The feeling is seated in my heart, but I haven’t placed much of it in my mind, so it is a task to somehow communicate what the feeling is. I have not recently taken the time to rationalize it, it is not a coherent or accessible declaration ready for retrieval during a discussion. Why rationalize clarity rested in the heart if it doesn’t conflict with any fiber or flow?

This isn’t to say that I haven’t asked critical questions, or learned of evidence to give a foundation to this feeling. No, but for some reason, I don’t remember these verifications, the verses that have quenched my inquires, the proofs if you will. I can hardly remember any of them. I only hold on to the mystic flight I feel in faith, but such is a personal experience, and subjectivity is not transferrable or worth substance in a discussion about the validity of religion.

When I was younger, the fuel of my faith was of the mind. I enjoyed debating scripture, questions posed by inquisitive friends at lunchtime would lead me to an extensive search for evidence, my dinner would get cold on those evenings.

Over the years, however, other demands have led me to complacency and comfort, to spiritual numbness. The foundation of faith I’ve critically built earlier in life is not maintained by that same criticality, it now just exists without being expanded upon, or questioned to thereby prompt its growth. I don’t want my spirit and rationalization to be immiscible. I need to return to those inquisitive habits of my younger self to then link the clarity of the heart with that of the mind. The latter is what I now lack.


Peace & Blessings,

Karima O.

A sip for an upset stomach but not this

Vicks vapor rub can fix all that is broken. No, wait, a glass of ginger ale is the antidote to everything.

A sip for stomach pains, a sip for menstrual cramps or two sips simply for a sunny day, a one size fits all ordeal.


She weighed 90 pounds. My hands brushed past her upper arms as we embraced, I felt the hanging skin that outlasted any fat or muscle— hanging for the sake of her daughter and grandchildren.

The color fled from her face, aside from the patches of hyperpigmentation around her nose and hollow cheeks. Her bright pink shawl and the blue that outlined her aged irises reminded one that she still lives. She smelled like vanilla and sweet pea. I couldn’t identify which between the two, and quite frankly I know those scents are easily distinguishable, but she smelt equal parts warm and sweet, like wisdom and youth at the same time. Graceful even in her dying days.  The boniness of her forearms gave her a type of elegance, the way she motioned her veiny hands when she spoke made me begin to envision how beautiful a gold bangle would have looked on her, her wrists had become as thin as mine. I was wearing one, and I should’ve given it to her.

It has been a year since her diagnosis, and I only visited now. I was ashamed. Had I come sooner, could my prayers have shifted her disposition? I’ve heard that the prayers of a child weigh heavy in the heavens, and while I’m not a child, in ways, I possess the same hopefulness. I know that the jadedness that comes with life experience detracts from the spirit’s optimism, and on the days that I am introspective, I thank God for sparing me from grave hardship. Perhaps it’s wrong to foreshadow tragedy, but I often pray that nothing painful befalls me until I am in the company of my soulmate. Sure, it’s better to pray for the absence of hardship, but if the prophets endured the death of their children and abuse, what should lead me to think that the inevitable won’t find me? One can never prepare for suffering, but surely the touch of an honest lover could attend to the pain that ginger ale would do no good for. Loneliness is the drought to the fruit of heart, and yet the fertile soil for depression to sprout.

The guilt rests behind my eyes, but I smile at her, she deserves no less. I sit beside her on the couch and wish I could recite proverbs to ease her spirit, but I cannot speak Somali, and truthfully my understanding of my mother tongue has diminished with age. I wanted to cry. What was my excuse? The busyness of school? Forgetfulness? Life does not ask permission to appease one’s conveniences.

We held hands, the heat from mine was absorbed by hers, a gift of energy.

She began to tell me a story and my mother on the couch next to us translated.

“When my father was still alive, I would fly back to Somalia often to visit him. He was a farmer and didn’t have an inhaler for his asthma. I would bring some for him, along with ibuprofen and other simple medications. The first time he used the inhaler, he was amazed at how it healed him momentarily. Then when he took ibuprofen for a headache, he was astounded!

I visited again three months later, and most of the medication I had bought was almost all gone, I was shocked! I had bought him enough the first time to last a year, La Ilaha, very crazy. Guess what he did with them Karima?”

“Did he not believe in medicine and just toss them?”

“Worse! He gave them to his sick goats! ”

I began to laugh in surprise, “No, are you serious ayeeyo?”

