The evening sun dipped below the horizon as I made my way to grab food for Iftar. The anticipation of breaking my fast was palpable, not just for me but for the entire crowd that had gathered at the food shop. The place was packed, a testament to its popularity and I knew I’d have to wait. That was fine; patience is part of the Ramadan spirit.
I placed my order, paid, and found a spot to stand while waiting for my queue number: 399, to be called. Minutes stretched on. Fifteen. Twenty. I kept an eye on the display, watching numbers jump erratically. People who arrived after me walked away with their meals, some even with the exact same set I had ordered. Something wasn’t right.
My queue number: 399.
Curiosity and hunger pushed me forward. I approached the server and asked about my order. “Waiting for the fried chicken wings,” he responded, barely glancing up. I nodded, willing myself to be patient. The aroma of freshly fried chicken soon filled the air, signaling that the long wait was finally over.
As I watched the server begin packing bento boxes with the crispy golden pieces, I felt a flicker of relief. Finally, my turn. Or so I thought. One by one, the chicken wings went into boxes. But not mine.
My patience cracked. Frustration simmered beneath the surface, threatening to boil over. I reminded myself to breathe, to stay mindful, to not let emotions take over. But mindfulness or not, my stomach was empty, and my meal still hadn’t materialized.
I stepped forward again, this time with more urgency. “Excuse me, my order?”
The server blinked as if seeing me for the first time. Then, with a hurried nod, he finally packed my chicken wings, passed the box to the cashier, and called out my number. Relief washed over me as I grabbed my food, eager to get home before maghrib.
In the chaos of the moment, I had reminded myself to double-check my order. Yet, in my haste, I forgot.
The moment I opened my meal at home, my gut feeling was confirmed. One bento was missing its chicken wing.
One bento was missing its chicken wing.
I sighed. My first reaction was frustration, but I caught myself. It was done; nothing could change it now. I closed my eyes, exhaled deeply, and let it go. This, too, was part of the test.
Later that night, I took my son to get a haircut (which he badly need) at a nearby barber, conveniently located in the same mall as the food shop. A thought nudged me, why not go back and at least inform them?
Approaching the counter, I explained what had happened and showed them my receipt and a photo of my bento, sans chicken wing. The staff listened, exchanged glances, then apologized sincerely. And then, to my surprise, they offered me an entirely new set meal—on the house.
I walked away, meal in hand, humbled by the turn of events. What initially seemed like a frustrating mistake had transformed into an unexpected blessing. That missing chicken wing? It wasn’t just about food. It was a lesson in trust.
Allah has plans for us, even in the smallest moments. At first, I thought I had been wronged, that my patience had been tested in vain. But in reality, that missing piece was meant for something greater. The extra meal became my sahur, a provision gifted in the most unexpected way.
Ramadan teaches us many things—patience, gratitude, mindfulness—and through this experience, I was reminded of the importance of trust. Because sometimes, what seems like an inconvenience is actually a hidden blessing waiting to unfold.
And in this case, it just happened to come in the form of a missing chicken wing.