One morning, he didn’t get up to say his *subx-*prayers. “My back” he said. And from that moment on, he lay on his back, on a mattress on the floor. His wife washed him once daily—no, washed is not the right word. What she did was to wet a cloth a little bigger than a face towel in soapy water and run it all over his body, rubbing harder where it was hairier. For ablutionary purposes, it was he who performed it, whispering the right traditions and verses as she dipped the cloth in cleaner water, massaging the proper places himself. He prayed, lying on his back. He didn’t go through the body-motions of sujuuds and rukuucs. To the suggestion that they consult a doctor, cost what it might, his response had been, “I have no more jobs to do.

Nuruddin Farah, Maps, loc. 171216