“Yes, yes, he did! He convinced himself that it did something for them, and maybe it did who am I to say, but he had no idea how much that all cost me and here he was using it for his animals! It gave me such a headache I wanted to down a bottle myself!”

We all began to laugh. Habo Sabreen chimed in, “The love a farmer has for his animals is powerful, I mean think about it, the same way white people love their dogs, we love our goats and camels.”

Habo Sabreen had a point, love can make one do seemingly irrational things, but whose to judge but the giver and receiver? Whether that be between two people or a farmer and his animals, what difference does it make?

Shortly after our tea and talk, Ayeeyo said she had to get up to pray the evening prayer, Maghrib. I looked at my phone and saw the notification from my prayer app indicating that the time for prayer began only two minutes ago. How did she know? There was no clock around, nor an athan in the house. I was amazed. Had sickness made her so vigilant of her relationship with God that she developed an internal clock with such accuracy?

She stood up and walked to the downstairs bathroom to make ablution. A minute or two after, I decided I should pray with her. I often pray alone as I enjoy reciting the verses aloud and feel too shy to do so around anyone but my youngest sister. But I wanted to be beside ayeeyo as she prayed, to pray with her and for her. I went to the upstairs bathroom and washed as I do before each of the five daily prayers. I came back downstairs and found a scarf in ayeeyo’s room. She had already begun to pray, so I tugged downwards at my skirt to cover my ankles and draped a shawl around my head. I could make out her recitation as she whispered the verses loudly while I read mine silently. As she began her third rakat and I began my second, we were in sync as we recited Surat Al-Fatihah. It was beautiful.

To be in sync. If the body and soul are blended together, what is to be said about how disease and death are tethered? Can one rectify the dying process simply by choosing to no longer see it as a tragedy? If death is instead perceived as one’s return to their maker rather than a mere departure from this world, than does that make it easier? And for whom does it become a lighter plight? Surely not the loved ones left behind to see an abandoned bed. But if such view of death eases the heart of the dying, then perhaps the loved ones will be at ease knowing one came to terms with their prescribed time, with dignity and grace.

I won’t pretend as though all deaths are equivalent. Yes, the death of a child is more incomprehensible than that of a great aunt, and yes, the unforeseen call of a loved one’s fatal accident is more forceful to the heart than a slow foreseeable departure. While all death may inflict pain, disease before death pacifies the shock factor, and in many cases has a way of bridging relationships between forsaken ties among kin, rebirthing relationships through a loss.

They say that when illness befalls a believer, their sins shed. Despite ayeeyo’s inoperable liver cancer, and the insurance company refusing to any longer support her chemotherapy given her lack of progress, she still smelled like vanilla and sweet pea and wore the brightest of pink shawls.


In the desert of my soul, I know there is truth.
It may be hard to find, hidden in the sand dunes.
But if the wind that carries my faith is strong,
then the weighted grains of desires will fall,
leaving uncovered, the light that I’ve searched for all my life.

Now that I have it, my ankles shrink slim and free
from the chains of why’s and what is or isn’t meant to be 
the clarity is blinding
…Now that I have it, how should I handle this?

The Observation of Shamsa’s Spouse

Every night, my dear Shamsa awakes from her sleep.

She does not leave the bed from hunger or an ill dream.

Nor does she speak to me as she untangles herself from the sheets.

Verily this is her routine.


She does not know that I see her in these late hours of the night.

But my adoration for her grows tenfold with the prayer mat she unfolds.

Never have I seen an insomniac so pure.

Never do I forget to thank my creator for a lover who lights the darkness with her noor.


Peace and Blessings,

Karima Osman

A Date at the MET, The Mighty Moorish Empire, Schools of Thought & Discerning between Love and Lust  

NYC | A rainy day | The Metropolitan Museum | Him and I.

We stood in front of the oil painting. It suited its gold frame. With their smooth dark skin and an aura contained by tradition and power, even the common Moor looked like a king. I looked at the decorative jewels the men wore, the precision in the creases of their turbans, and the intricacies of the tapestry rug in the backdrop. Before Francisco Jiménez de Cisneros began his inquisition to forcefully convert the Moors into Catholicism, the Moors colonized and ruled much of the Iberian Peninsula—reviving the oppressed and stagnant times of Europe with their intellectual and progressive practices. The elaborate use of geometry in their windows and walls were awe-inspiring, and surgeries performed in the hospitals of Cordoba would have been adopted by the rest of Europe only centuries later. The Moors were Muslims, and of skin like night. It is no wonder that their honor and empire have systematically been ‘forgotten’ in much of academia.

