Chapter 12 | The one with the flying watermelons

On Sundays Papa used to take us to the park in Crosby. We hated it. Not the park, the fact that we were forced to go play 'family family' with Papa while Mama stayed at home.

By then, Mama and Papa fought incessantly.

One day we had just come home from the park to find the front doors all locked. Papa hadn't taken the gate key with him so we couldn't get in. Mama was inside but we had assumed she was in the bathroom. We went through Daddi's house (remember we had broken the back wall down so there was no segregation) only to find that the back door too, was locked.

By now, you could see Papa was angry. He started banging on the door and that's when we heard Mama's voice from inside. Papa insisted that Mama open the door but she didn't. I have no idea what was the cause of the fight that day but I had seen Papa's anger enough times to know that Mama was probably justified in her actions.

When Papa went to the front to find a way in, Mama quickly opened the doors and we were let in. Papa was fuming when he came back round and shouted that I open. I refused. Only to be told: 'I'm your father. I even bought you ice-cream today and this is how you treat me?'

If I were older, I would have probably laughed at his mention of it but I was barely 7 and I was terrified. I knew I would have to face the consequence of his anger. Eventually Mama let him in. Not that things got any better after that. In fact, it worsened.

If you were standing at the front entrance of our house, Daddi lived to the right of us. We had no idea new people had moved in on our left until one day we discovered a woman claiming to be our neighbor screaming and ranting on our doorstep.

You see, the previous neighbors had a dog, whom we used to feed. 'We' being myself and Miya. 'Feed' being casting leftovers into the neighbors yard thinking the dog was eating it. On that day in particular, Mama had given us watermelons to eat outside. We ate our way through a watermelon and chucked its peel over the wall. Until the door bell rang.

Naturally, we ran to see who it was.

And there she was. A woman around my mothers age, thin, average height with thick black hair till the middle of her back, an elongated nose and caramel color skin pointing lady like fingers at Mama in reprimand.

New Neighbor: 'I have been trying to clean my damn yard this entire afternoon only to have your kids throw their trash in.'

Mama was taken aback for two reasons:

1. She had no idea who this woman was.

2. She was a timid woman and didn't deal well with confrontations.

Mama: 'Uhm, jee, but who are you?'

In the meanwhile Miya and I had our heads sticking out from the side of the door in awe. Never before had we seen a woman speak so rancorous.

New neighbour: 'I just moved in next door and. . . '

Mama: 'Oh. What happened to the old lady. She used to have a dog. That's why my kids threw the watermelon peels in your yard. I'm so sorry. We had no idea.'

New neighbor: 'Look. Just make sure they don't do it again.'

Saying that she threw all our peels on our front stoep and walked away.

We actually became close family friends and even till this day, still keep in contact.

Turns out her name was she was recently divorced and had moved in with her daughter who was four. When we speak about the incident (and our first meeting with her) she says on her returned home she felt embarrassed. Mama's polite mannerisms had left her flustered. She had expected someone else but instead she got Mama.

Quiet, placid Mama.

Chapter 11 | The one who kicked her fears (and the dentist)

I started school when I was five. On the first day, whilst other children my age were crying snot and trane I had said to Mama: 'Ok you can go now. I'll be fine.'

Maybe my fall off the bed had diminished my pain cells somewhat, but for some reason I didn't fear much.   

By the age of 2 I was already sleeping in my own room. I wasn't one of those who ran into 'mummy's room' in the middle of the night when the realization of being alone dawned on me.

I'd climb high walls without fearing the drop to the other side. I broke my elbow once but neither Mama or I can recall how. For one simple reason, I had not taken cognizance of it.

I was having fun and if this meant breaking a ligament in the process - so be it. There was never a question of 'should I' when it came to taking risks. I simply did.

Except for the dentist. The mere mention of the word filled me with dread. I could have been suffering with a severe toothache but the minute Papa said 'come, we're taking you to the dentist' the pain suddenly seemed irrelevant.

My first visit to the dentist left me petrified. Nothing significantly horrific happened but yet, the sight of all those tools dangling aimlessly to my side left me traumatized.

