The room was warm with family and remembrance. Qur’ans lay open, voices moving together through Yāsīn, Mulk, the Quls, verses of Ḥashr and Baqara. Then came the Asmāʾ al-Ḥusnā, dhikr in chorus, and a duʿā that softened every heart.
It was called an Arwaag, but as my friend Shakeel Garda reminded me, this was really a Gaajah — from ḥājah, a need. That night the “need” was joy: the birthdays of two young daughters, celebrated with Qur’an and remembrance. In Cape Town, we are used to dhikr circling grief, but here in Joburg, it circled life — proof that dhikr belongs to both birth and remembrance.
Beyond Cape Town
Too often, Cape Town is imagined as the sole custodian of these traditions. But remembrance does not belong to one city. It lives in Worcester, in Uitenhage, in Kimberley, in Joburg — wherever Muslims have gathered to cut rampies, to recite Yā Sīn, to raise salawāt. We must widen the circle, and not let heritage shrink into a single accent or postcode.
Heritage isn’t measured by the size of a crowd, but by the pulse that refuses to stop.
A Wider Map of Memory
I laughed when Shakeel said, “Ek het amper gesamba!” — because sometimes the subtle linkages do astound us.
On language and dialect, PE-born Boeta Yusie – remembers how it felt when hearing old Uitenhage folk speak their Afrikaans, slower than usual, every word taking time to land.
And here in Joburg too, the old families — the Matthews, the Domingos, the Sallies among so many others — have carried remembrance for generations. Some, like the Sallies, trace ties to Port Elizabeth, but all became founding Johannesburg families in their own right.
In Florida North, during the Gaajah, we stood for the salawāt — the Cape inheritance. Voices rose, and in that standing it felt as if the light of Muhammad ﷺ entered the room.
Heritage does not have one accent, one city, one rhythm. It stretches wider — across towns and valleys, across languages and lineages — carried in every echo of lā ilāha illa’Llāh.
Houghton Masjid – The Chorus of the Burdah
Friday night at Houghton Mosque was a different scale. The mosque was full: elders in white, young men with turbans, children by their fathers’ sides. Groups from different mosques took their turns, each with its own melody and rhythm.
Later my daughter Lala asked me, “What is this story of the Burdah? I’ve never heard this before.” I told her: “This is pure poetry! Almost like the Riwayah — the Prophet’s ﷺ life in song. But here, in the Burdah, different groups recite in turn, and together they weave a chorus.”
When I arrived at Houghton Mosque, I noticed something new. On the poster it had said: “Ladies Facilities Available.”Inside, the organisers had placed a new screen, expanding the women’s section for those who wanted to attend. It was unusual — there is already a women’s section — but this night, they anticipated more women. They made space.
That small act struck me as part of the remembrance itself: a recognition that devotion lives in inclusivity, in the care we show each other when we gather.
Before each group began, Ml Abu Hurairah Bobat guided the gathering, introducing the chapters and themes of the Qasidah Burdah. With warmth and clarity, he explained how the verses moved from praise of the Prophet ﷺ’s birth, to his struggles, to his intercession. His words opened the door for those less familiar, making the Burdah not just recited, but understood.
And then came the moment that will stay with me: as each group finished its verses, the entire jamaat — young and old — spontaneously joined in the chorus:
O my Lord, bless and grant peace always and forever Upon Your beloved one, the Best of all Creation.
It was not performance but inheritance. The refrain rose again and again until it felt as though the very walls of Houghton Mosque were singing with us.
The Lion and the Fortress
From the Qasidah Burdah, Imām al-Būṣīrī sings of the strength carried by those tied to the Prophet ﷺ:
Those whose help comes from the Messenger of Allah — Even lions encountering them in their dens would be struck speechless with fear.
He established his community within the fortress of his religion, As the lion settles down with its cubs in its lair.
Hearing the jamaat echo the chorus, I felt that same fortress. This was not nostalgia — it was strength and mercy alive in Johannesburg.
Fragrance and Victory
Later, another passage rang true to what I saw and smelled:
The winds of victory would present to you their fragrance, So that you imagine each valiant one of them to be a beautiful flower in bud.
As if, riding their steeds, they were flowers blooming upon a height, Held there not by the tautness of their saddles, but by the firmness of their resolution.
The Burdah does not only narrate victory — it perfumes it. Just as our Cape homes once scented with sandalwood and rampies, so here the fragrance of victory was carried in chorus.
Majestic Presence
And in the majesty of the Prophet ﷺ, the Burdah declares:
Like a flower in freshness and a full moon in eminence, Like an ocean in pure generosity and like time itself in strength of resolution.
Just from his majestic bearing, even when he was alone, He seemed as if amongst a great army and entourage.
At Houghton there was no standing qiyām — the tradition differs from the Cape. But the chorus of Mawlaya ṣalli wa sallim… still lifted the gathering, as if the walls themselves joined in remembrance.
Dress and Identity – From Kurta to Thobe
As I looked around, I noticed another change. When I was younger, men in Joburg mosques wore kurtas — Indian style. Now the children, young men, and elders were dressed in thobes and turbans, a celebration of the Prophet’s ﷺ attire.
Was it the influence of hajj and ʿumrah, Gulf media, or the aspiration to be closer to sunnah? Perhaps all of these. Styles shift, but the devotion remains.
Closing – Joburg Remembers Too
This Rabiʿ al-Awwal, in Heritage Month, Joburg reminded me that Cape Town does not own memory. Dhikr lives here too — in family homes, in gaajahs for birthdays, in mosques filled with Burdah echoes.
Heritage is not just remembrance, it is continuity. Not only in books, but in chorus. Not only in Cape Town, but in Joburg.
The Prophet ﷺ is in our veins and in our graves. In sandalwood tasbihs, in rampies leaves, in choruses that rise like fragrance. Remembered not only in words, but in song.
The Prophet in Our Veins: On the Scent, Sound, and Song of Cape Devotion
Introduction: Rabi al-Awwal and the Living Presence
Rabi al-Awwal has arrived — the month in which many commemorate the birth of the Prophet Muhammad ﷺ. But beyond the formal gatherings and public sermons, there are other ways his presence is felt.
This blog reflects on three threads of remembrance: the Prophet ﷺ as a guide in our political struggles, a source of poetic longing, and a quiet presence in our daily lives — folded into our homes, habits, and inherited silences.
I. The Constitution of Madinah and the Call of Islam: A Political Sunnah of Justice
In the 1980s, the anti-apartheid movement in South Africa gave birth to many political and religious formations. Among them was the Call of Islam, a progressive Muslim organization that took inspiration from the Prophet Muhammad’s ﷺ example as a political and ethical leader.
At the heart of its formation was a sense that Islam was not simply a private affair, but a force for justice. The Prophet’s ﷺ Constitution of Madinah — a model for pluralism, shared civic belonging, and accountability — offered a living blueprint. In our reading circles and public addresses, we didn’t only study fiqh. We studied the Sunnah of justice, the Sunnah of solidarity, and the Sunnah of standing with the oppressed.
This legacy reached a milestone in the 1992 National Muslim Conference, where Muslims from diverse traditions gathered to imagine a future democratic South Africa. The Prophet’s ﷺ example was not presented as abstraction but as compass — guiding how Muslims might live in plural, equal dignity with others.
Today, the landscape is very different. There are Muslim judges, radio stations, political parties. But let us remember: these were not always guaranteed. Many of the freedoms now enjoyed were carried on the shoulders of those who took risk — and who understood the Prophet ﷺ not only as a man of prayer, but as a statesman of vision.
II. Verse as Vessel: Poetic Devotion and Madīḥ
In the lands of Africa, madīḥ — praise poetry — has always been more than art. It is invocation, love-letter, protest, and memory. In my own work, I’ve found that poetry often says what footnotes cannot.