The first time I heard of the Moors was in Shakespeare’s Othello, as Othello himself, the protagonist was a Moor. I remember my literature teacher defining a Moor as a black Muslim. He wasn’t entirely wrong, but his simplistic description was a microaggression of sorts. Yes, Moor has come to historically describe the affluent Muslims post 711 AD who were black, but the word moor derives from ‘marvo’ of Greek etymology, which simply means black, and nothing more. And to finitely equate Moor to mean ‘black Muslims’, implies two things. Firstly, it neglects the Moorish achievements and the intellectual essence of who they were in deducing how we define them to a physical basis. And second, it makes it as though being black and Muslim must be mutually exclusive as if when a Muslim so happens to also be black, the distinction must be made because that deviates from the ‘norm’ or the Arab Muslim. But since we’re all striving to be more politically and historically correct than we were yesterday, let’s also not forget that Arabs were originally black.

The fabrication of history books certainly favors the oppressor, but art like this does a sort of justice—telling a truth that cannot be untold. This sort of art is my favorite. The type that represents my people, or those of the like, in high esteem.

We moved on to the next painting in the “Art of the Arab Lands, Turkey, Iran, Central Asia, and Later South Asia” section. We stood close to each other, as waves of people with rehearsed tour guides passed by. I tuned them out and made it so that he was the only person in the museum. Us and the art. We silently observed the next piece, and he then asked me about the way I prayed.

“When you say the shahada, as you conclude your prayer, do you simply point your index finger up, or do you move it like this?” He motioned his finger to illustrate.


The shahada is what Muslims pronounce in each prayer to cleanse their spirit and revitalize their faith.

It reads:

“Ash hadu an la ilaha ill Allah wa ash hadu anna Muhammada Rasul Allah.”

“I declare there is no god but Allah and I declare that Muhammad is the Messenger of Allah.”

Although a simple saying, it holds much beauty and weight. Allah simply translates to “the one God”, and motioning of the index finger in prayer is a physical manifestation of emphasizing the oneness of God.

“I move my finger, as you just did,” I told him.

“Ahh, you do it like the shafi’i,” he said slyly.

“And what is that?”

“It’s one of the Islamic schools of thought, Somalis are of it. I used to go to a Pakistani Sunday school though, so I have some Hanafi tendencies, that’s another school of thought.”

I raised my eyebrow, and fixed my eyes on the painting as I said, “I don’t see the need for all these divisions in ideology, they’re just deviations of God’s word and these people with a motive justify it by calling it ‘a school of thought’ because certainly knowledge is easier to swallow than announced deviation”

“Ya, that’s true Karima. Not everyone thinks that clearly though. Your soul is good, may Allah preserve you and what we have.”

“Ameen walal

It was funny that I so easily called him ‘walal’ (a Somali word meaning sister/brother, but also used as a form of endearment and respect), funny how things the other says so often eventually find a way on your tongue.

I looked at him as he continued to look at the art. He had a nice way of dancing between his hunger for me and his self-control, it was an art of itself.

We moved on to the next exhibit. Hand in hand, rooted in culture and faith. Sustained by God as we sought a happy medium between our love and lust.

Weeks later I texted him, and the conversation went as follows:

–How do men know they wholeheartedly appreciate a woman for her soul? If lust and love are so intertwined for them? This is something I’ve always heard. How do they differentiate? How do you differentiate?

//Good question Reem. It’s a feeling that is intertwined for sure. But one must like someone for their character, followed by their physical attributes. If it is the other way around, then lust is the driving force. It’s much deeper than this of course.

–So then how do you know if it’s love of her soul or love of her physique that takes mental dictation?

//I guess one can argue and say that……… good question fam. I’m at a loss for words. Somethings are felt. It’s hard to express love.

–Yeah makes sense. If anything comes to mind tell me.

//I got you. What are your thoughts?

–Well for me the two, lust and love, have always been compartmentalized. They never initially mixed. I wasn’t physically drawn to you. I’m hardly ever physically drawn to men at all. I’ll find them attractive, but I’ll never entertain a thought into the realm of lust. So, I have to know one’s character before being drawn in. You get me fam? Then a trust has to be built. And then, only after the trust is established, can lust develop. So, you see, the two are never really intertwined with me. It’s sequential, and therefore controllable.