When the dentist wedged her pliar in my mouth, that was it. I kicked her, bit the fingers she had forced in, jumped off the seat and ran out the door screaming ' I want my Papa! I want my Papa.'

You can imagine my despair if I ran out screaming for the one other person I was afraid of.

Papa was good with us in that sense.

I used to suffer with terrible earache when I was young. I would wake in the middle of the night tearing in agony. On some nights Papa was still awake and he would heat my ear medication and carefully pour it down my ear.

It was the same when I had a toothache. I would hold my aching tooth between my fingers whilst Papa read a دعاء (prayer) for pain, after which I was given cloves to suck on.

In that, I saw the fatherly side of Papa.

Chapter 10 | Mamas son

In the fall of 1991, my brother, and Mama's first son was born. Miya and I had no idea that his name was not 'my son' until couple of months later. We would always hear Mama refer to him as my 'son' and we had formed the habit.

'Mama your son is crying.'

'Mama your son needs a nappy change.'

'Mama, can we put your son in the bath now?'

This had never phased us though. He was the apple of Mama's eye and we were just glad for a brother. When I was older, Mama had admitted that her motherly obligations were done in a rather perfunctory manner when it came to me.

She said she did everything she was required to do but it lacked the enthusiasm and love that usually came with the birth of the first child.I don't think I was troubled by this confession though because for me, Mama was Mama and I couldn't take that away from her even if I wanted to.

I was the eldest granddaughter on Mama's side of the family but Mama's 'son' received all the glory. He had the cutest smile and even if we tried to be dispelled by his charm it could never have worked.

Mama's 'son' had an actual name as we later discovered. He was named Eesa, the Arabic name of Jesus.

"By the One in Whose hand is my self, definitely the son of Mary will soon descend among you as a just judge. He will break the cross [annul the worship of the cross], kill the pig [he will eliminate the superstitious beliefs included in the Christianity during latter periods], and abolish the jizya (a head tax on free non-Muslims living under Muslim rule)." (Sahih al-Bukhari and Sahih Muslim)

I started attending madressa classes when I was four. Then, Islamic institutes had yet to establish themselves and hence our options were limited. In choosing between Newtown and Bree Primary, my parents chose Newtown. It wasn't tough though. Being brought up with an Islamic mindset had instilled in me the understanding that Islam and maintaining my identity as a Muslim came before all else.

In the day I attended Creche. Then, preschool wasn't a must. Creche provided day time entertainment at reasonable charges. something to keep kids entertained without any hard and fast rules. I remember making marie biscuit treats, decorated with jelly tots that we had stuck on into a smiley face with icing. I also recall peeing in my pants because i was too afraid to ask for permission to use the bathroom. Embarrassing times.

When we still lived in Crown Mines I was fed Marie biscuits and tea at merely three months. Not by Mama though, by two unmarried sisters that lived in the flat nearby. Mama said she didn't have the courage to tell them no and so she watched as I relished in the taste of something different.

Till today, I am still fond of Marie biscuits and tea. I guess some habits just stick with us. 

Chapter 9 | A lesson in faith

Both Mama and Papa tried to instill in us the understanding that oَnlyّ Allah is the provider. If ever we desired anything we should ask from Him foremost. 

Whilst Mama showed us generosity, Papa instructed us in it. That, from the beginning, was the vast difference between them.

The story of a saint, Rabia-al-Basri goes as follows: She had seated her guests down to a meal when there was a knock on the door. It turned out to be a beggar seeking food. She immediately removed the pieces of bread from her guests plate (which was the only food she had in her house) and gave it to the beggar.

This really bothered her guests but she said nothing.'

Not long thereafter there was a knock on the door. She opened it to find a slave girl carrying a basket of freshly baked bread. Upon inspection she discovered that their were only 18 loaves and not 20. Rabia-al-basri told the girl to take the bread back as this was not hers. The girl explained that it was in fact her bread. She had removed two loaves so as to test her faith.

Rabia counted them again: “That’s more like it.” So Rabia served the hungry men with twenty loaves instead of two. They were really baffled. “Two loaves, no loaves, twenty loaves – what does it all mean?” They asked.