Take for example this poem, I Inherited Longing:
I did not see you with my eyes But I knew you in my marrow. Your name moved through my mother’s breath and into the rhythm of my walk.
When they asked: “Who is your teacher?” I said: “The one whose tears I drink when I whisper salawāt.”
I did not inherit land. I inherited longing.
This is not biography. It is embodiment.
Across Cape Town and Johannesburg, poets still recite verses that draw the Prophet ﷺ close — not as distant figure, but as intimate companion. This is how many of us came to know him: not through doctrine alone, but through dhikr, dreams, rhythm, and rhyme.
III. The Prophet Among the People — Salawāt and Everyday Sunnah
If sīrah shapes our public imagination and verse stirs our hearts, then the most enduring presence of the Prophet ﷺ lies not in the pages of a book, but in the lived habits of South African Muslims. In Cape Town especially, his memory is invoked not only in grand commemorations but in the daily, quiet acts of care, courtesy, and devotion.
From the kettle always on the boil to the salawāt murmured in pre-dawn hours, the Prophet’s ﷺ legacy breathes through a tradition of service and subtlety. One sees his trace in janāzah preparations, in unspoken generosity, and in how the kitchen is cleaned before Maghrib. These are not mere habits. They are sacred echoes — practices with deep Prophetic roots.
Among the Cape’s most enduring spiritual inheritances is the Ratib al-Haddād, chanted for decades — if not centuries — in mosques and homes. This litany, associated with the Ba ʿAlawī tradition of Hadhramaut, Yemen, is recited rhythmically, often in gatherings after Maghrib or ‘Ishā’. Alongside it, a particular standing salawāt is recited with heartfelt rhythm, in the deep belief that the light and rūḥ of the Prophet ﷺ enters the space when we call upon him. This is not metaphor. It is presence.
The Cape is also home to a rare spiritual text: an Afrikaans Ratib al-Haddād written in Arabic script. In it, Kaaps-Afrikaans phrases — such as Onse Here is Groot and Help ons met die dode — appear with Qur’anic reverence. The tasbīḥ, duʿā’, and barakah of our forebears were carried in a mother tongue now often dismissed. But they knew what they were doing: encoding devotion into daily speech, transmitting Prophetic rhythm in a creole born of struggle and longing.
Perhaps most evocatively, the Riwayat al-Birzanji — a melodic storytelling of the Prophet’s ﷺ birth and life — is performed during Moulood celebrations. My sisters would sing the first Riwayah in rich melody, sometimes referred to as laaghoe, or in Arabic terms, maqāmāt. These musical modes carried not only tune but transmission, passing down a soundscape of longing across generations.
These gatherings — echoing devotional practices from South Asia, East and North Africa, and Southeast Asia — show that Cape Muslims are not an isolated outpost. We are part of a vast archipelago of Prophetic love, linked not only by history but by rhythm, breath, and remembrance.
The First Riwayah composed by Sayyid Ja’far Ibn Hasan Al-Barzanji. In Arabic and English translation.
IV. Kramats and Cape Saints: Circles of Protection
If you trace a map around Cape Town, you will find sacred sites known as kramats — shrines of saintly Muslims, many of them exiled scholars or spiritual leaders, whose presence shaped the region’s barakah.
Among the most revered is the kramat on Robben Island, believed to be the resting place of Tuang Mahmud Moturu, a 17th-century imam from Indonesia exiled by the Dutch. According to oral tradition, he carried with him the Qur’an and the example of the Prophet ﷺ. Even Nelson Mandela is said to have visited the kramat while imprisoned — a quiet act of respect for the spiritual presence that surrounded him.
These kramats, stretching from Robben Island to Constantia, Faure to Bain’s Kloof, form what many refer to as a Circle of Islam, a protective perimeter believed by many Cape Muslims to spiritually guard the city. Even today, before departing for Hajj, many families visit these shrines to offer fātiḥah, seeking barakah and requesting the intercession of these tuangs — elder scholars and saints who represent a spiritual lineage of struggle, exile, remembrance, and return.
It is no accident that these saints were also poets, teachers, and bearers of the sunnah. Their legacies weave the political with the spiritual, the literary with the lived. They stand as embodied representations of Prophetic devotion: not merely followers, but inheritors — those who carried the scent, the sound, and the story of the Beloved ﷺ into the soil of the Cape.
These shrines are not merely gravesites. They are circles of remembrance. People visit with incense and duʿā’. Children are told stories. Salawāt is recited softly in the wind. In these spaces, the Prophet’s ﷺ spirit is invoked not as metaphor, but as living memory — guiding, protecting, witnessing.
V. The Prophet at the Table
When guests arrive in Cape Muslim homes, the first word is often “Ahlan wa sahlan.” It means “Welcome,” but more than that, it means: “Come as one whose path has been made smooth.” This is the spirit of the Prophet ﷺ at the table.
Food is sacred here. When someone leaves for Hajj, families gather to recite salawāt and Qur’an. At weddings, a murmur of salawāt often follows the couple as they walk out — not choreographed, just habit. These are rhythms inherited, not invented.
One of the most fragrant practices is the rampies sny — the cutting and perfuming of rose petals and leaves in preparation for the Moulood. Elders and children sit together, scenting the petals with rosewater, folding them into small cloths, whispering praises. It is not performance. It is love.
The Prophet ﷺ is not only remembered here. He is welcomed — into the threshold, into the breath, into the heart of the home.
Conclusion: The Prophet in Our Veins
Prophet Muhammad ﷺ is with us — in scent, sound, and song. He is in our veins. Pic: Shafiq Morton
We began with the idea that the Prophet Muhammad ﷺ is not a distant figure. Not only in the libraries, not only in the inherited manuscripts or well-attended Mawlid halls. He walks with us still — in our struggles for justice, in our poetry of longing, and in the subtle ways we greet, grieve, and gather.
In South Africa — and especially in the Cape — this presence is not always announced from the pulpits or debated in institutions. It is poured into tea. It is stitched into janāzah cloth. It is recited in whispered salawāt and sung in melodies passed down from mother to daughter, uncle to nephew.
The Prophet’s ﷺ legacy here has always been both principled and poetic — shaped by anti-apartheid resistance as much as by spiritual yearning. And in the rampies of Moulood, the maqāmāt of the Riwayah, and the rhythm of the Afrikaans Ratib, we find not just echoes of his name, but traces of his light.
He is with us — in scent, sound, and song. He is in our veins.
PostScript
Here is a beautiful salawāt from Salat an-Nuraniyya of Ahmad al-Badawi; also called Salawat Badawi Kubra…
O Allah! Exalt, greet and bless our master and liege lord Muḥammad, the Tree of Original Light, the Sparkle of the Handful of Divine Mercy, the Best of All Humankind, the Noblest of Physical Frames, the Vessel of the Lord’s Secrets and Storehouse of the Sciences of the Elect, the Possessor of the Original Divine Grasp, Resplendent Grace, and Uppermost Rank, under whose flag line up all the prophets, so that they are from him and point to him.
In the heart of the Karoo, between silence and stone, stand three koppies known simply as the Three Sisters. But long before GPS and road signs, they were not just hills. They were memory, myth, and warning. This is their story — reworked, reimagined, and returned to light.
The Legend
In the time before breath, before bone, before the Karoo knew its name, there were storms. Not of rain, but of voice — wild, furious, generative. From these storms came three daughters of wind and flame.
Hurricane was the eldest. She spun slowly, singing in deep spirals, her voice the ocean’s moan. She remembered everything.
Tornado was the dancer. Sharp. Fast. She carved paths through time, her tongue flashing with lightning.
Desert Storm was the dream-weaver. She painted clouds, shifted shapes, left frost on mountaintops and fire in valleys.
One night, a celestial body tore across the sky — a comet called Naariq, the Thirstbreaker. It did not destroy. It wept.
Its tears fell like molten glass, planting seeds that bloomed into crystalline gardens. These gardens sang. They hummed the dreams of stars, mirrored the fears of jackals, held the footsteps of those yet born.
