By Mustafa Makumba

When the sun rises over Blantyre, the city wakes in a rush. Minibuses honk their way through traffic, vendors shout prices from the roadside, and phones buzz before people even finish breakfast. Among those hurrying through the morning noise is Thabit Mussa, a young man who spends his days in front of a computer. His work is demanding, his phone never silent, and his thoughts rarely still.

Every morning, Yusuf tells himself he’ll take a quiet moment before diving into the day. A few minutes to breathe, to think, or maybe read something uplifting. But by the time he looks up from his screen, the day is already gone. Evenings blur into nights filled with messages, scrolling, and background noise. Life feels busy, yet somehow thin.

One night, as most cases, power went out unexpectedly, a long blackout that covered the neighbourhood in silence. At this moment, there was no hum of electronics or flicker of screens. Thabit lit a candle and sat in the dim light, unsure what to do with the sudden stillness. On the shelf beside him was a Qur’an his childhood tutor had given him. He opened it without much thought and came across a verse he had seen before but never really paused to consider: “Verily, in the remembrance of God do hearts find rest.” (Qur’an 13:28).

The words felt strangely human tied to something everyone could understand. Rest. The kind of peace that isn’t about escaping life, but finding calm within it.

In the days that followed, Thabit began a small habit. Before reaching for his phone each morning, he’d sit quietly for a few minutes. Some days he prayed; some days he just breathed and listened to the world outside. It didn’t fix everything like the stress, the bills, the long hours but it softened the edges. He noticed he was calmer with his colleagues, less impatient in traffic, and less dependent on constant noise to fill the day.

A saying attributed to the Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon) echoed in his mind: “True richness is not in possessions, but in contentment.” (Sahih al-Bukhari). The message felt timeless that fulfilment doesn’t come from what we own or achieve, but from learning to be content within ourselves.

The following day, another blackout came. But this time, Thabit didn’t sigh or complain. He smiled, lit a candle, and let the silence settle around him. The quiet no longer felt empty; it felt like a reminder that peace isn’t found by running away from the world, but by returning to what’s simple and real.

Maybe that’s what modern life quietly steals from so many people: the space to just stop. To listen. To breathe. Whether one calls it reflection, mindfulness, or remembrance, that pause is what steadies the heart. And in a world that never stops moving, stillness might just be the most powerful act of all.