“As soon as I saw you,” said Rabia, “I could tell you were hungry. Two little loaves of bread – how could that be enough for two holy men? Then I remembered the Promise: ‘You give one; I give ten.’ So I gave two to the beggar, but when only eighteen came back, I knew that there was either something wrong with my prayer, or that somebody had stolen them.”

When we're young, our faith is determined by what is instilled in us by those in charge. So we didn't question, we simply believed, with conviction.

We grew up believing and more than often we had witnessed the result of this.

One particular incident stands in mind more than other. Miya and I had taken a walk with Mama down the ever-busy Church Street. As a treat Mama purchased for us, each a roll of Wilson sweets. When we reached the robot on 6th Avenue, two young boys, a little older than us, stretched their hands out, begging.

We were asked by Mama for each of us to give a sweet to the boys, promising that we would receive 10 sweets in return. sweets which Mama had intended to place underneath our pillows once we got home

We had just reached the road opposite BP garage when the aunty from the basket shop in the corner, stopped us.

Papa never gave Mama any spending, fearing that she would gain independence and the free-will to do as she pleased along with it, and so, in order to make some money of her own, she covered baskets, for the basket shop aunty.

As we were about to leave the shop, she grabbed our arms and placed a packet of sweets in each of our palms.

Would you believe, there were 10 sweets in each packet. Mama said that on that day her own faith in َAllah was reaffirmed.

Authors Note 01

I am not an Arab woman, bound by the laws of my country. I am not a Guantanamo Bay prisoner, convicted for crimes I had not committed. I am not a satanic, chained by the cruelty of my own soul, or lack of it.

I am a woman, imprisoned by the dictatorship that comes with old school thinking and narrow mindedness.

I am an ordinary citizen of my country. I am South African by birthright, Indian by nationality and Muslim by choice.

All of what you have and will read are real life occurrences as I recall them.

This blog allows me to share my story, my experiences and even my imperfections with you.

Writing it has brought back a surge of memories. Whilst most are memories that serve as a reminder of who I was, the childhood that brought me here today, there are some memories I had buried deep under.

The recollection of these memories open up wounds I had forcefully stitched close, wounds I would have otherwise never exposed. Each of us are entrusted with a test, our own set of difficulties to bear.

Entrusted. Because we all have an opportunity in this meander called life to discover who we are, our strengths, our weaknesses, most of all to discover our ultimate purpose.

My faith in my creator, my determination to rise above what was expected of me and my willpower to succeed is what kept me alive. I hope that in some way my story makes you see the world in a different light. Our problems is not bigger than anyone else's, they just come with a more glaring light. If we can look past that, we can appreciate what we have. 

Find what keeps you alive, what ignites your very being and keep it lit. for without a sense of being, we are nothing. Just a body, moving in rhythm to someone else's beat.  

Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things you didn't do than by the ones you did. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.” - Mark Twain

Chapter 8 | The 'you just wait till we get home' spoon

Every day at roughly 4:30 Mama would start what we'd call her 'dressing up' routine. Off came the dingy kaftans and in minutes I had a whole new Mama.

I always thought Mama pretty. She was of average height and even after two kids still weighed a mere 48kg's.

She has a lovely complexion, an almost Olive tone, arched eyebrows, a nose long enough to mistaken her for a memon and perfectly shaped lips that she pursed whenever she was upset about something.

Mama never wore foundation, she never needed to. She would apply lipstick in maroon (or various shades of brown) and kajol. That was her make-up regime. Nothing more.

She'd then put on long earrings that dangled to and fro. I would sit on her bed and watched her, amazed.

In summer, she would bathe us, dress us in our pajama's and sit us on the stoep, to wait for Papa. Even then, we were never excited to see his return.

Every December holidays would be spent in Durban, by Nani. Papa didn't always join us, sometimes he would drop us off and come back when he was on leave. Even when Papa wasn't around, he would ensure that his rules were still followed through and every holidays we were given strict instructions of what NOT to do. Or else.

We never did have a TV in our house. This was Papa's decision, though it's not like any of us felt that we had missed out on life because of this.

