bed in a silk nightdress. The lamp casts her in gold.
"You came."
"Did you think I wouldn't?"
"I thought you might come to your senses."
"My senses want you."
I undress her slowly.
The nightdress falls away, revealing a body neglected too long. Full breasts, soft belly, thighs that tremble when I touch them.
"Beautiful," I say.
"Don't lie—"
"I never lie. Especially not about this."
I taste her for the first time.
She stifles her moans—the walls are thin, her husband sleeps two rooms away. I hold her hips and lose myself in her.
"Ya Allah—Ziad—"
"Shh. Let me take care of you."
I do.
She comes against my mouth.
Twice. Then begs me to fill her.
"Please. It's been so long. I need to feel—"
"I know."
I slide inside.
Making love to my sheikh's wife.
While he sleeps nearby. While his sermons about piety echo in my memory. I should feel guilty. I only feel right.
"Yes—aiwa—harder—"
"Quiet—"
"I can't—it's been so long—"
I cover her mouth with mine and give her everything.
We finish together.
Tangled in her sheets, hearts pounding, terrified of discovery.
"You have to go," she whispers.
"I know."
"But come back. Tomorrow night."
"I will."
It becomes our ritual.
Every night after Isha, after the Sheikh sleeps, I slip into her room. We've grown expert at silence—muffled moans, bitten pillows, whispered names.
"I love you," she says one night.
"Amina—"
"I know you can't say it back. I know this is just... what it is. But I love you."
"It's not 'just' anything." I take her face in my hands. "And I do love you. Allah forgive me, but I do."
Three months later.
The Sheikh announces a trip to Medina. A conference. Two weeks away.
"Mind the house," he tells me. "Take care of Amina."
If only he knew how well I've been taking care of her.
Two weeks of freedom.
We make love in every room. On the couch where he sits. In his study where he writes. Against the kitchen counter where it all began.
"We could run," she says. "Leave Egypt. Start over somewhere."
"And destroy your life?"
"What life? This?" She gestures around. "This isn't living. You're living. This is just... existing."
"If you're serious—"
"I'm serious." She takes my hands. "Ziad, I know I'm older. I know this seems crazy. But I've never felt like this. Not even when I was young."
"Let me finish my studies. Then I'll take you anywhere."
"Promise?"
"I promise."
One year later
I graduate from Al-Azhar.
The Sheikh shakes my hand, praises my scholarship. Amina stands behind him, her face carefully blank.
"What will you do now?" the Sheikh asks.
"I've been offered a position in Abu Dhabi. I leave next week."
"Excellent. May Allah bless your path."
What he doesn't know:
A week after I leave, Amina will request khula—divorce by the wife. It's her right, even if uncommon.
A month after that, she'll fly to Abu Dhabi.
And two months after that, we'll marry.
Five years later
We have a son.
Mahmoud—named ironically for the man who brought us together.
"Do you think he knows?" Amina asks sometimes. "About us?"
"If he does, he's never said."
"Good." She kisses me. "I'd hate for him to know his sermons didn't work."
I preach my own sermons now.
About mercy. Compassion. Understanding. I never preach against temptation.
Because sometimes, temptation leads you exactly where you're meant to be.
Alhamdulillah.
The End.