But the land cracked again. And the sisters knew: it was time to become stone.
So they stood, side by side, and let the wind turn them solid. The Karoo opened her chest, and from it rose three ribs — the Three Sisters.
Poems of the Three Sisters
HURRICANE – The Elder, Memory-Keeper
They called her Old Spiral, whose eyes held the sea’s sorrow. She sang in slow thunder, turning grief into guidance. From her lips, the language of whales. From her fingers, the first maps. When she wept, rivers returned. When she stood still, wind found its compass. Memory wrapped her like a shawl. She never forgot the beginning — nor the names of the drowned.
TORNADO – The Wild Dancer, Blade of Time
She moved like a question unasked. A flicker, a flame, a flash in the eye. Children say she could bend time’s neck, turning past into present with one step. She wrote her name on cliff faces, carved warnings into baobab bark. When Naariq came, she was the first to rise. Not to fight — but to dance so fiercely the sky itself split to watch. She whirled until stars blurred — until history collapsed into dust.
DESERT STORM – The Shapeshifter, Dream-Weaver
Cloud painter, frost bringer, the last to speak and the first to vanish. She hid her name in jackal cries, in mirages that teach the thirsty to pray. Her gift was silence that heals. Snow in summer. Rain in song. She once kissed a comet so gently it forgot to burn. And when the sisters turned to stone, it was she who shaped their spines. They say she still walks the salt pans — barefoot, barefoot, barefoot…
2. 🌠 Who (or What) Is Naariq?
Let’s not make Naariq a flat villain. Let’s make him:
A cosmic disruptor, yes — but also a catalyst.
A comet not sent to destroy, but to test the world’s memory.
He weeps. He plants crystal seeds. But his very arrival unravels time, thirst, and story.
Naariq, the Thirstbreaker
Not enemy. Not saviour. A comet born of forgotten prayers. He wept not because he was sad — but because he remembered water. Where he passed, memory frayed. Desire bloomed like wildfire. He brought seeds of crystalline dream — and the sisters, too strong to fall for gold, chose stone instead.
The Vanishing
When Naariq came — streaking across the Karoo sky like a blade of thirst — the world stilled. People ran. Wells dried. Time folded.
But the sisters did not flee.
They stood in silence, facing the comet’s weeping light. They did not strike, nor speak.
They absorbed him.
His heat. His ache. His longing. His memory of galaxies.
And when the light faded, there were no bodies left. Only three dark hills, humming softly at dusk.
That is why the koppies sing. Because they carry Naariq inside them. Because silence is the only song strong enough to hold fire.
The Return
A child stands at the foot of the middle hill. She thinks she hears thunder. But there are no clouds. Only wind. And her grandmother’s voice returning in the rustle of dry grass…
Closing Reflection
Today, travellers speed past on the N1, barely glancing. But those who pause — those who walk into the wind — may still hear the Sisters speak.
Author’s Note
This is one of many Cape myths whispered through stone and silence. As part of the Rafiq al-Bunduqia & Rabbānī scrolls, I offer it not as a fixed legend, but as a companion to your own remembering.
The Mother Tongue of Tasbih: Afrikaans, Islam, and the Echoes of Resistance
An Interlude of Love, Argument, and Memory
We were driving down a quiet stretch of road — just Sadia and I, the Karoo light pouring in through the windscreen, dust swirling around like old questions. She had grown up in Worcester, her Afrikaans carefully folded by teachers and ‘ustaads’, wrapped in the formal tones of schoolbooks and sermons — so different from the swing and slang I had grown up with in the Cape. I, on the other hand, had grown up with a different register: kombuis-Afrikaans, spoken in kitchens and mosques, spiced with Quranic rhythm and Kaapse mischief.
Somewhere between the mountains and memory, we argued.
“That’s not real Afrikaans,” she said, teasing. “You make up words.”
“And who decided what’s real?” I asked. “The Broederbond? The DRC? The state that tried to baptize us in its accent?”
She laughed — but the question lingered.
This is not just a story of a couple’s linguistic banter. It is the story of a language born in exile, nurtured in slavery, softened by Qur’an, and carried through generations of prayer, protest, and poetry. This is a story of Afrikaans — not as the language of the oppressor, but as the tasbih of the oppressed.
1. Afrikaans: Not a White Invention
Let’s begin here: Afrikaans was not born in Stellenbosch.
Its roots run through Cape Malay kitchens, slave quarters, mosque courtyards, and prayer gatherings beneath candlelight. It was whispered by Javanese mothers exiled from Batavia, recited by Wolof imams from Senegambia, taught by Hadrami scribes, and softened by the Khoena tongues of this land — long before colonial grammarians arrived to cage it in rules..
The historian Achmat Davids was among the first to challenge the myth that Afrikaans was solely a “white man’s language.” His pioneering research, later extended by Hein Willemse and others, traced Afrikaans’ earliest written form to the Muslim community of the Cape — not in Latin script, but in Arabic-Afrikaans, or what was sometimes called Ajami Afrikaans.
One of the oldest surviving texts in Afrikaans is a du’a (supplication) manual written in Arabic script by enslaved Muslims. Another is the 1869 Bayān al-Dīn, a complete Islamic catechism in Afrikaans, used for madrassah instruction. These works prove something scholars of empire often resist: that enslaved and colonised peoples were not passive recipients of a language. They reshaped it. They sanctified it. They infused it with rhythm, resistance, and remembrance.
Afrikaans was not merely a colonial bastard tongue. It was — and remains — a mother tongue for many, especially when that mother stood stirring boeber while reciting Qul Huwa Allahu Ahad under her breath.
2. Creole? Or Camissa?
I’ve always had difficulty with the word creole.
Not because I reject mixedness — quite the opposite. I honour our intertwined bloodlines, the sacred chaos of diaspora, the rivers that met and mingled here at the Cape. But because the term creole, as used by certain linguists, often carries a quiet violence: it frames our language as a compromise, a simplified system born of broken tongues. It reduces what is sacred into something stitched from scraps. As if kombuis-Afrikaans was the language of people who couldn’t speak properly — not of people who chose to pray differently.
And too often, creole becomes a coded term for “coloured.” A linguistic way of saying not-white, not-black, not-arabic, not-european — just other.
I prefer another term: Camissa. As Patric Tariq Mellet reminds us, Camissa was the name of the river that once flowed through the Cape Flats, long before the Dutch buried it under stone. It was also the name of the Goringhaicona clan who traded with the world before colonial maps erased them. To speak Camissa-Afrikaans is to remember we are not defined by brokenness — but by confluence.
So no, what we speak is not a creole. It is the tasbih of the kitchen, the dhikr of the dockyard, the language of longing. What they call kombuis, we call home.
3. The Language of Tasbih
In our home, Afrikaans was not the language of textbooks or term reports. It was the language of tasbīḥ — of remembrance, rhythm, and breath.
Thursday nights, just after maghrib, the living room would dim into stillness. A cloth was spread. The Rātib al-Ḥaddād would begin. First a whisper: Qul huwa Allāhu Aḥad… Then a swelling chorus — women’s voices, children’s murmurs, old men with trembling hands.
We called it the Gadat. It was recited in Arabic, but held together by Afrikaans: the instructions, the rhythm, the murmured cues. “Ouens, netjies!” “Hou die beat mooi!” “Moenie vinnig ry nie — luister na die kalmte.”
Sometimes, someone would break from the dhikr to hush a restless child. “Shhh, dis nou Allāh se tyd, my kind.” That now — that insistence that this moment of prayer was sacred and immediate — still echoes in my chest.
And when it was done, a sweetness returned: koesisters passed hand to hand, boeber ladled with care, stories resumed in Kaaps lilt. The tasbīḥ was complete — not just in recitation, but in the return to one another.