Daddi lived in the semi right next door to us. In fact, the wall in our back yard had been broken down so we could easily pass through. When Papa was at work, I would go by Daddi's and watch TV with her. Daddi was a 'Bold & the Beautiful' fan and at the age of 4 I knew exactly who Ricke and Brooke were.

Whilst we were by Nani's, Papa would call every night to speak with Mama and sometimes us. We thought that the distance would mean we could watch cartoons guilt free. We were so wrong.

Papa had called the one night and during his conversation with me had simply said: 'I know you're watching TV there!'

After putting the phone down i burst into tears. 

Mama tried to placate me but to no avail.

'But you don't understand Mama, he's going to hit me with my mother-in-laws wooden spoon' I said.

The mother-in-law being my Daddi. 

Every Indian child knows that a wooden spoon has more than one use. Along with stirring food it doubled as the 'you just wait till we get home' spoon. No one really takes cognizance of the wooden spoon and secretly, wooden spoons relish in knowing that despite their arbitrary duties in general households, Indian families have provided them with the ultimate power tool, fear.  

Whilst other kids had to content to the likes of 'Oupa is watching' ; 'If you don't eat your food the Mielie lady will come for you' ; 'Just you stop that right now or else i'm going to call the dronkie down the road to take you away', I had that wretched spoon drooling over my bottom. 

The mere mention of the 'wooden spoon' was cause enough to wet our pants. Shamelessly.

Chapter 7 | The one with excess melanin

Abu Hurairah reported that the Messenger of Allah (peace and blessings be upon him) said: "Allah does not look at your appearances or your financial status, but He looks at your hearts and the nature of your actions."  (Al-Bukhari)

My sister Humayra was born on the 14th of August 1989. Exactly one year and five months after my birth. By then, Papa had lost interest in Jamaat and so, was around for the birth of his second child. As young as I was, I felt responsible for her.

When my legs were sturdy enough to carry me around I would push her in her pram even though my arms could barely reach the handle bars.

In my eagerness, I had accidentally let slip of the handle with 'Miya' in it.I couldn't pronounce her name accurately and I took to calling her Miya. She howled, more out of shock than actual pain and I was devastated. I was her older sister and I was unconsciously obligated to look out for her.

Her name was apt. Humayra was the nickname Prophet Muhammad (P.B.U.H) had given to his wife Ayesha. It is an arabic word derived from the root word 'ahmar', meaning 'red' in color. Thus Ayesha was called Humayra - the one with reddish cheeks.

In comparison to my melanin filled complexion, Miya was fair skinned, with red tints on her plump cheeks.

I am often asked: 'How is it that you're brown and the rest of your family is fair?'

I never quite got over the initial shock of these inquisitions and it had taken me a long while, and a large chunk of my self-esteem, to get accustomed to them.

At first, I was flabbergasted. How dare someone ask me that? With experience, my responses became more sarcastic and less dejected.

'Actually, what happened was, my mum  left me in the sun when I was a baby. She forgot all about me and I burnt. We've been trying ever since then to regain my original coloring but to no avail.'

'No, I'm actually fair, but I chose to wear a darker skin today.'

'I asked the Mirror on the wall whose the fairest of them all and the mirror responded: People are dying in Syria. Get over yourself!'

Regardless, I never despised Miya for the color of her skin. She was my sister and I could never have hated her for something that was beyond her control.

Chapter 6 | The Kanjoos (miser) & the settler

Abu Sa’eed Al-Khudri reported: The Messenger of Allah, peace and blessings be upon him, said, “There are two qualities which are not found in the believer: miserliness and bad character.” [Source: Sunan At-Tirmidhi]

They say, a house is not a home without a mother.This much is true. Papa thought that houses magically transformed into homes without the man having to contribute anything to it. Emotionally, physically and financially.

As Nani would say, Papa was a 'downright kanjoos (miser)' in many a sense.He'd buy the groceries, yes and occasionally he would take us clothes shopping. Everything other than that was considered a luxury. It wasn't as if he didn't have the money. He did. The cafe we had was doing relatively well and Mama wasn't the least demanding.

