“Ow! God forgive me!”
Splash! Slosh!
Something hard collided with the plastic bucket.
Murky, moss-scented water splashed violently, soaking Husain’s pant legs all the way to his knees.
A wooden box filled with pliers and screwdrivers went flying, landing with a heavy thud on the wet cement tiles.
Smack! Splash!
The thief stumbled sideways, his shoulder slamming into the brick wall of the mosque.
He clutched his reddened forehead, which had been struck by Husain’s solid chest.
“Watch where you’re going!” Husain barked. His voice was low but razor-sharp as he took one step toward the corner of the wall.
His usually friendly eyes suddenly darkened, and he breathed harshly through his nose.
“Just charging ahead like that! You could’ve damaged the mosque’s equipment!”
The thief—Lukeman—raised both hands to chest level and drew in his chest until he looked tiny beneath Husain’s shadow.
His hands trembled faintly.
“Sorry… Sorry, sir! I didn’t mean to, I swear to God!” Lukeman said stiffly, with a slight stutter.
His hand brushed at his elbow, which was wet from the splashing water.
“I… I slipped when I was turning!”
Husain didn’t respond right away.
His gaze traveled across the bottom of the black plastic bucket.
Floating just above the muddy sediment and grime from the faucet was a dull brown leather wallet with a ring-shaped metal keychain attached.
He reached into the bucket and retrieved the soaking-wet wallet.
Water streamed heavily from the edges of its stitched fabric.
Husain examined the wallet, then raised his eyes and fixed them on Lukeman’s pale face.
“This isn’t yours, is it?” Husain asked shortly, his voice growing colder.
Lukeman blinked rapidly three times.
His back pressed even tighter against the brick wall.
“It’s mine, sir! It’s mine! It… it fell out of my pocket while I was running!”
Husain pointed at the metal keychain attached to the wallet’s zipper.
“This has the remains of a sticker from the Route Three public minibus. Are you a minibus driver?”
“Uh… well… no, sir! It’s just… just a keychain I found on the road!” Lukeman stammered evasively, his eyes darting wildly toward the exit corridor.
“Give me my wallet, sir! I’m in a hurry—I’ve got somewhere to be!”
“What kind of business, Maemunah?!”
Crash!
A flip-flop slammed into a cement pillar.
Roni appeared from the turn in the ablution corridor, his hair disheveled and his T-shirt hanging crookedly.
His breathing came out in a terrible wheeze, like an old engine forced uphill.
Agus followed behind him, bent over and clutching his queasy stomach after the long chase.
“Gotcha, you bastard! Husain caught you too, huh?!” Roni shouted.
Roni charged forward without paying any attention to Husain.
His rough hand immediately seized the collar of Lukeman’s shabby shirt.
Rip!
“Ow! Mercy, bro! Please!” Lukeman screamed as his back was slammed against the mosque wall again.
“Mercy… mercy! You think chasing you from Ms. Eros’s food stall all the way here was easy?!” Roni yelled right in Lukeman’s face.
Roni’s chest heaved unevenly. His anger boiled over.
“Because of you, it feels like my lungs are about to rip loose! My knees are about to fall off!”
“I’m sorry, bro… I lost my head! I didn’t have any money to eat!” Lukeman whimpered, squeezing his eyes shut.
“Your head’s the one that’s broke!” Roni raised his clenched right hand, then tightened his index finger.
Knock! Knock! Knock!
Roni pounded his knuckles hard against Lukeman’s head until the thief groaned in pain.
“You know what was inside it?!” Roni knocked again.
Knock! Knock!
“That’s Mr. Mursid’s three-day public-minibus deposits, you idiot! If it went missing, I’d have to drive that minibus for a week without gas! Use your brain!”
“Ow! That hurts, bro! Mercy, ow!” Lukeman tried to fend off Roni’s hand with both of his own, but Roni only tightened his grip on the collar.
Agus, standing beside Husain, held his chest and coughed lightly.
“Ron… take it easy, Ron… you’ll give him a concussion and end up in prison.”
“Shut up, Gus! I’m teaching this criminal some morals!” Roni snapped without releasing his grip.
His hand rose again, ready to knock against Lukeman’s forehead.
“Roni! Stop! God forgive me!”
A deep, authoritative voice cut through the commotion in the corner of the corridor.
From the side door of the main prayer area, Mr. Qasim—the mosque caretaker of Al-Lathif Mosque—stepped outside.
The middle-aged man wore a spotless white koko shirt paired with a faded green woven sarong and a white prayer cap.
His right hand held a rolled prayer mat, while his sharp eyes focused on the group gathered in the corner of the ablution area.
Mr. Qasim quickened his pace and stood directly between Roni and Lukeman.
His veined, age-worn hand rose and gently pushed against Roni’s chest, making him step back twice.
“God forgive me, Roni… Let go! Don’t use your muscles in God’s house!” Mr. Qasim admonished him firmly.
Roni yanked his hand away, but his eyes still glared fiercely at Lukeman, who was now sitting limply on the cement tiles.
“Mr. Qasim! This guy stole my wallet! He snatched it off Ms. Eros’s food-stall table while I wasn’t looking!”
Mr. Qasim turned toward Husain, who stood holding the wet wallet.
“Husain, is that what happened?”
Husain nodded slowly.
“His wallet fell into my bucket when he ran into me, Mr. Qasim. He also tried to claim it was his earlier.”
Mr. Qasim drew a long breath and stroked the thin white beard on his chin.