…
In his later years, my father told me how the elders taught Qur’an in Afrikaans before Arabic letters could be properly mastered. Children would chant: “Alif duwa detis, Alif duwa bowa, Alif duwa dappan, An In Oen.” It was a phonetic bridge — an echo of how Javanese, Malay, and Arab teachers preserved tajwīd in a tongue the children already knew.
This wasn’t a lack of Arabic. It was a path to it.
And it wasn’t unique.
In Senegal, Wolof Muslims chant dhikr in their own rhythms. In Indonesia, pegon script preserves the Qur’an in Javanese hearts. At the Cape, Afrikaans — even in its kitchen form — became the vessel through which the Names of God entered the ears of children.
Afrikaans was never just a tool of survival. It was a tool of transmission.
Of tawḥīd in a tongue our mothers understood.
4. Jawap: The Command to Recite
In the old madrassah, silence was not golden — it was a gap in the chain of transmission. A break in the rhythm. A forgetting.
And so, when your voice faltered or your memory stalled, the mu’allim would lean forward — not with cruelty, but with urgency — and say:
“Jawap, my kind!”
Not shout. Not plead. But command. Recite. Respond. Step back into the rhythm.
Because in the Cape, jawap was never just “answer.” It was a summons — to speak, to return, to carry what you’ve been given.
The word comes from the Arabic ج و ب — jawāb, meaning “reply,” and ijābah, the act of answering a call. But in Afrikaaps, jawap widened its reach. It meant:
Recite the ayah.
Step into the beat.
Don’t let the tasbīḥ fall silent.
You could hear it outside the masjid too — In a kitchen when someone moved too slow:
“Jawap nou! Die kos gaan brand!” In a playful quarrel between siblings: “Ek wag vir jou jawap, dan sal jy sien!”
But the root remained sacred.
To jawap was to not let the memory die. It was to pull the verse from the chest, even if the chest was tight. It was to let the breath carry the Names of God, even when the tongue stumbled.
…
Some nights, I’d sit with my father as he corrected a cousin’s recitation. He never raised his voice. Just waited for the right moment and said, gently but firmly:
“Jawap, my klong! Djy ken die beat. Ma’ moenie vergiet’ie.”
That sentence lives in me.
And I wonder now if that’s what the Qur’an itself asks of us:
Fa-ijībū li… So respond to Me… (Qur’an 2:186)
Not just with belief, but with voice. Not only with intellect, but with breath.
To live is to jawap. To remember is to jawap. To teach, to protest, to praise — is to jawap.
And maybe that’s why the Gadat still echoes through the Cape — Not because we’ve mastered every rule of tajwīd, But because someone once told us:
“Don’t keep quiet. Jawap.”
A salomie is how we hold history — wrapped in warmth, passed from hand to hand. To live is to jawap. To resist is to remember what we’re made of.
5. Echoes of Resistance: A Language That Refused to Die
To speak Afrikaaps was once considered vulgar. Uneducated. Low. The language of skollies, meidens, and kitchen girls. The official line was clear: proper speech belonged to white mouths and white pulpits.
But at the Cape — in Salt River, Bo-Kaap, Parkwood, Belhar, and Bonteheuwel — our people spoke tasbīḥ in their own tongue.
And that was resistance.
They recited Qur’an with Kaapse inflections. They sang dhikr in alleyways, under washing lines, between the Sunday curry and the Monday washing. They wrote duʿāʾ in Arabic script — with Afrikaans vowels — because the state’s education system wouldn’t teach them Arabic, and the imām couldn’t write Latin.
This wasn’t survival. It was sovereignty.
When the tongue of the oppressor tried to rename us, we jawapped back with remembrance. When they broke our schools, we turned kitchens into classrooms. When they mocked our accent, we sharpened it into poetry.
And in that echo, you can still hear the names of the early reciters: Tuan Guru teaching on Robben Island. Imam Saban writing Bayān al-Dīn for the children of slaves. Ouma Gatie sitting in her chair, reciting Yā Sīn in Afrikaans until her teeth ached — and her soul rose light.
Even Apartheid’s Bible — the 1933 Afrikaans translation — couldn’t erase the sound of tasbīḥ in our streets. Because we had our own Book, our own rhythm. Our mothers wrapped Qur’an verses in the same cloth they wrapped around your lunch tin: tight, warm, enough.
…
To remember in Afrikaans — to teach La ilāha illā Allāh with a Cape tongue — is not just a cultural artefact.
It is a form of sabr. Of jihād. Of wilfully remembering what empire tried to make us forget.
And so even now, when I hear a child reciting in Afrikaaps, I don’t correct the accent.
I listen for the memory in the melody. Because sometimes, the resistance is not in the grammar — It’s in the breath.
Theatre as Tasbīḥ: Walking Through 333 Years
In 1986, the Call of Islam commemorated 333 years of Islam in South Africa — not with a speech, but with a play.
“A Walk Through 333 Years” was a theatrical act of remembrance: combining Qur’anic recitation, storytelling, song, and dramatic re-enactment of Muslim life from enslavement to resistance.
Directed by a community professional, informed by the late Achmat Davids’ research, and carried by a cast of ordinary believers, the play jawapped our history with full breath. It wasn’t just performance — it was pedagogy.
The production travelled across the country and left audiences moved in ways no pamphlet or sermon could match.
Like tasbīḥ in the kitchen or dhikr in the alleyway, this was language at work — resisting, remembering, reclaiming.
Because sometimes, the resistance is not just in the grammar.
It’s in the gathering. It’s in the jawap. It’s in the walk through our own years — together.
6. Tongue, Tasbīḥ, and the Right to Return
So what is a language?
A dictionary will tell you it’s a system. A grammar. A structure of rules.
But we — the people of kombuise and kramats, of ratibs and roti — we know different.
We know that a language is also a holding. A way to wrap memory is like a salomie wrapped in a roti — not for perfection, but to preserve warmth.
We know that Afrikaans is not only the language of the jailer — it is also the jawap of the jailed. It is the rhythm of the Qur’an under colonial roofs. It is the sound of mothers whispering Bismillah while brushing a child’s hair. It is the beat of “Moenie vergiet’ie” — not as a threat, but as a prayer.
If they ask us who we are, we might say: We are the children of those who answered with breath when the world tried to silence them.
We are the ones who recited even when we could not read. Who made dhikr in a tongue they said was impure. Who kept the memory of revelation alive — in kitchens, classrooms, corners of mosques, and hearts that stammered but never surrendered.
…
And so, if anyone asks:
What kind of Afrikaans is this?
Tell them gently:
This is not the Afrikaans of the oppressor. This is the mother tongue of tasbīḥ. The language of jawap. The rhythm of remembrance. This is the tongue that taught us to speak back to the silence — and return to God with our own breath, in our own way.
Because what they called kombuis, we called home.
📚 Footnotes & References:
Achmat Davids, The Afrikaans of the Cape Muslims from 1815 to 1915: A Socio-Linguistic Study, UCT PhD Thesis, 1987. Foundational in establishing the role of Arabic-Afrikaans and Cape Muslim literacy practices.
Hein Willemse, editor and scholar of Afrikaans literary traditions, particularly around marginalised and non-standard variants. Relevant essays include: “Language, Race and Power in South Africa.”
Patric Tariq Mellet, The Lie of 1652: A Decolonised History of Land, and various writings on Camissa identity and language reclamation.
Adli Jacobs, Punching Above Its Weight: The Story of the Call of Islam, Function Books, 2024, p. 84. Documents the Call of Islam’s 1986 theatrical production “A Walk Through 333 Years”, co-developed with historian Achmat Davids. This performance combined Qur’anic recitation, song, and drama to embody the memory of Islam’s journey from slavery to resistance in South Africa.
Qur’anic verse cited: Qur’an 2:186 — “So respond to Me (fa-ijībū li) and believe in Me, that they may be rightly guided.”