// That’s well said, Reem. I won’t lie, for men, sometimes, actually most times, lust is preliminary. It’s an asshole thing to say, but I’m just telling you like it is. And despite that though, when you respect and honor the woman for the way she presents herself, you train yourself to settle those desires. And in a weird way, sometimes the lust shapeshifts into some type of fire that fuels your desire to learn about her on a deeper level. So, I wouldn’t disregard the lust entirely. It’s energy. So, tell me, if you don’t lust first, how do you go about getting to know someone deeply?

–Valid, and well I guess I sort of just listen to them with no expectations. And they’ll eventually say something impressive to stimulate me mentally. I’ll talk more and more with them, and eventually a trust forms. And then I envision the potential of sexual relations, and if I see them fitting that role too, then love follows. That’s my process, full circle, and whole


–So I’ll cut the bullshit, I guess lust lowkey precedes love for me too. But it just happens deeper into the game, further into the process. You feel me? Lust is never an initial thing for me.

//I feel you. I love how you think. Your mind is a science homie.

–Really? Is it easy to follow?

//Sometimes. Once you break it down. I think I’m keeping up well.

–lol, yeah, I suppose you are.


People discern between love and lust in different ways. Emotions are of the spectrum and beyond the spectrum. When you try to quantify it, you deduce it to what is tangible. Emotions are not of the tangible realm, to begin with. They are meant to be overwhelming at times and inarticulable. Despite this, this is a glimpse into how I view it.

Peace and Blessings,

Karima Osman






Paradoxical Beginnings

I’m currently sitting in the far right seat, two rows from the very back of this dimly lit lecture hall. Behind me, two boys– one with a snapback too big for his head– are hovering over a shared phone screen with anticipatory grins, waiting for the funny part of what I presume is some Instagram video from one of those “Daquan” accounts. Such accounts are why vine did not last very long. To the left of me, a girl is eating a Quaker’s granola bar. From her seating choice, and too small of a backpack, I can tell she isn’t the studious type– only here because her major requires it. You’re perhaps wondering what that suggests about myself, as I am sitting right next to her. Well, the difference is that my school bag is quite full, and I typically sit in the very front of every class, I’m that student. But this is just psychology class, no offense

The edge seat is most suitable for those who intend to do other than pay attention to the professor. I never quite understood the students who sat in the middle of the room, with their screen brightness fully on, as they peruse YouTube, Facebook or even porn. I, of course, haven’t seen the latter happen in any of my classes, but I’ve heard a fair share of stories. Such people are either fools or too comfortable with themselves. Sometimes the two are indistinguishable

While I find psychology fascinating, it’s all too instinctive, or at least the introductory courses are (to undo my prior offense). It’s much too common sense. Rather than catching up on FKJ and Soulection tracks on Soundcloud, or inking my planner with ambitious tasks that require me to be up past 9:30 pm, (not happening, I need my sleep) I may as well start this blog.

I don’t know how this stuff quite works; and while I’ve always considered starting one, I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that Ifemelu from Americanah was to me, like eating the whole bag of chips because you didn’t ration the serving by eating from a bowl. In other words, a fictional character brought me to impulsively buy a membership for this WordPress thing, without first putting my thoughts into the bowl and eating slowly, making the snacking a more thoughtful process.  I could have just opted for the free version of WordPress, but a personal domain is more aesthetically pleasing. The aesthetic of things is what makes life more than passive breathing. Anyhow, the deed is done now, and so far I have no regrets. I suppose the membership will keep me consistent about blogging, then again, I’ve said that about the gym too. I’m on my third gym membership. Coincidentally though, this is my third attempt at a blog. 3 is also my favorite number, my mother will tell you.


I remember a couple months back, say mid-June, I had my first day of clinical. I was taking the morning train, thinking of all the things I could call the blog I intended to start that night. I impatiently wanted a side hustle. I spent more time planning clickbait blog titles and strategies to solidify a viewer base, all before even thinking of the blog content itself! How in-genuine and passionless! I’m usually not like that, I promise. I was simply broke, and I think that explains enough. Anyhow, God quickly put me in my place that morning.

I glanced at my google maps and saw that my train stop was next. It noted that I’d get off at 40th & Colorado and then board the 40 bus

I got off the train, thinking a bit of what my clinical preceptor would be like, but I was again overcome by thoughts of what niche I should pick in the blogging world. 15 minutes passed by and the bus came. The driver got out to take a smoke break and closed the bus doors. I stood behind the light pole, standing in its slim shadow. I’ve always been good at finding the in-obvious shadows produced by the side of a building, or the height of street signs. It’s a skill a commuter picks up real quick in the heat of the summer.

