The Zakat Collector | جامع الزكاة
"He comes to collect zakat from the wealthy widow. She gives him more than charity—and discovers that generosity goes both ways."
The Zakat Collector
جامع الزكاة
The knock comes every Ramadan.
A representative from the mosque, collecting zakat from those who can afford to give. I've been giving since my husband died—his wealth is now my obligation.
This year, the collector is different.
"Assalamu alaikum. I am Yasser."
He's maybe forty. Simple clothes, kind face, a humble bearing that my husband's business associates never had.
"Wa alaikum assalam. Please, come in."
He hesitates at the door of my Jeddah mansion.
"Is there someone—a mahram—?"
"I am a widow. Alone."
I serve him tea.
He perches on the edge of my silk couch like he's afraid to touch anything. I calculate my zakat on the laptop while he waits.
"2.5 million riyals," I announce.
He nearly drops his tea.
"Mashallah." He recovers. "That is... very generous."
"It's required. 2.5 percent of my wealth."
"You are very wealthy."
"My husband was. I merely inherited." I sign the transfer. "It's done. Thank you for coming."
He should leave.
He doesn't.
"May I ask something forward?" he says.
"Yes."
"You are young. Wealthy. Beautiful." His face reddens. "Why are you alone?"
"No one wants a widow. They want young wives who will give them children."
"That seems... foolish."
"You are kind to say so."
"I am not kind. I am honest." He sets down his tea. "A woman like you should not be alone in a house this large."
"Are you offering to keep me company?"
I mean it as a joke. His expression tells me he didn't take it as one.
"Would that be... unwelcome?"
I should say yes. He's a zakat collector. I'm a widow from one of Jeddah's wealthiest families. This is inappropriate on every level.
"No," I hear myself say. "It wouldn't be unwelcome."
He comes back the next day.
And the next. And the next.
We talk. He tells me about his work, his family, his small apartment in a neighborhood my driver doesn't even enter. I tell him about my marriage—arranged, loveless, ended when my husband's heart stopped mid-business call.
"You were not sad when he died?"
"I was relieved. Is that terrible?"
"It is honest."
A week later, he kisses me.
In my garden, hidden from the staff. His hands shake.
"I should not have—"
"Do it again."
He does it again.
And again. And the next night, he stays late. And the night after that, he stays later.
"This is haram," he says, even as his hands explore my body.
"I know."
"I have nothing to offer you. No wealth. No status."
"I have enough wealth for both of us. What I don't have is this."
We make love in my bedroom.
The one I shared with my husband for twenty years. Yasser is nothing like him—gentle where Ibrahim was rough, attentive where Ibrahim was selfish.
"Beautiful," he murmurs, tracing my curves. "Every part of you."
"I'm not young—"
"You're perfect."
He worships me.
With his mouth, his hands, his entire being. He makes me come twice before he enters me—something Ibrahim never bothered to do.
"Ya Allah—Yasser—"
"Tell me what you need."
"You. I need you."
He fills me slowly.
None of Ibrahim's impatient thrusting. Yasser moves like this is sacred, like my pleasure matters more than his.
"Allahu Akbar—you feel—"
"Don't stop. Please don't stop."
We make love until Fajr.
Then he holds me while the adhan echoes from a dozen mosques.
"Marry me," he says.
"What?"
"I know it's impossible. Your family would never approve. But marry me anyway."
"Yasser—"
"I love you, Rania. I've loved you since you served me tea and treated me like a person, not a servant. Let me spend my life loving you."
"My family will disown me."
"So you'll have nothing. Like me."
"I'll have you."
"Is that enough?"
I look at this man—this poor, honest, beautiful man who asks nothing of my wealth and gives everything of himself.
"It's more than enough."
We have nikah in secret.
Just us, an imam, and two witnesses from his neighborhood. My family learns a week later.
The fallout is... significant.
"You married who?"
My brother stands in my foyer, trembling with rage.
"A zakat collector. A good man."
"A poor man. After everything our family—"
"Your family. Not mine. Not anymore."
They cut me off.
No more family gatherings. No more invitations. My name removed from the business shares—but the money Ibrahim left me personally, they can't touch.
I don't care.
Yasser and I move to a small apartment.
Compared to the mansion, it's nothing. But it's ours. And when we make love, there are no ghosts in the bedroom.
"Are you happy?" he asks.
"Happier than I've ever been."
"Even though you lost everything?"
"I gained more." I kiss him. "I gained you."
Five years later
We have a daughter now.
Layla. She has Yasser's eyes and my stubbornness.
"Baba, story!"
Yasser lifts her up. "Which story?"
"The one where you and Mama met!"
He tells her an edited version.
The zakat. The tea. The talking. He leaves out the kissing, the nights, the scandal.
"And then I married her," he finishes.
"And you lived happily ever after?"
"Every single day."
She runs off to play.
Yasser pulls me close.
"Happily ever after?" I tease.
"The happiest." He kisses me. "Want me to show you?"
He shows me.
In our small bedroom, with our daughter playing in the next room. Quick and urgent, hands over mouths to stay quiet.
"I love you," he whispers after.
"I love you too."
Alhamdulillah.
For zakat that became love.
For wealth that didn't matter.
For a collector who collected my heart.
The End.