Oral traditions and family sayings (e.g. “Jawap, my klong. Jy ken die beat.”) Attributed to the author’s father, part of Cape Muslim living heritage.
Arabic-Afrikaans manuscripts (e.g. Bayān al-Dīn, Ratib al-Ḥaddād in Arabic-Afrikaans): Refer to holdings in the National Library of South Africa, Clarke Estate Mosques, and private Cape Muslim collections.
Laagu vs Tajwīd debates and Thursday night Gadat gatherings: Drawn from oral sources and lived practice in Cape Town’s Muslim communities. May cite the influence of Shaykh Seraj Hendricks, Imam Taha Gamieldien, and Imam Abdullah Haron’s legacy of fusing dhikr with defiance.
🪶 Related Articles in This Series:
The Forgotten Tongue of Remembrance A reflection on Arabic-Afrikaans, the erased voices of dhikr, and the linguistic tenderness that survived colonial erasure.
Tamat: A Sacred Completion, A Living Beginning Explores the Cape Muslim tamat ceremony as both rite of passage and living echo of West African, Javanese, and Arab pedagogical traditions.
A Khutbah for Jayden-Lee and Every Child We Couldn’t Save
By Adli Yacubi
“Our Lord! Grant us from our spouses and offspring the comfort of our eyes, and make us leaders for the righteous.” — Surah Al-Furqān (25:74)
🕯️ Khutbah Part One: The Dignity of Children in the Eyes of the Prophet صلى الله عليه وسلم
All praise is due to Allah, the Most Merciful, the Most Just. We bear witness that there is no god but Allah, and that Muhammad ﷺ is His servant and final Messenger. May peace and blessings be upon him, his family, his companions, and all who walk in his light.
Today, I want to speak not to power, nor to politics — but to something more vulnerable, more sacred: the hearts of our children.
Too often in our mosques and gatherings, we speak about parents, or we speak to the youth, but we rarely speak for the child — the one still learning how to speak, the one still waiting to be held, seen, protected.
The Prophet ﷺ saw children not as a nuisance, not as future workers, not as sinners-in-waiting — but as mirrors of mercy.
He ﷺ played with children. He kissed them on their foreheads. He carried Hasan and Husain on his shoulders, even during salah. He lengthened his sujūd because his grandson was sitting on his back — and he didn’t want to disturb the child’s joy.
He ﷺ said:
“He is not one of us who does not show mercy to our young and respect to our elders.” (Tirmidhi)
And when a man said, “I have ten children and have never kissed one of them,” the Prophet ﷺ replied:
“What can I do if Allah has removed mercy from your heart?”
This is who we are meant to follow. This is who we claim to love.
So let me ask: How then did we allow a child — eleven years old — to be beaten in a flat, left undressed on a staircase, while his body slowly faded not far from our schools, not far from our mosques?
Where were we? Where was the mercy of this ummah?
🙏🏾 Khutbah Part Two: Jayden-Lee Meek and the Silence That Kills
A child named Jayden-Lee Meek was reported missing in May 2025. He lived in Fleurhof, not far from where I once lived. He was found unconscious on the stairs of the very building where he stayed. He died in the hospital. He was 11.
The latest reports suggest this was no accident. Not a fall. Not mischief. But a beating. Possibly by someone who should have loved him. Possibly by someone he trusted to protect him.
And while he was being beaten — no neighbour intervened. No one called the police. And when he was missing — too many stayed quiet.
And maybe, we tell ourselves this is “not my business.” Or worse — maybe we’ve come to believe that hitting children is just discipline.
My own daughter once said to me, when she was still in school in Florida: “Daddy, some parents think it’s normal — to hit with a slipper, a belt, even a fist.” It shook me.
So when Jayden-Lee was killed, some didn’t see a crime — they saw something “familiar.” But where is the line? When does punishment become cruelty? And how far must it go before we decide it’s “too much”?
The truth is: The line was crossed the moment mercy was left behind. The line was crossed the first time we taught our children that pain is a form of love.
And Jayden tried to speak. At school — Royal College in Florida — classmates say he spoke of hunger. He said he was often left alone. He showed bruises. He said he was scared.
Some of this was reportedly shared with teachers. Enough for the Gauteng Department of Education to admit:
“There may be some truth to the allegations that the school knew.”
But nothing was done. The silence wasn’t only at home. It echoed in the corridors of a place meant to protect him.
So what is the line, if not this? How many times must a child cry before we believe them?
Ya Allah… What kind of silence is this?
The Qur’an says:
“And do not kill your children for fear of poverty. We provide for them and for you. Surely killing them is a heinous sin.” Surah Al-Isra (17:31) “When the girl (or child) buried alive is asked: for what sin was she killed…” Surah At-Takwir (81:8-9)
But what of those children not buried, but beaten? Not unborn, but unseen?
Who will answer for Jayden?
Who will answer for all the children who suffer in silence — whose bruises are explained away, whose cries are dismissed, whose names we forget until it is too late?
The Prophet ﷺ did not simply tolerate children — he honoured them. He treated them as people of dignity, not property. And he warned us:
“Each of you is a shepherd, and each of you is responsible for your flock.” (Bukhari, Muslim)
So let us ask again: Who is responsible for Jayden-Lee?
🤲🏽 Closing Duʻā
O Allah, You are the Protector of the weak. The Guardian of the orphan. The Avenger of the oppressed.
Grant Jayden-Lee peace in the next world. Forgive what he endured in this one. Do not let his pain return void. And awaken this ummah — awaken our communities — before another child suffers in silence.
Let our homes be filled with mercy. Let our schools be sanctuaries. Let our masājid echo with the laughter of safe, joyful children.
And let us never forget: To love a child is a form of worship. To protect a child is a form of jihad. To weep for a child is a form of duʻā.
🕯️
Justice for Jayden-Lee Meek. And justice for every child we were too distracted to see.
🔗 Sources
‘Jayden-Lee’s school knew about abuse’: Gauteng Department of Education investigates allegations, IOL, 16 July 2025.
Jayden-Lee Meek murder: How blood and school books led to his mother’s arrest, IOL, 15 July 2025.
Tiffany Meek faces charges: murder, crimen injuria, and defeating the ends of justice, IOL, 11–15 July 2025.
(Passed down through the mothers. Told now in your hands.)
My mother told me this story. She said her own mother heard it from her mother. So now, I pass it to you — like a seed in the wind — so that you, too, might send it down the line.
If you look toward our mountain — Table Mountain — you’ll see the cloth of cloud spread across its top like a table set for guests. To the right: the lion, his back forming Signal Hill, his mane rising into Lion’s Head. To the left: Devil’s Peak, brooding. The lion and the devil seated at the same table. What a sight for any ship entering Table Bay!
But this story is older than the ships. Older than the settlers who named those peaks. Older even than the first Khoi and San who walked these lands.
Long, long ago — perhaps 22,000 years or more — the people lived far inland. The land was green. Rivers ran deep. Wild animals moved in herds like shadows. The earth was generous.
But then the rains lessened. The land grew hotter, harder. Some clans became violent. The world was shifting.
And so it was that a man named Gubi — a fire-maker, a spark of a man — took his young son, Nori, and journeyed south along the Atlantic edge. Not fleeing. Seeking.
Their goods were wrapped in leather. Their bows slung across their backs. They followed the cold sea winds, walking toward a dream of sanctuary.
One night, as their fire danced in the dunes, hyenas came snarling through the dark — hunting porcupines. Gubi rose with fire in hand, casting its light wide, pushing the predators back into the night.
From the shadows came a porcupine. But this was no ordinary porcupine. She was old — a sage — her quills silver with wisdom. She stepped forward and spoke in a voice like rustling leaves:
“You have shown courage and care. For this, I give you a pouch.”
Inside: a handful of shimmering seeds — soft, silver-tipped, unlike anything they had seen.