If anything Mama was actually afraid to ask him for anything. If you knew my Papa, you would be to.

 I think when God was distributing conscience, Papa was still asleep. It wasn't that he didn't care he simply didn't think.

He didn't think that Mama might need an allowance for her own personal needs, or that cardboard boxes wouldn't suffice as make believe cupboards in the real world.

He didn't think that Mama might have likes of her own, or preferences that differed from his. He delegated and everybody else had to succumb to his will.

You see, Mama was the settler. For her, marriage was a commitment you make without questioning. She thought maintaining silence was the right thing to do, the wifely thing to do.

When they were courting, Papa would phone her for hours on end. He would speak, she'd listened. We always joked that Papa would have made an ideal lecturer. Disagree with him on any topic he was discussing and you would never here the end of it.

Papa would place a microphone in your grave if he had to but he would never let you go without hearing him out.

In Guantanamo bay, this could be used as a form of torture. Even the Penitentiary's electric chair would be considered mild a punishment in comparison.

Chapter 5 | Food that goes crunch

Mama was never the fancy type.

Whilst other Indian women decorated their arms with enough gold bangles to serve as anchors should push come to shove, Mama preferred simplicity.

Before she was arranged to marry, she had only three dresses. All white.

When my Nani's sisters saw the state of Mama's wardrobe they shrieked in disbelief.

'What is this? Where are the rest of your clothes?'

'This is ALL my clothes.'

'NO!' (Large gasping sounds emitted thereafter)

'There's no way we sending you off like this. What will people say? That we had money to feed our kuthe (dogs) but not clothe our child? Don't disgrace us like this.'

My mother ended up moving to Jo'burg with over 50 different outfits, each, with a complimentary pair of shoes and a matching bag. According to them, this was not a matter of indulgence but a way of maintaining their dignity. Later, I learned, that she had only worn some of the outfits once before she rid of them.

In a way, Mama was naive. She had lived a sheltered life, not out of forced but because she had chosen to.
Though Mama and Papa were alike in their spiritual outlook, their wasn't much else in which they were similar.

On Sundays when he was still asleep, she would take a walk to the cafe down the road, purchase the Sunday Times and read the entire paper (from top to bottom), by which time he had still not woken.

Her every day routine consisted of mundane tasks. She would cook, clean the house and ensure that her children were well cared for. When it came to Mama's cooking abilities then, I doubt even Oliver Twist would have said: 'Can I have some more?'

Nani had refused for her to learn the skill saying 'When you get married, you will have to do it for the rest of your life. And anyways, I don't want you messing my kitchen.'

So Mama and Uncle Ahmed (one of Mama's brother), took to cooking when the 'cat was away'. They were too afraid of her to disobey her in her presence. They made roti's cut using a round dish, chocolate cakes that were barely edible and once they even tried making baked beans.

They cleaned up the messy flour trails and egg whites that had somehow found itself all along the kitchen floor with the aid of Aunty Maggie, their domestic helper. She was bribed into silence with the remnants of their attempts.

Luckily for Mama, Papa never complained about her cooking.

I don't know if this was because Daddi's food was none the better or that his Jamaat trips had taught him that things could be worse. Mama had once cooked magni-dhal and she said that she could actually hear Papa crunching his way through the meal. 

None of his teeth ever chipped as a result though. Till this day.

Chapter 4 | Architectural disappointment

“Though I drive in the valley of the shadow of death I fear no hijackers, but another fuel increase.” ― Niq Mhlongo (on life in Jo'burg)

Four months after my birth, I was brought to Johannesburg, or Jo'burg as the locals call it.

The city of gold, that would be ripped off you should you be caught unaccompanied in public or without the aid of a pepper spray.

The city of taxi drivers that were given licenses on the basis they don't follow any rules of the road and where corruption was actually facilitated by high ranking government officials.

My first home was a corner flat situated in crown mines. One street up from the now renowned Fordsburg square. The area then, was in a much better state than it is now.

Pakistani's remained in their home land (well, most of them, at least), woman cooked and mint road was a street just as any other.

