Feeding His Faith

Chapter 1 - The Restless Man and the Street Preacher

The drizzle was relentless, a typical March afternoon in London, soaking through Jamal’s navy blazer as he trudged down Brixton High Street. At 32, he was a man of habit—5 foot 6, average build, with a neatly trimmed beard and a wardrobe of sensible button-ups that screamed "PR professional." His earbuds blasted a podcast about the latest Marvel multiverse theory, a small escape from the monotony of his day. He’d just left a meeting with a client pushing some eco-friendly toothpaste campaign. It paid the bills, but it didn’t spark anything in him. Nothing had for a while.

His fiancée, Aisha, was waiting at home in their Clapham flat—250lbs of warmth, geekiness, and unshakable devotion. She’d probably have Guardians of the Galaxy queued up on Disney+, ready to dissect Rocket Raccoon’s arc for the hundredth time. They’d bonded over comic books, sci-fi, and a shared disdain for anything too serious. She was safe, sensible, and sometimes silly with her impressions of Groot that made him laugh despite himself. But safe wasn’t enough anymore. Jamal couldn’t shake the gnawing restlessness, the quiet ache for something—or someone—bigger. Literally.

Aisha was beautiful, curvy in a way that turned heads, but she wasn’t his beautiful. At 350lbs, his dream woman loomed in his mind—a fantasy he’d nursed since his teens, a secret he’d buried under layers of atheism and practicality. Aisha, at 18 stone, was close but not there. And worse, she’d laughed off his tentative hints about feederism, calling it “weird” before changing the subject to Tony Stark’s latest suit. His parents adored her—his mum called her “a proper girl”—and his mates envied her cooking. But Jamal? He felt like he was drowning in beige.

“Excuse me, brother!” a voice cut through the rain and his podcast. Jamal yanked out an earbud, frowning as a man stepped into his path. Bearded, mid-40s, wearing a long grey thobe and a skullcap, the guy clutched a stack of damp flyers. A street preacher. Jamal groaned inwardly.

“Assalamu alaikum,” the preacher said, undeterred by Jamal’s scowl. “Have you considered the mercy of Allah today?”

Jamal stopped, rain dripping off his hood. “Look, mate, I’m not religious. Baptised Methodist as a kid, but I’m an atheist now. World’s too messed up for me to believe in God, yeah? Science doesn’t back it up either.”

The preacher tilted his head, unphased. “Allah provides proof if you seek it. What would it take for you to believe?”

Jamal snorted, half-amused, half-irritated. He’d heard this line before—street preachers were a dime a dozen in Brixton—but something snapped in him. Maybe it was the rain, maybe it was Aisha’s voice in his head saying “no” to his deepest desires. He pulled out his phone, scrolled to a screenshot from My 600-lb Life—a woman, all curves and softness, 600 pounds of undeniable presence—and shoved it in the preacher’s face.

“If God or Allah or whoever’s up there can drop her in my lap, I’ll believe. That’s my proof. Good luck with that.” He smirked, expecting a lecture.

The preacher blinked, his mouth opening and closing. The flyer in his hand drooped in the rain. For once, the man was speechless. Satisfied, Jamal turned on his heel and disappeared into the crowd, the image of that 600lb woman lingering in his mind like a prayer he’d never admit to making.

***

A week later, the rain had stopped, but the grey clung to London like a bad mood. Jamal was on his way to grab a coffee near Brixton Tube when he saw him again—the preacher, standing by a halal butcher’s shop, chatting with someone. Jamal almost ducked away, but the preacher spotted him and waved him over with a grin that was too knowing.

“Brother! I’ve been thinking about you,” the preacher said, his voice warm but edged with purpose. Beside him stood a woman—young, maybe mid-20s, with deep brown skin and a hijab framing her round face. She was plump, her curves straining against a long navy abaya, but nowhere near Aisha’s size, let alone his 350lb ideal. Still, Jamal’s eyes lingered. There was something about her—softness, yes, but also a spark in her gaze that caught him off guard.

“This is Safiya,” the preacher said, gesturing to her. “I told her about our chat last week. She’s the proof you asked for—Allah’s answer.”

Jamal laughed, a sharp, incredulous sound. “You’re joking, right? She’s not even close to what I showed you.”

Safiya’s eyes narrowed, her lips tightening. “I’m standing right here, you know,” she snapped, her voice low but fiery. “And I’m not some prize to be sized up like a cow at market. You’re engaged anyway—shouldn’t you be happy with what you’ve got?”

The preacher raised a hand to calm her, but Jamal was already hooked. That heat in her tone—it wasn’t meek, wasn’t devout in the way he’d expected. It was alive. He crossed his arms, raincoat rustling. “Fair point. But your mate here’s the one claiming you’re my miracle. I’m just calling it like I see it.”

Safiya huffed, adjusting her hijab. “I told him it was a stupid idea. I only came because he wouldn’t shut up about it.”

The preacher chuckled. “Come to our gathering tomorrow night at the mosque—Stockwell Masjid. Just talk, no pressure. See if Allah speaks to you.”

Jamal hesitated. He wasn’t religious, wasn’t looking for a sermon. But Safiya’s defiance, her plump frame shifting as she turned away, stuck with him. “Fine,” he said, surprising himself. “One meeting. That’s it.”

As he walked off, he glanced back. Safiya was watching him, her expression unreadable. For the first time in months, the restlessness in his chest flickered with something new.