Category: Uncategorized
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A sacred poem hidden in plain sight. Above the Prophet ﷺ’s resting place in Madinah, one couplet from Imām al-Ḥaddād was chosen to stand above the Qur’an. A knock upon the door. A sign for those who see.
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Meta flagged my keffiyeh. Shadowbanned my breath. Then sent a job offer.
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“Met sy grou oë en grys baard, hy lyk soos ’n wolf.” A tribute to Boeta Junain — madrasa teacher, guardian, and guide. His sorbaan still speaks.
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A Cape Qur’anic remembrance: children once walked the streets of Bo-Kaap and District Six, dressed in sorbaans and medoras, reciting the final verses of the Qur’an. This was the Tamat — not memorised, but recited with presence. A covenant, a celebration, and a sacred procession into the heart of memory.
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A tribute to Cecelia ‘Hatta’ Williams—beloved flower seller of Trafalgar Place. A poetic, visual, and communal reflection on Cape Town’s everyday saints. By Adli Yacubi.
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Adli Yacubi’s poem “Unseen Table” serves as a devotional meditation on the Divine, blending rhythmic verses reminiscent of Qur’anic language with Arabic calligraphy. It reflects on the attributes of God, providing a resonant space for spiritual connection amidst the chaos of the world, encouraging readers to embrace a quiet invocation of prayer.
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The content emphasizes the significance of mercy in the Islamic faith, particularly as expressed in the phrase “Bismillah” at the beginning of actions and the Qur’an. It explores the concept of mercy as intrinsic to existence, linking it to creation, relationships, and the womb. Ultimately, it advocates for a life guided by compassion and divine…
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Originally posted on Adli Yacubi: Survival techniques for life-changing events, in memory of Zane Ibrahim Image from Crow the Stone “Who the hell is out there?” I inquired from a shadow in my rose garden at 3am. “I have been passing your house for a month now and noticed your roses have not been pruned.…
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This is not just a farewell. It’s a remembrance of my brother Faried—his strength, his softness, his stubborn love. From bricklaying boots to quiet sacrifice, his legacy lives on in us.
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I never really met my grandparents from either my mom’s side or my dad’s. I lie. I met my dad’s dad. Twice. Once in Kingsley Street in Salt River when I was about eight years old. My mom had to say to me, “This is your grandfather.” I saw this older version of my dad…
Adli Yacubi 