As the bus driver got back on the bus, he opened the doors. I rummaged through my purse for my wallet to scan my RTD pass. My wallet. Damn it!

Trying not to lose my cool, I asked the driver for an RTD pamphlet with the numbers for the A-line train. I called, praying unceasingly while on hold as I waited for the tasteless elevator music to end. I couldn’t help but give myself kudos for leaving the house 2 hours early. I intuitively figured I’d need buffer time in case I got lost on the first day of clinic… or lost my shit.

Finally, someone picked up. From her soft nasally tone, she seemed to be in her mid-twenties. She was so immune to calls like this, giving no assurance or sympathy. I was burdening her, keeping her from online shopping, or her unfinished text.

“Is there really no way you could simply call the security guard on the train, I literally just got off!”

“No it doesn’t work that way, sorry”  I swear I almost heard her filing her nails to accompany her bland customer service voice.

“You have no form of communication with the security on trains?”


“So what are my options then? Everything is in my wallet.” 

“You either wait till tomorrow and call the RTD lost and found, or wait on the opposite platform for the same train to reroute in 20 minutes”

“Alright, thanks for your time” 

“Good luck with your wallet”

“Good luck”, why do people feel the need to retrieve such empty phrases. They don’t say it because they mean it, but rather because they think you expect to hear it.


I waited on the opposite platform, and in my anxious loneliness, spoke to the most high, God:

I’m sorry for wanting to start a blog as a side hustle, I could probably just put that time into worshiping you better, or exercising. I don’t know, I suppose you and I both know I would taint my essence in the pursuit of a money driven hobby. It’s unlike myself. Do you want me to stay more low-key? A private life is a happy life they say. Or is my influence best for a different platform? You know what my soul needs. You know I’ve never been into the radio because it’s too mainstream; or read a book recommended by enough people to push me (to the edge, lol) away from my remote initial interest. If it is a thing made mainstream, or a space too saturated, I want no part. And not because I intentionally steer from things that are common, but because I subconsciously feel repelled. You know this already.

But SubhanAllah, what a paradox! As I embellished the idea of starting a blog for money, I became so consumed by the thought that I forgot my wallet and lost my money.  Not to mention, my social security card was in there. So in a sense, it’s as though the idea of profiting in in-genuine ways was compromising my identity. My truth.

Oh most high, if my wallet is still on that train, I won’t start a blog. 

Before the train arrived, I came to terms with whether or not I’d find my wallet. I always went the extra mile to look out for others, always washed my hands long enough to notice if a woman was leaving the restroom without her phone or lipstick. I had everyone’s back when given the opportunity. I knew God would not forsake me. The wallet isn’t a big deal, it’s all material. But it’s the time I’d have to spend replacing everything that made it not worth considering. And my faith surged. The train blew its horn three times as it approached the platform. My anxiety drifted and I felt calm.

The train doors opened, a Hispanic officer smiled at me and said, “Have a seat, I have it!” Praise be to the most high, I was so grateful.

“I knew it was you as soon as you entered, you look just like your I.D,” he said, & we both laughed warmly.

“I don’t know how to than..”

“Ma’am if anything looks out of place, it’s because I was trying to find a phone number, I really didn’t want to have to turn it in or RTD would take it to their lost and found and that would have been a headache for you, hardly anything is ever really found with them.”

He handed it to me. His finger nails were trimmed. His hands were browner than his face and wrinkled, he had to be about 45.

“Oh thank you so so much, everything is in here, God bless you”

“Don’t thank me, ma’am, I’m happy you have it. Aslam alaiku”

He smiled with an innocence that died in most adults at 27, and I smiled back with glassy eyes– biting my cheek so that I did not cry. He didn’t pronounce ‘Assalamu ‘Alaikum‘ quite right, but I knew his intent, &that’s what mattered.

I got off the train, put my sunglasses on, and allowed my tears to fall. People can be genuine. And so I gave up the idea of starting a blog.


And yet, here I am… It has been a few months since then.

At this point, I don’t really care for a side hustle or any sort of egotistical attention. I observe nuances others often overlook, and ponder things like eschatology and whether or not I should have another cup of coffee. It’s thoughts like this that I want to preserve somewhere, and if you enjoy my words in the process of me doing this, then I suppose that’s good too.

Peace and Blessings,