Running Toward Makkah

I train at Kasarani Stadium in Nairobi. Every morning at 5:30, after Fajr, before school. The track is red earth, the air smells of jacaranda, and by 6am the sun is already hot enough to cook an egg on the lane markers.

I'm sixteen. I run the 800 metres. My personal best is 2:04. The Kenyan junior record is 1:58. I want it.

People know Kenya for running. They don't know Kenya for Islam. But there are four million Muslims here — mostly on the coast, in Mombasa and Lamu, where my family is from. Swahili culture is Islamic culture. Our greetings are Arabic. Our architecture is Arabian. Our food is pilau and biryani and samosas that my bibi makes better than anyone.

At school in Nairobi, I'm the Muslim girl who runs. At the mosque in Eastleigh, I'm the girl who runs. Both places find it unusual, for different reasons.

The school wonders about the hijab. I train in a sports hijab and leggings. A teacher once asked if I was 'allowed' to run. I pointed out that the Prophet encouraged physical fitness. She looked at me like I'd quoted Harry Potter.

The mosque wonders about the ambition. Some aunties think competitive sport isn't becoming for a girl. My mother told them, politely, that their opinions weren't becoming either.

I run because my body is an amanah — a trust from Allah. Taking care of it is worship. Pushing it further is gratitude. When I'm in the final 200 metres and my lungs are screaming and my legs are on fire, I say bismillah and I find something extra. I don't know if it's adrenaline or tawakkul. Maybe they're the same thing.

My coach, Mr. Kipchoge — no relation to Eliud, he's tired of the question — says I have the talent for the Olympics. I say insha'Allah and he says, 'Insha'Allah doesn't win medals. Training does.' He's not Muslim but he's right. Tawakkul means you tie your camel first.

My dream is to run at the Olympics wearing hijab. Not for a statement. Not for representation. Because it's who I am, and who I am is a Muslim girl from Mombasa who runs very, very fast.

Last week, I crossed the finish line at the inter-schools championship in first place. The announcer said my name and my school. He didn't mention my hijab. Nobody did.

That's progress. One day, it'll be normal.