His gaze shifted to Lukeman, who was still hanging his head and rubbing it.
“Where are you from? How come I’ve never seen you in Sukamaju before?” Mr. Qasim asked flatly.
“I… I’m from the neighboring neighborhood, sir,” Lukeman whispered in a trembling voice. “I had no choice… my child hasn’t eaten since yesterday.”
“Oh, please! The oldest excuse in the book!” Roni cut in from the side, folding his arms across his chest.
“Every thief says their kid hasn’t eaten when they get caught! They’re really just buying gambling credit! No way, Mr. Qasim! This guy needs to be held accountable! He needs a punishment that’ll teach him a lesson! Take him to the police station, or parade him around the neighborhood so he won’t do it again!”
Husain took one step toward Roni.
His wet hand gently patted Roni’s shoulder.
“Take it easy, Ron,” Husain said calmly, his voice the opposite of Roni’s shrill tone.
“Your money’s still all there, right? Check first.”
Roni snatched the soaking-wet wallet from Husain’s hand.
With trembling fingers, he opened the brown leather fold smeared with bucket water.
He pulled out a stack of fifty-thousand- and twenty-thousand-rupiah bills and counted them quickly against his chest.
“One… two… three… five hundred fifty thousand,” Roni muttered.
He sighed in relief, but his brow furrowed again.
“It’s all there… but still, Sein! This wallet’s completely soaked in your dirty bucket water! And who’s going to compensate me for the trauma of feeling like my heart was about to jump out?!”
Agus chuckled behind him. “Oh, come on… you were terrified your deposit was gone, and now you want trauma compensation.”
“Shut up, Agus! You’re no help at all!” Roni grumbled, shooting his friend a sharp look.
Mr. Qasim looked at Roni, then turned his attention to Lukeman.
“Roni is right about one thing. Theft is a major sin, and it harms others. There has to be legal accountability so it won’t happen again.”
Roni smiled in satisfaction and pointed his thumb at Lukeman. “See? Even Mr. Qasim agrees with me!”
“But…” Mr. Qasim continued, raising his right index finger. “There can be no vigilante justice here. No hitting. We’re religious people.”
Mr. Qasim glanced at the old wooden wall clock hanging in the mosque corridor.
The minute and hour hands showed 3:52 p.m.
“Asr prayer time is almost here,” Mr. Qasim said firmly. “We’ll keep this man in the caretaker’s room for now. After Asr prayer, we’ll call Mr. RT Ahmad and Mr. Omar to settle this properly. Whether he goes to the police station or the matter is handled as a family, Mr. RT will decide.”
Lukeman lowered his head deeply and nodded stiffly without daring to argue.
“I’ll do as you say, sir… I will.”
Husain bent down and picked up his scattered wooden toolbox from the cement floor.
He put the pliers and screwdrivers back in their places with neat, orderly movements.
Roni grabbed Lukeman’s arm again, this time without knocking him on the head.
“Get up! Into the caretaker’s room! Try to run, and I’ll clobber you with my Swallow flip-flop!”
Agus helped hold open the caretaker’s-room door beside the ablution area.
Roni shoved Lukeman into the tiny six-by-ten-foot room, then locked him inside from the outside with the metal latch.
Click.
“Secure!” Roni said, patting his dirty hands together.
“The thief situation is temporarily under control.”
Mr. Qasim turned to face the three young people in front of him.
His eyes settled on Agus, who was standing there holding his small bamboo stick.
“Agus,” Mr. Qasim called.
Agus pointed at his own chest. “Me, Mr. Qasim?”
“Yes, you. Mamat, the backup mosque caretaker who usually gives the call to prayer, is out with Mr. Omar. You have the loudest voice here. Go perform ablution, then climb up to the minaret and give the call to prayer. You’re already five minutes past schedule.”
Agus blinked in shock.
His hand rubbed the back of his neck.
“Wait… I’m giving the call to prayer, Mr. Qasim? But my breathing’s still ragged from chasing that thief. If I hit a high note, my voice might crack right in half.”
“No more excuses,” Mr. Qasim cut in, relaxed but unyielding.
“Your breathing’s been fine for a while now. Husain, clean up the murky water on these tiles with a mop. Roni, you perform ablution too.”
Husain nodded. “Yes, Mr. Qasim.”
Roni trudged toward the ablution faucet, muttering to himself.
“Man… my wallet’s soaked… the ink on that picture of my ex tucked inside the plastic sleeve is definitely going to run… and it was the only picture I had of her back when she was still cute, before she married that installment-plan salesman…”
Agus shook his head at Roni’s muttering, then walked toward the farthest ablution basin.
Cold water poured from the faucet over Agus’s palms, face, and feet, washing away the fatigue and heat from that afternoon chase.
A minute later, the area around Al-Lathif Mosque suddenly fell silent.
Husain stood the mop against the corner of the wall and turned off the still-dripping faucet.
Drip… drip…
From the mosque loudspeaker mounted above the sheet-metal minaret came the crackle of a microphone switching on.
Creak… crackle!
Agus cleared his throat, his voice echoing faintly through the lanes of Sukamaju.
“Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar…”
The Asr call to prayer, delivered in Agus’s loud, slightly trembling voice, began to float through the air.
It traveled past rows of banana trees, slipped through gaps between the roofs of the residents’ houses, and reached the open window of Rental House Number Two, where Salma was straightening her prayer veil.
Husain wiped his face with both wet palms, then slowly entered the mosque through the back door to perform his prayer.