Nadim M.

Doktor K.

A Friday at the mosque


When I opened my eyes this morning, I immediately remembered that it was Friday, which is always a special day of the week. It is especially thanks to my father that I have always associated this day with a deep spirituality and a necessary weekly return to the contemplation of God and our human condition. To honour his memory, I vowed never to miss a single Friday prayer at the mosque. It has now been almost 4 years since he left us, and I have never failed to follow the practice he instilled in me from a very young age.

Every Friday, I religiously respect the same approach, which is based on simplicity and piety. I always have coffee with my wife and children after buying the best warm bread in town. To be kind, I always ask the children how their week went, and how they were doing at school. They are happy, it’s one of their favorite moments with their father. The rest of the week, I see them very rarely. My wife always serves me her best coffee on Fridays. I don’t talk to her much, but I can see from the way she acts that she still loves and respects me. It’s a privileged moment. I feel blessed, and I tell myself every Friday that I am very lucky to have her as my wife; despite all my faults and shortcomings, she has never betrayed me. No one is perfect! Only God will judge us when He welcomes us into his eternal kingdom.

A little before noon, I always ask my wife what she would like me to buy her for Friday’s meal. She is happy, and I always buy what she asks for with love, happiness and generosity. I never eat too much in the morning, to save room for the meal after prayer. Her cooking reminds me of my mother’s; so delicious that you can hardly stop eating.

In the small mountain town where I live, everyone knows everyone. Naturally, I am known and respected by everyone there, especially that I have a small shop in the centre of the town selling dried fruits and spices. Everyone comes to drink tea with me and exchange the latest news about the city and the country. On Friday, I see almost all the men of the city at the mosque, except for the few irreducible drunkards, known for their aversion to religion, the blindness of their souls and the obstruction of their hearts.

For me, Friday is a day of liberation. As the great prayer approaches, my heart starts beating more and more strongly. Like the other people in the city, I take my small carpet and head towards the mosque. In front of God, I lay myself bare, because I know that I can’t hide anything from Him. As I pray, I admit all my weaknesses, all my mistakes and all my faults. I call to God’s mercy, his sense of forgiveness, his love and his greatness. This is always one of the strongest moments of the day. I feel that I am just a simple man, alone and lost amid the magnificence and complexity of the universe.

I spend the whole afternoon in the same religious observance. I eat the tasty meal with my family, talking very little and trying to listen. When my wife and I look at each other, she discreetly looks down to the table. She knows how I am on Fridays, and somehow she is afraid to disturb me. We’ve been married for over 10 years; she knows me as I really am. She is the mother of my children, and I am lucky to have taken her from a very good family known for their respect for morals and traditions.

In the early evening, I spend time with people from the city. We drink tea, smoke cigarettes and tell each other the stories of the week. Some people laugh out loud, but personally, I just smile. In the early hours of the evening, my heart starts beating harder and stronger; like a second wave of a deep feeling that overwhelms me.

As soon as I hear the call to prayer, I get up and leave. My blood flows back and forth through my veins and arteries. On the way home, I stop all the time at an old friend’s house who has a small hotel in a dark corner of the city. In fact, he is also the owner of the walls of my business in town. He knows me very well and we have absolute trust in each other.

He invites me every Friday to drink tea with him at the hotel reception. Sometimes there are other guests and some women. Everyone smokes cigarettes and drinks tea. It’s also part of my Friday rituals. After a few discussions about all and nothing, one of the women takes the stairs, and I don’t wait more than a minute or two to follow her to the rooms upstairs. Every time my foot touches one of the stairs, I feel my personality changing. My blood pressure is at its peak, as if I am about to perform my very last prayer ever at the mosque.

In the bedroom, I always find a bottle of cold beer discreetly waiting for me. My habits are very well known. In fact, this is the only time during the week that I slightly break the rules of religion. But I only drink one beer. I’ve never drunk two.

The woman with the dirty smell and the vulgar make-up serves me the bottle, and I immediately light a cigarette. Without saying a word, I lean against the bed and order her to take off my clothes. Without daring to look me in the eyes, she does so and starts using her hands and mouth to please me. This is probably one of my best moments of the day. For a few minutes, I continue to take small sips of beer while I light a second cigarette. My heartbeat slows down and my character continues its metamorphosis.

As soon as the bottle is empty, I get up. I hand the prostitute a banknote. She takes it without showing any pleasure. On the contrary, her face appears like death; she knows what awaits her.

Immediately I order her to get down on her knees and spit on her face. Before she even feels the first pains of humiliation, I slap her with enough strength to punish her. It depends on the women; some cry, and some don’t cry any more. Both kinds give me pleasure.

Finally, I put my clothes back on and go downstairs. I discuss everything again with the hotel owner and his distinguished guests. I make a few jokes. People laugh. I smoke one last cigarette with them and leave.

It’s already dark. On the way home, I realize that what I am doing is certainly not the most honest way to live. But you have to know that I never go any further than that. Besides, no one in the city knows this, except a handful of trustful people who share my same shadows. I still feel guilty in front of God, but I always tell myself that God will forgive me, especially since I take care of my family. And anyway, no one is perfect!

By the time I get home, the kids are already in bed. In bed, I often find my wife weeping. I think she could never accept my Friday night personality. Once, a long time ago, she tried to resist me, and I beat her very severely. She had so many bruises on her body and face that she stayed for two weeks without ever leaving the house. The children were frightened. And I made it clear to her that next time it will be the divorce, and therefore assured humiliation and destruction. In our religion, a woman should never refuse her husband.

I think she has well learned her lesson since then; I have noticed in her greater modesty and more assiduous religiosity. But surely she must be disgusted by the stench of my body, my sex and my dog breath. But she’s my wife, and she has to get used to it. I take off my clothes and get into bed. I kiss her on the mouth to make her smell my filthy breath. If she cries or reacts in a negative way, I punish her by making her lick the places contaminated by the saliva of the hotel whore. If she behaves in a humble and moral manner, I penetrate her and lick her face with my cigarette and beer breath, and then I leave her as soon as I cum.

Finally she’s happy. The next day I take a shower. My wife washes the sheets every Saturday as if to wash her honor. I leave to open my business to bring bread on my family’s table, as well as to support my Friday prayers.

As my wife remains faithful and respectful of the morality and the tradition, I will be able to continue to live as a happy, honest, and sincere man who is respected by everybody.

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