When the Call Finally Reached Him

Amir was 27. To the world, he was doing okay — a degree in business, a decent job at a marketing agency in Manchester, his own car, and even a growing TikTok following. He posted funny skits, lip-syncs, and the occasional gym update. Life seemed full.

But deep inside, something always felt missing.

He used to be practicing when he was younger. Went to the mosque with his dad. Memorized some Surahs. Even led Taraweeh once when he was 15. But after his father passed away, things changed.

It started with small slips.

First, he missed Fajr. Then stopped reading Qur’an. Then he began skipping Jumuah sometimes. Friends changed, habits changed. And slowly, the version of Amir who once woke up at dawn to pray became a guy who stayed up all night watching Netflix and woke up at noon with guilt he didn't want to talk about.

When people asked if he was religious, he’d shrug. “I believe in Allah, yeah. But I’m not that strict. Religion’s in my heart.”

He kept saying that, even when deep inside, his heart felt hollow.

His mom tried to talk to him sometimes. "Amir beta, just pray once a day. Just start small."

But he would brush it off: “Mum, I’m tired, okay? Work's been mad.”

But work wasn’t that mad. Truth is, Amir just didn’t want to face himself.

One night, he was scrolling through TikTok like always. Random videos, food recipes, trending dances. Then came a video of a janazah — a funeral in some mosque. The caption read: “This brother died while in sujood during Fajr.”

He froze.

He watched as people carried the body, wrapped in a white cloth, to the grave. The imam made du’a. One man cried out, “Ya Allah, he died in sajdah! What a beautiful ending…”

Amir felt a lump in his throat. He quickly swiped up to avoid the feeling. But the next video was another Islamic reminder. Then another. His feed was flooded.

He chuckled nervously. “Bro, even the algorithm wants me to come back to Allah now?”

He tossed his phone aside and tried to sleep. But sleep didn’t come easy that night.

The next day was hectic. Meetings, emails, deadlines. During lunch, he stepped out to take a call. That’s when his phone rang again — it was his old friend Azeem. They hadn’t spoken in over a year.

“Yo, Amir… I don’t know how to tell you this,” Azeem’s voice trembled.

“It’s Adnan… he had a heart attack last night. He passed away.”

Amir felt like the ground disappeared.

Adnan was one of their old childhood friends. Just 28. Funny, kind, always cracking jokes.

“Wait what? Are you serious?” Amir asked, stunned.

“Yeah. Janazah is tonight. At 6.”

That whole day felt unreal. Amir kept thinking — “How? Why? He was younger than me. He was healthy.”

That evening, for the first time in years, Amir entered a mosque again.

The janazah was quiet. Somber. He stood at the back, heart racing. As they prayed, tears welled up in his eyes. Memories of Adnan flooded back. Sleepovers, football, that time they got in trouble for sneaking snacks into the masjid.

Now he was gone. Just like that.

After the burial, Amir stayed behind. Everyone else slowly left. The sky was darkening. He sat near the fresh grave and whispered, “Adnan… you didn’t even get to say goodbye, bro.”

And then, for reasons he couldn’t explain, he raised his hands.

“Ya Allah… I don’t want to end up like this. Lost. Unprepared.”

He cried like a child. No filters. No pride.

That night, he made wudu. It felt strange. Cold water on his hands, face, arms — it felt like washing off years of forgetfulness.

He stood on the prayer mat, unsure if Allah would even accept him back.

But as he raised his hands and said “Allahu Akbar,” his body shook. The words felt familiar but distant — like coming home after being lost for years.

He forgot parts of Surah Fatiha. He made mistakes. But he prayed. With a heart more real than ever before.

From that night, Amir promised to change. Not overnight. But one step at a time.

One prayer turned to two. Then three. He deleted some of his older videos. Unfollowed a few people. Started reading the Qur’an again — just a verse a day. He even found an Islamic class on Zoom and joined quietly, camera off.

He didn’t become perfect. Some days he missed Fajr again. Some days he still scrolled too long on his phone. But he no longer ignored Allah’s calls. And he no longer lived like his heart was empty.

Moral of the story:

Allah calls us in many ways — through reminders, through people, through loss. We can ignore them. Delay them. Run from them. But eventually, something hits hard enough that we have no choice but to stop… and finally answer. Amir's story is not special. It’s the story of many of us. Lost, but not forgotten.