Don’t Laugh, but I Thought I’d Be a Prophet.

At age 7, i had plans. Grand, divine, history-making plans. I wasn’t just some precocious Muslim girl who knew her surahs and lined her prayer mat like a pro. No, I was destined for more. I was going to be the first female prophet in Islam. Go ahead, laugh, but I had already picked out my turban. Silk, of course. Dark and moody, like storm clouds right before the rain. I wanted to look serious enough for scripture, but stylish enough for legacy.

You see, I was a prayerful child. Not just prayerful, intensely and obsessively devout. I prayed at times when even the muezzin was still sleeping. Fajr? I was already on round two before the rooster crowed. I prayed with the fire of someone trying to prove a point to God, maybe even remind Him that, yes, technically, You said Prophet Muhammad (SAW) was the last, but maybe, just maybe, I could be the exception.

It made sense in my head. Prophethood ran through me like blood. I watched Avatar: The Last Airbender and took it as divine confirmation. Aang had past lives. Some of them were female! Why not me? I was dreaming constantly, vivid dreams that felt drenched in symbolism, as if the sky was whispering to me in the language of smoke and water. I once dreamt I walked on light. Walked, not ran, mind you, like it was a carpet rolled out just for me.

I thought I was special. And not in the way adults say “special” while patting your head like you’re a confused puppy. No. I knew it. I felt it in my bones, in the stillness of my breath during sujood, in the quiet intimacy of whispered duas at night. It was as though I had slipped through the cracks of divine rules and emerged the chosen one.

My mother once found me making du’a on the toilet. Not for forgiveness or anything appropriate. I was asking God to “activate” my powers. She stared at me for a full minute, the way only African mothers can, the silence pressing like heat. Then she muttered, “This one will either be very great or very strange.” I took it as a sign.

It wasn’t arrogance. It was… conviction. I genuinely believed I had been born with a secret mission, perhaps delivered to my soul by accident, or maybe hidden there like a test. I didn’t just want to be a prophet. I expected it. I rehearsed it. If other kids were playing house or school, I was leading entire congregations of invisible followers, giving khutbahs with hand gestures stolen from the imams on TV. My sermons were passionate. Vivid. Sometimes unnecessarily long. But always sincere.

Now, of course, I know better.

Islam is clear. I was just a little girl with big dreams and bigger imagination. I still pray, still believe in dreams, but now I dream in poetry, not prophecy. I’ve swapped visions of revelation for the rhythm of words, for storytelling, for chasing meaning in the ordinary.

But part of me still smiles at her, the little girl who thought God would rewrite theological history just for her. She was bold. She was dramatic. She was wrong, yes. But she was something divine in her own way.