Battle at the Bayt
The Missing Shoe Incident
Story by: Abu Hudhayfah Edwards
Abdur-Rahman had a plan.
Not just any plan. A good plan.
The diaper bag was packed with military precision. Extra diapers. Wipes. Snacks. Emergency snacks. A backup outfit for Qusay and a backup backup outfit, because experience had taught him humility.
The stroller stood ready by the door like a loyal companion.
And today was important.
The brothers were meeting at the Somali tea shop.
Real Somali chai. Strong. Sweet. Comforting. The kind that made conversation stretch longer and laughter come easier. Abdur-Rahman had been thinking about it all morning.
He adjusted his shirt in the hallway mirror.
Clean. Crisp. Coordinated.
He nodded approvingly.
The brothers were definitely going to notice the outfit.
He could already hear it:
“Abudi, looking sharp today!”
He smiled.
Then he reached down for his shoes.
One shoe.
Just one.
He blinked.
He looked again.
Still one shoe.
“Qusay…” he said slowly.
The toddler sat in the stroller, swinging his legs happily.
And in his tiny hand was the missing shoe’s mate.
Abdur-Rahman frowned.
“Where is the other one?”
Qusay grinned.
That grin meant trouble.
The search began in the mud room.
Abdur-Rahman checked under coats, behind boots, inside random boxes that no one remembered owning.
Nothing.
He crawled halfway into a basket of scarves.
Dust flew.
POOF!
No shoe.
Qusay watched silently, chewing on the laces of the shoe he did have like a trophy.
Next stop: the garage.
Abdur-Rahman pushed open the door and stared into the cluttered wilderness.
Tools. Storage bins. Old soccer balls. A mysterious exercise bike nobody used.
He crouched down.
“Maybe it got kicked out here.”
He searched under the workbench.
BANG!
His head hit the underside.
“Subhan’Allaah…” he muttered, rubbing his forehead.
Still no shoe.
Qusay clapped.
Abdur-Rahman squinted toward the crawl space.
He froze.
The crawl space was dark.
The crawl space was dusty.
The crawl space belonged to spiders.
He looked at Qusay.
Qusay looked back with innocent eyes.
Abdur-Rahman sighed.
“For Somali chai,” he whispered to himself.
He grabbed a flashlight and crouched low.
The moment he opened the hatch, a web brushed his face.
“ AH! La hawla wala quwwata illa billaah! ”
He stumbled backward.
Qusay laughed so hard he nearly fell out of the stroller.
Abdur-Rahman glared at him.
“You think this is funny?”
More laughter.
Inside the crawl space, every shadow looked suspicious.
Boxes leaned at strange angles. Something skittered in the corner.
He whispered extra dhikr.
The flashlight shook slightly.
He checked every corner.
No shoe.
He backed out quickly, brushing invisible spiders off his shoulders.
Qusay offered him the one shoe in encouragement.
Now there was only one place left.
The attic.
Abdur-Rahman stared at the ceiling hatch like it was a test of character.
The attic was not part of his normal routine.
The attic contained memories, old furniture, and sounds that never had proper explanations.
He looked at Qusay.
Qusay stared up expectantly.
Abdur-Rahman raised his hands.
“ La ilaaha illa Allaah, Ya Allaah… protect me from whatever is up there.”
He climbed.
The attic creaked with every step.
Dust floated in the air.
A box shifted somewhere.
Abdur-Rahman froze.
“Probably nothing,” he whispered.
He searched carefully.
Old baby clothes.
Holiday decorations.
A broken lamp.
No shoe.
A sudden noise behind him made him jump.
THUMP!
He spun around, in a loud, frightened voice, saying, “ Allaahu Akbar! “
Nothing.
He decided the search was officially over.
Back downstairs, he dropped onto the couch, defeated.
Qusay bounced happily in the stroller.
Abdur-Rahman looked at the clock.
The brothers were probably already sipping chai.
Real chai.
Not the watered-down imitation he sometimes made at home.
He sighed deeply.
“Fine,” he said. “We’ll go with different shoes.”
He stood up and walked toward the door.
Then stopped.
His eyes narrowed.
There, sitting perfectly neat on the shoe rack.
Both shoes.
Side by side.
Clean.
Aligned.
Waiting.
Abdur-Rahman stared.
He turned slowly toward Qusay.
The toddler looked away suspiciously.
“Qusay…”
Qusay giggled.
Abdur-Rahman rubbed his face.
“You hid them.”
Giggles.
“You watched me search the whole house.”
More giggles.
Abdur-Rahman shook his head slowly.
“This is psychological warfare.”
He slipped on the shoes, grabbed the diaper bag, and wheeled Qusay toward the door.
As they stepped outside, he sighed dramatically.
“You know what’s going to happen now?”
Qusay babbled happily.
“We’re late. The brothers will already be done with Somali chai.”
He pushed the stroller down the walkway.
“Now I’ll have to drink Virginian chai.”
He shuddered.
“That’s basically tea pretending to be tea.”
Qusay laughed as if agreeing.
When they finally arrived, the brothers greeted him warmly.
“Abudi! You made it!”
One of them nodded at his outfit.
“Looking sharp today.”
Abdur-Rahman straightened proudly.
Then he looked down at Qusay, who smiled with absolute innocence.
The brothers leaned over the stroller.
“He’s so calm today,” one said.
Abdur-Rahman nearly laughed.
“You have no idea.”
As the first sip of chai warmed his chest, Abdur-Rahman relaxed.
Qusay reached out and grabbed his sleeve.
Abdur-Rahman looked down.
The toddler smiled again.
That same mischievous smile.
The one that said:
This round goes to me, the undisputed and still undefeated.
Abdur-Rahman shook his head and smiled.
The Battle at the Bayt continued.