She said: “As you walk, look for the place where the sea makes clouds. When you find it, plant these. If they grow, you’ll know: this is your place.”
And so they walked on.
And when they reached the foot of the mountain — flat, cloud-veiled, vast — Gubi and Nori felt the truth of it in their bones.
They planted the seeds.
And by dawn, the Silver Trees had begun to rise — shimmering, breathing, alive.
Not just plants. A blessing.
And that is how the Silver Tree — found only here — came to live beneath Table Mountain. Not brought by botanists. Not named by settlers. But gifted by a porcupine, Planted by Gubi and Nori, Rooted in fire, story, and seed.
And when the rains came, those Silver Trees drank from the river that flowed down the mountain — the one they called Camissa — the place of sweet waters, rushing underground, murmuring toward the sea.
Even now, that river runs — quietly — beneath the city that forgot it. But the mountain remembers.
It remembers its own name.
Not Table. But Hoerikwaggo — the Mountain of the Sea. To its right, the curled-back hill they once called The Sleeping Lion — its back arched into what settlers would name Signal Hill, its mane rising into Lion’s Head. To the left, the shadowed one — once called Windmaker’s Watch, now called Devil’s Peak.
The land is older than its names. And stories, like rivers, find their way back.
Epilogue
Some stories are planted, not written. They take root in silence. They grow in the shade of memory.
This is one of those.
Passed from mother to daughter, from father to son, from fire-circle to ear, from silence to word.
The Silver Tree still stands. The mountain still watches. And somewhere, Gubi and Nori are still walking — between cloud and coast, between the land’s longing and the sky’s answer.
So tell this story again.
When the mountain is misted, when the wind shifts, when the child beside you asks, “Where did we come from?” Tell them…
“Let me tell you the story of Gubi and Nori — the spark and the seeker — and the tree that shimmered with yes.”
Postscript
This story is told in honour of those who remind us that memory is a form of resistance.
We acknowledge Patric Tariq Mellet, whose book The Camissa Embrace reclaims the deep currents beneath colonial erasure. Through his work, Camissa is no longer hidden — it is remembered as a place of sweet waters, of creolised identity, of sacred convergence.
We also draw from Stuart Hall, particularly The Fateful Triangle: Race, Ethnicity, Nation, which reminds us that nations are not simply born — they are narrated into being. To say I am from Camissa is to resist imposed categories and to speak from the riverbed of relation — to narrate the nation otherwise.
This reflection flows alongside the companion essay:
I wrote this story in honour of a voice passed through many generations — from my mother, to her mother, and beyond. It weaves ancestral memory with imagination, drawing from the wisdom of our lands, our rivers, and our people.
Gubi and Nori may be characters in legend, but they carry something real: the spirit of all those who walked before names, who travelled with seeds, and who listened deeply to the mountain’s silence.
I offer this story as a small act of remembering — a quiet prayer that memory may once again run like water beneath the city.
– Adli Yacubi Writer. Listener. Wordsmith of the Sweet Waters.
The Ratib al-Haddad: A Symphony of Spiritual Resilience
Introduction
In the centuries-old Cape Muslim tradition, the Rātib al-Ḥaddād stands as a spiritual symphony. Its composer, Imam ʿAbd Allāh ibn ʿAlawī al-Ḥaddād, drew upon a Qur’anic verse known as the Verse that Faces Outward at the Rawdah of the Prophet ﷺ, giving it a protective resonance. This rhythmic litany unfolds like movements of a musical masterpiece, each moment drawing the heart closer to Divine presence. Inspired by Imam al-Haddad’s mission to guide believers through fear and trial, the Ratib remains a living masterpiece of faith.
Movement I: The Prelude of Protection
O you who fear, gather at the gate of forgiveness; Bismillah like a banner above your heart, Ayatul Kursi as your armour, verses of Baqarah as your shield. In this dawn of remembrance, let salawat fall on your lips like rain upon a thirsty earth, and trust flow through your veins until your soul is clothed in light. This is the first movement: a prayer of protection woven from the very breath of Revelation.
Movement II: The Rhythms of Remembrance
Subḥānallāh, transcendence like the sky’s endless horizon; Alḥamdulillāh, gratitude flowing through every breath; Allahu Akbar, awe striking the heart; Lā ilāha illallāh, unity beyond all boundaries. These dhikr, recitations, rise and fall like ocean waves, polishing the mirror of the heart until it shines with trust and surrender.
Movement III: The Pulse of Tawhid
Al Maʿbūd, meaning The Worshipped One, calls the believer to recite Lā ilāha illallāh fifty times, each repetition chiseling away fear and confirming pure oneness. It circles the heart like a crown of certainty. The three Quls stand as guardians, their verses sealing every crack against doubt. This movement is a fortress of tawhid, where the soul forgets every other reliance and trusts only Allah.
Movement IV: The Prayerful Crescendo
Duas rise like incense, interlaced with Al-Fātiḥa, each plea a petition for healing, protection, mercy, and light. The tongue becomes a river of hope, carrying the soul to a calm shore. Here the believer surrenders every burden, resting in the assurance that Allah is the One who hears and responds.
Closing Invocations
Al-Fātiḥa on the soul of our master, our beloved, our intercessor, the Messenger of Allah, Muhammad ibn Abdillah, his family, his Companions, his wives, and all his noble household.
Al-Fātiḥa on the soul of our master al-Muhajir Ahmad ibn Isa and his descendants.
Al-Fātiḥa on the soul of our great teacher, the jurist al-Muqaddam Muhammad ibn Ali Ba Alawi and his lineage.
Al-Fātiḥa on the souls of our noble Sufi masters wherever they may be, east or west, that Allah may raise their ranks.
Al-Fātiḥa on the soul of the compiler of the Ratib, the Axis of Guidance, Abdullah ibn Alawi al-Haddad and his family line.
Al-Fātiḥa on the souls of all the pious servants of Allah, our parents, our teachers, those who have rights upon us, and the believers who have passed away in this land.
Cape Ritual Practice
In South Africa, especially in the Cape, families often recite the Ratib al-Haddad after a loved one passes away, beginning from the first night and continuing for seven nights, then gathering on the fortieth day, the hundredth day, and each year on the anniversary of the passing. The Ratib is also recited at birthdays, during Mawlud celebrations, generally every Thursday night, sometimes Sunday mornings, a week before weddings, at engagements (known as lambary), and at naming ceremonies (doekmal or doopmal). This tradition anchors the community in remembrance and prayers for all occasions of joy, transition, and remembrance.
About Dhikr
The term dhikr refers to remembering, remembrance, or reciting and chanting the names of Allah, specific prayers, or Qur’anic verses. It is a rhythmic practice that roots the soul in the Divine, and is central to the Ratib al-Haddad tradition.
Individual or Group Practice
The Ratib al-Haddad can be recited alone or in a group, with equal blessing. Allah says in the Qur’an: “And men and women who remember Allah often — for (all of) them Allah has prepared forgiveness and a great reward” (Quran 33:35). The Prophet ﷺ said: “People will not sit in an assembly in which they remember Allah without the angels surrounding them, mercy covering them, and Allah mentioning them among those who are with Him.”
Foundations
The Ratib al-Haddad stands upon the firmest pillars of faith, a radiant string of pearls drawn from the Qur’an and Sunnah. It opens with the best Surah — Sūrat al-Fātiḥah, flows into the greatest verse — Āyat al-Kursī, affirms the Shahādah — the finest declaration of oneness, and continues with the enduring praises of al-Bāqiyāt al-Ṣāliḥāt. It includes the daily istighfār of the Prophet ﷺ, abundant ṣalawāt upon the Beloved ﷺ, and concludes with the dhikr by which Imām al-Bukhārī sealed his Ṣaḥīḥ.
Composed in sacred sequence by Imām ʿAbd Allāh ibn ʿAlawī al-Ḥaddād — a noble grandson of the Messenger ﷺ — this Ratib is not merely a litany, but a luminous map of remembrance. It is a symphony of Qur’anic light and Prophetic rhythm, preserved across centuries as a living trust.
