The divine names live in theology as concepts—The Merciful, The Compassionate, The Pure. This manuscript insists they live most truly in what I actually witnessed. Bamba making wudu in the masjid basement. Jarrett's voice saying "we're good" without looking up. Jalls' steady Arabic layered with wooden beads clicking. 99 names. 99 moments. No interpretation—just what happened.
Bamba at the sink, Masjid Al-Noor basement,
green Polo sleeves pushed past his elbows.
Water darkens the fabric at his wrists.
His hands cup under the faucet, three times.
In the mirror: his face tilted toward Mecca,
eyes closed while water runs down his forearms.
6:47 on the clock above the paper towels.
He wipes wet hands over his fade, once.
Outside the door: his Jordans, navy blue,
unlaced and waiting against the wall.
Jarrett's thumbs on the controller, Storm versus Magneto,
eyes on the screen when he says:
"We're good, man."
Grey couch, afternoon sun through the blinds,
game announcer voice between us.
I'm holding my phone with both hands.
Twelve years since I saw him at the bus stop and kept walking.
He doesn't look at me until the round ends
face calm as when we studied Econ 301.
Outside: Dallas traffic on Northwest Highway.
Inside: the sound of him winning.
Jalls next to me at Asr, Masjid Ibrahim,
locs gathered under his grey kufi.
His voice steady through Surah Al-Ikhlas
I can hear the wooden beads in his left hand,
clicking between thumb and first finger.
The wall clock behind us, that electric hum
beneath his Arabic: Allahu Ahad. Allahu Samad.
Red carpet with gold calligraphy border.
His shoulder pressed against mine.
"This is a manuscript in motion. New poems appear here as they're completed. To get notified when new work drops:"
The divine names exist in theology as abstractions: The Merciful, The Compassionate, The Pure. This manuscript insists they exist most truly in witnessed moments—Bamba's wet hands on his fade, Jarrett's calm face during forgiveness, Jalls' shoulder pressed against mine.
Not interpretation. Just witness.
99 poems. 99 names. 99 moments where the abstract became specific, the theological became observed, the divine became navy blue Jordans unlaced and waiting.