The Mosque Cleaner
"She cleans the mosque after everyone leaves. He stays late for prayer. In the empty halls of the holy place, they find something unholy together."
The mosque empties at midnight.
The last worshippers leave, the imam retires, and the building falls silent. This is when Mama Asha begins her work—mopping the floors, polishing the marble, preparing the space for Fajr.
I stay late for extra prayers.
At least, that's what I tell everyone.
She's been cleaning this mosque for thirty years.
Sixty-two years old, widowed, devoted to the maintenance of a holy place. Two-fifty-five of service, wrapped in modest clothes that hide everything but her face and hands.
"You pray longer than the imam," she says one night. She's found me in the corner, pretending to meditate.
"I have much to pray for."
"You have much to watch for, you mean." She doesn't sound angry. "I've seen your eyes. You're not looking at the mihrab."
"Mama Asha—"
"Don't insult me with lies. Not in this place." She sets down her mop. "What are you looking at?"
I tell her the truth.
"You. Every night. The way you move. The way you work."
"I'm an old woman cleaning floors."
"You're beautiful." I stand. "You've always been beautiful. Even in this place, doing this work. Maybe especially here."
"This is a mosque. Sacred ground."
"The ground is sacred. What I feel for you is just... human."
She should slap me.
Should report me to the imam. Should have me banned from this mosque and every other.
Instead, she's quiet for a long moment.
"My husband was the imam here," she says. "Thirty years ago. He died young, and they gave me this job as charity. I've cleaned these floors every night since."
"I didn't know."
"No one does. I'm invisible now. The widow who maintains the mosque." She looks at me. "When was the last time anyone saw me as something other than that?"
"I see you."
"I know." She picks up her mop. "That's why I haven't reported you."
Weeks pass.
I continue my late prayers. She continues her cleaning. We talk—about life, about loss, about the strange loneliness of being seen by no one.
"You could pray at home," she says one night.
"I could. But you're here."
"I'm here every night. Cleaning the floors of a mosque where I was once the imam's wife." She pauses. "Waiting for something I shouldn't want."
"What do you want?"
She doesn't answer. Just keeps mopping.
The night it happens, the power goes out.
A storm knocks out the electricity—no lights, no fans, just candles kept for emergencies. The mosque is dark and strange.
"I'll light the way," she says, holding a candle. "Follow me."
She leads me through the building—past the prayer halls, past the office, to a small room in the back. The storage room, filled with cleaning supplies and extra prayer rugs.
"Close the door," she says.
She sets down the candle.
"What I'm about to do is haram. In a mosque, no less. My husband's mosque." Her voice wavers. "But I've been alone for thirty years. And you see me. That's more than anyone else has offered."
"Mama Asha—"
"Don't speak." She begins unwrapping. "The storm will last hours. The power won't return. No one will know what happens here."
She's sacred and profane at once.
Her body revealed in candlelight—heavy and soft, marked by thirty years of kneeling on these floors. I should feel guilty. Instead, I feel awe.
"In this place," she whispers as I touch her. "Where my husband preached. Where I pray every night. This is where you take me."
"Is that what you want?"
"It's what I need."
I take her on the prayer rugs.
The same rugs where thousands have prostrated, where foreheads have touched the ground toward Mecca. Her back presses against them while I move inside her, and the mingled scent of worship and desire fills the small room.
"Haram," she gasps. "Haram—"
"Do you want me to stop?"
"Never."
The storm passes.
The power returns. The mosque is once again lit by electricity instead of sin.
"This can never happen again," she says, dressing.
"I know."
"I clean this mosque. I maintain it. I can't defile it every night."
"I understand."
"But if the power goes out again—" She looks at me. "If there's another storm—"
"I'll be praying late."
Storms come often in Mombasa.
And when they do, the power fails. And when the power fails, Mama Asha leads me to the storage room with a candle.
We've defiled the mosque a dozen times now.
Each time, we pray for forgiveness after.
Each time, we sin again when the next storm comes.
Mfagiaji.
Cleaner.
Maintaining the sacred.
Embracing the profane.
In the same holy space.