And its resonance reached far beyond Ḥaḍramawt: both the Wird al-Laṭīf and the Ratib al-Ḥaddād were introduced and supported within the Harams of Makkah and Madinah under the patronage of Sultan Muḥammad IV of the Ottoman Empire (r. 1648–1687). This formal recognition affirms the Ratib’s deep-rooted legitimacy — not as invention, but as a distillation of the best of revelation, transmitted and treasured by the global Ummah.
Ijāzah: A Living Trust of the Ratib
For those who wish to benefit from the Ratib al-Haddad, we carry with us a sacred ijāzah — a scholarly and spiritual transmission — conveyed through four chains (asanīd) that reach back to the Composer of the Ratib, Imām ʿAbdullāh ibn ʿAlawī al-Ḥaddād**, may Allah sanctify his soul.
Shaykh Jamiel Abrahams writes:
“Ijāzah for those who wish to benefit from the four asānid to the Composer of the Ratib… Say: Qabilnā al-Ijāzah — ‘We have accepted the scholarly permission to recite the Ratib of Imām al-Ḥaddād.’”
“We say Composer, not Author — for the adhkār are drawn from the finest pearls of the Qur’an and the most radiant lights of the Prophetic Sunnah.”
This ijāzah is not just scholarly — it is a living trust passed down through centuries of remembrance. To receive it is to stand in the river of continuity, with the awliyāʾ and scholars who preserved this path of dhikr through love, hardship, and sincerity.
And as for those who label such remembrance a bidʿah…
رَغِمَ أَنْفُ مَن صَرَّحَ بِأَنَّهَا بِدْعَةٌ “May the nose be rubbed in dust of the one who declares it an innovation.”
Let the river flow. Let the remembrance remain. And let every breath that utters His Name be a proof of mercy, not division.
My Personal Ijazah
This symphony carries my own transmission: an ijāzah granted by Zaid ibn Umar to me, Adli ibn Ibrahim, written in his own hand, linking me to the chain of Imam al-Haddad. That blessing lives within every note of this symphonic meditation, reminding me of the trust, humility, and sacred responsibility that this heritage confers. This ijazah is more than a note: it is a living chain, a breath carried from master to student across centuries, reaching back to Imam al-Haddad and forward into my heart. It binds me to the rhythm of this Ratib as if to a heartbeat, reminding me to hold it with care, reverence, and gratitude, so its protection and blessing might continue to resonate for future generations.
Historical Echoes
The Ratib was recited by enslaved Muslims at the Cape as a shield of hope and protection during times of oppression, helping them hold fast to faith. Generations later, it became a spiritual companion for many who resisted apartheid, its verses reminding them of divine justice, courage, and unity against all forms of tyranny. It is said that in the darkest nights of slavery at the Cape, the Ratib became a quiet liberation, whispered in hidden corners. Its rhythms reminded believers they were still seen by Allah, still dignified. During the anti-apartheid struggle, activists turned to these same verses, finding courage and calm as they faced injustice, with the Ratib a spiritual sword against oppression and despair.
Conclusion
From Yemen to the Cape, from ancient gatherings to modern hearts, the Ratib al-Haddad remains a living breath of resilience and unity. Its movements still guide communities to remember Allah, to stand together in hope, and to place trust in Divine mercy across the centuries. Like a living river, its currents still flow, nourishing communities with remembrance and calling them to a higher trust in Allah’s mercy. Imam al-Haddad, inspired by the symbolism of the Verse that Faces Outward, wove its spiritual meanings into the Ratib, transforming it into a shield that echoed both the Prophetic sanctuary and the everyday lives of worshippers from Yemen to the Cape.
May its verses guard every heart, and may its blessings gather our children and their children into the same ocean of divine love, until the final day.
Africans in Early Islam: A Celebration of Courage, Dignity, and Faith
With deep gratitude to Shaykh Allie Khalfe for preserving these gems of our tradition.
Introduction
Hājar — a Black African woman, enslaved and then displaced — was chosen by Allah to become the mother of Ismāʿīl, and to have her house absorbed into the sacred geometry of the Kaʿbah itself.
Not a prophet. Not a king. Not a caliph. But a mother. A servant. A Black woman.
The House of Allah bows toward her grave.
Ali Shariati called her the “Unknown Soldier” of Islam. But Allah made her known forever — through Zamzam, through Safa and Marwa, through the sacred enclosure known as Ḥijr Ismāʿīl. You cannot perform Hajj without acknowledging her. That is not just history. That is revolution.
When I look across the ummah today — from Cape Town to Cairo, Timbuktu to Jakarta — I see faces of every shade, hearts carrying a message revealed for all people, for all time. Yet too often, I also see shadows of forgetfulness, places where racism still stalks our communities.
The Prophet ﷺ said:
“People are as equal as the teeth of a comb.” (Musnad Ahmad)
This was no empty slogan. It was a living reality, made manifest by the men and women of Africa who stood shoulder-to-shoulder with him in Islam’s earliest, most dangerous days.
Sumayyah, Bilāl, Najāshi, Barakah — they were not guests on Islam’s stage. They helped build it. Their stories remind us that equality is not an optional virtue, but the beating heart of faith itself.
Sumayyah bint Khayyat: The First Martyr
Sumayyah bint Khayyat, an Abyssinian woman, was among the first to embrace the oneness of Allah. Enslaved, tortured, with no protector but her Lord, she refused to renounce La ilaha illa Allah.
She was murdered for her faith, torn apart by her captors, becoming the first martyr of Islam.
“Indeed those who say, ‘Our Lord is Allah,’ and remain steadfast — the angels will descend upon them saying, ‘Do not fear and do not grieve; receive good news of Paradise.’” (Qur’an 41:30)
Sumayyah may have known little of ritual law, but she knew Allah. That was enough.
Bilāl ibn Rabāh: The Voice of Equality
Bilāl, a Black man born into slavery, was tortured for proclaiming Ahad, Ahad — One, One.
Freed by the Prophet ﷺ, he was honoured with the role of Mu’adhin, the first to call believers to prayer. His voice rose from the roof of the Ka‘bah itself, defying every social hierarchy of Quraysh:
“God is Greatest…”
An African once enslaved stood atop the most sacred site of Arabia, reminding the world that dignity belongs to those who stand before Allah with sincerity.
Years later, after the Prophet ﷺ passed away, Bilāl could no longer bear to give the adhan in Madinah. His heart was heavy with grief, and he left for Syria, continuing to serve Islam. But when he returned years later, the companions pleaded with him to call the adhan one final time. His voice cracked with emotion as he recited the words, and the entire city of Madinah wept, remembering the days of the Messenger ﷺ. That final adhan became a testament — Bilāl’s voice did not only summon people to prayer, it summoned them to an Islam that had shattered the chains of slavery, of racism, of tribal pride. It was a voice that rose from a place of deep pain, but reached into the hearts of all believers for centuries to come.
“The noblest of you in God’s sight is the most righteous.” (Qur’an 49:13)
(This reflection was enriched thanks to a powerful post shared by Isaac Borole — may Allah reward all those who help us remember our shared heritage.)
Ashamā al-Najāshi: The Just King
The Prophet ﷺ told his companions to flee to Abyssinia, where they would find a just king who does not wrong anyone. His name was Ashamā ibn Abjar, the Negus.
When Quraysh envoys arrived to demand the Muslims be returned, he refused them. Listening to Sūrah Maryam, he wept and said:
“This and what Jesus brought come from the same source.” (Seerah of Ibn Ishaq)
He became a secret Muslim, protected the believers, and was later prayed for by the Prophet ﷺ at his death.
Africa was Islam’s refuge — and its protector.
ʿAtā ibn Abī Rabāh: The Scholar Who Broke Barriers
ʿAtā, a dark-skinned, physically disabled man, rose to become the Mufti of Makkah. His knowledge was so respected that even the sons of the Prophet’s companions deferred to him.
“When ʿAtā speaks, no one disagrees.”
He proved that intellect, piety, and brilliance are never bound by skin colour or social class.
“Do not mock one another, for perhaps they are better than you.” (Qur’an 49:11)
The Joy of Arfidah: Celebration in the Mosque
On Eid, a group of Abyssinians danced with tambourines in the Prophet’s ﷺ mosque. Abu Bakr tried to hush them, but the Prophet ﷺ smiled and intervened:
“Leave them alone, O Abu Bakr, for the Jews know that our religion is spacious.” (Sahih Muslim)
Their culture, their song, their rhythm — it was welcome in Islam’s holiest house.
Sayyidah Fatimah: Learning from Ethiopia
Fatimah (r.a) saw Christian Ethiopian women buried in fully enclosed wooden biers, preserving their modesty. She asked for the same after her death, showing that Islam could learn from the best practices of Africa rather than claiming self-sufficiency.
Musa and Luqman: Prophets and Sages
Musa (a.s), the most-mentioned Prophet in the Qur’an, was described as dark-skinned, noble, and strong.
“O Musa, I have chosen you above all people.” (Qur’an 7:144)
Luqman the Wise, whose name is immortalized in a Surah, was similarly described as of African heritage, a sage whose wisdom guided generations.
Umm Ayman Barakah: The Prophet’s Second Mother
Barakah bint Thaʿlabah, known as Umm Ayman, was the Abyssinian woman who first held the newborn Prophet ﷺ. She fed him, comforted him, and never left his side.
Whenever she visited him, he would spread his cloak for her to sit on, saying:
“She is my mother after my mother.” (Ibn Saʿd, Tabaqat)
When she made hijrah on foot to Madinah, the Prophet ﷺ welcomed her with tears of love.
Reflection
These names are not side-notes in history. They are the heart of our story.
In an age when racism still poisons hearts, their legacy stands as a lamp, illuminating the Qur’anic truth:
“No Arab is superior to a non-Arab, nor a white to a black, except by taqwa.” (Musnad Ahmad)
May these stories humble us, awaken us, and remind us that the measure of a human being is never skin or wealth, but God-consciousness.
A Dua
O Allah, as You honoured Hājar through her sacrifice, Sumayyah through her courage, Bilāl through his call, and Barakah through her love — honour us by making us people of justice. As You sheltered the believers through Najāshi, shelter the oppressed today. O Allah, free our hearts from arrogance and racism, and unite us upon Your light. Āmīn.
Call to Action
✨ Teach your children these names. ✨ Tell these stories from the minbar. ✨ Challenge racism in your heart and in your community. ✨ Honour these giants in your duas.
Our Father: Braima Winter — The Man Who Read the Weather and Raised Us with Words
Braima in His Red Koefiyya Not just a head covering, but a hush of dignity. A crown worn by those who build without boasting, who read clouds like verses, and raise children like minarets — quietly, steadfastly, towards the Light.
They called him Braima Baard. But he was clean-shaven. They called him Braima Winter. Because even if there was only one cloud in the sky, he’d say: “Dis winter, Gaya.”
He was our father: Ebrahim Abdul Aziz Jacobs. Born of tailors and dressmakers — his father, Abdul Aziz, worked with thread; his mother, Gadija, crafted fabric into form. From such soft-handed lineage, he turned to bricks and cement.
His mother once teased him, laughing: “Met jou sag handjies, wat soos ‘n bricklayer gan djy maak?”
But he became one. And not just any bricklayer. He built kilns. He protected cement floors. He shaped the foundations that others would walk on long after he left the site. He built a good few walls of Primrose Park masjid (called Jamiya Tus Sabr).
He guided others. Trained them. Gave them skills, and more than that, dignity.
Yet behind all of this physical work was another kind of labour — of language, of laughter, of letters. He was the spine of our family’s love of books, storytelling, and sly, gentle humour. He was reading before most could walk. As a child, already in his diapers, he was immersed in words, letters, pages. No one had to push him. It was in him.
Imam Ghazali. Ibn Battuta. Jalāl al-Dīn Rūmī. Shams Tabrizi. He didn’t just read. He remembered. And retold. And spun.
He raised seven children with his hands, but never truly raised his hand at them. His discipline was the silence between sentences. His presence was the lesson.
We never feared him. We trusted him. Because the man who knew where every cloud was going — also knew how to hold a storm.
He didn’t build palaces. He built people. He built us.
And when he dressed, he often wore his red koefiyya — not the long turban of his childhood, but a shorter, neat fez with a tassel, worn by men who held pride without noise. It was the kind worn by many hadjies after the sorbaan had fallen out of fashion. It became his crown.
One Fajr morning, when I was a teenager, he woke me gently. We walked together through the streetlights of Primrose Park toward the mosque. I looked around and said, “So many Muslim houses still have their lights off. Don’t they make salah?” He chuckled softly, and said, “Perhaps they are praying while their lights are off so that they can go back to sleep. You must focus on your own salah. Other Muslims are not your concern.”
And perhaps this was the secret of his laqab… As Shaykh Jamiel Abrahams reflected:
“The secret of this Laqab… is that no Winter will pass except that he is Madhkour — remembered — even by the non-living creation. Better than making dhikr, he becomes Madhkour — mentioned and remembered — by his Rabb.”
May Allah grant us all to become Madhkour. Āmīn.
“What a lovely man. He was always saying to us, ‘Kom biesmielah,’ and happy to have us around.” — Shamiel Isaacs, Bonteheuwel (Call of Islam)
And today, as we recite stories, as we reach for bricks and books and blessings — we say: Braima Winter, we remember. And we still feel your weather. And your words. And your mercy.
Innā li-llāhi wa-ʾinnā ʾilayhi rājiʿūn Surely to Allah we belong and to that we will return. [Surah Baqarah, 2:156]
And this is how we remember him best: Laughing beside Gaya, the love of his life — as if the whole world had just whispered a joke only they could understand.
Braima and Gaya Laughing — A Crowned Moment of Mercy
They were reciters — young boys and girls who sat day after day, line by line, vowel by vowel, until the Qur’an moved from the page to the tongue —not by memorisation, but by presence.
And when the day came — after a year, or two — when their tongues were steady and their stops correct, the elders would nod in silence.
Then came the dressing.
A sorbaan was wrapped around the boys’ heads. A salah jas placed gently on their shoulders. And the young girls, radiant in their medoras, embroidered in silver and gold threads, gathered with equal pride — their hearts no less luminous, their recitation no less fierce in its precision.
And down the streets of District Six or Bo-Kaap they walked, feet on cobbled stone, hearts trembling with pride.
Their journey led them to the Company Gardens — a sacred procession into the colonial centre, as if to say: “This is our inheritance. This Qur’an walks with us too.”
In the Gardens, each child would recite — sometimes their final chapters, sometimes a chosen portion — with the same discipline they learned in the halaqah, their voices carried by wind and heard by trees.
It was not a graduation. It was a Tamat — a completion, a covenant with the Sound of God.
And the Sorbaan was not merely cloth. It was a Khirqah al-Taḥkīm — a mantle of responsibility. A visible reminder that this child had entered a sacred trust: to live Qur’an, to speak it clearly, to carry it with mercy.
And perhaps most beautifully — that child’s journey had not ended, it had only just begun.
Acknowledgement
Tramakasi to Sh. Jamiel Abrahams, Sadia Fakier, Zaid Nordien, and Al-Ameen Marley — for helping carry this cloth of memory into the light.
Postscript: This scroll is inspired by the memory of Boeta Junain, who told stories of the Tamat and the children’s walk to the Gardens. Our next post will honour him directly — a keeper of sacred echoes.
Adli Yacubi 