A year later we moved.

My dads oldest brother had purchased a set of semi's in Mayfair. It was agreed that, my dad being the youngest of 6, would live next door to my Daddi. This way, they could go on with their lives knowing that their mother was well looked after, and their baby brother had a place to call home.

This was in 1989. By then, I was just over a year old and Mama was 6 months pregnant with my sister.

At the time, my father had a shop just opposite Entrance of the Oriental plaza. I don't remember any of it but we had driven past when I was older and I remember Mama pointing out the shop to us. It was a take-away. Quite a successful one at that too. After some time though, like many other businesses that Papa owned, it dissolved.

You see, Papa was a night person, Mama a morning one. Papa slept at 2:00 in the morning, by that time Mama was already on to her 4th dream for the night.Whilst some people managed to do late nights and still maintain an early morning, Papa wasn't one of those people.

I was never more afraid of Papa than when he just woke.

He reminded me of a grizzly bear, with the puffs of hair that protruded from the collars of his night shirts and from the sides of his ears. Sometimes, you could even hear him growl.

It was only when he had smoked his first cigarette for the day that our anxieties were somewhat dispelled.

I grew up working on my maternal Uncle's farm during the December holidays when I was old enough and I understood, that one of the many secrets to success was in rising early enough to chase your dreams.

In my Papa's case, to open shop.

Eventually Papa lost the take away. His customers weren't going to wait till he woke (at 11:00am) and they moved on to search for someone that would whip up their early morning coffee, in the early morning.

Papa was a genius. Not in the leagues of Einstein but who's comparing? He had matriculated at the age of 15 as a result of a double promotion. He was a mathematical whiz which, ironically, couldn't calculate the cost of running a household.

I guess he just wasn't program to think along those lines (at least his user manual says so).

Mama was creatively inclined even from a young age. Whilst her teacher was explaining algorithms and trigonometry , Mama whiled away her time drafting houses. Nana wanted to send her to America to study architecture. He was convinced she would excel in the field. She probably would have, had she went ahead with his plans for her but Mama chose a different path.

In that, she had disappointed him.

Chapter 3 | Tales of a haunted house

The events of our lives slowly mold us into the person we are to ultimately become. I'd often question the reasoning behind many a things, even though I knew that the answer would be beyond comprehension.

Still, I was curious to know, and I didn't stop asking. It was only when I was older, that I could begin to understand certain aspects of my life and how, looking back, they made sense. I think, as the years went on, that that is how it was for Mama too.

Mama is the eldest daughter of six children. She has two sisters and three brothers. Her father, my Nana doted on my mother. She was his favorite and none of her siblings could argue with that.

When she married my father, he was crushed (Nana, not my Dad). Like every father he felt his daughter deserved so much better. But my Nani had the upper hand and once she had agreed to it, there was no way Mama would have contradicted her.

I asked her once, why didn't she stand up for herself? Why didn't she have the courage to say no?

She said: 'It wasn't that I didn't have a say but I was consumed by the acceptance that our elders know best.'

I've heard my Nani often say: 'You know one one nice proposals my daughter had. I don't know why I was in a hurry to marry her off.' Yeah, well, that makes two of us Nani.

Realization often comes at a later stage. Wisdom, with the protrusion of grey hairs (and upper arm cellulite).

My grandparents owned a massive 10 bedroom house in Clare state then. At night it had a sinister 'haunted house' appeal to it. Not that this was without truth though.

The previous owner had purchased the house for a paltry $100. The story goes that the house actually housed the ghost of the person that was killed there not long before.

There was one incident in particular that left me convinced that the house had, not the wandering spirit of a murdered soul, but actual Jinn.

In the very early parts of the morning, whilst every one was in bed, the sound of kitchenware banging against each other emitted from the kitchen downstairs. Over breakfast it was discovered that no one had actually been in the kitchen then and everyone had assumed my Nani was carrying out a bout of O(H)CD. Over (hyper) cooking disorder (more about this later).

She wasn't and the mystery of the banging pots remains unsolved till this day.

I can still remember the dingy bathroom underneath the stairway with its slanted roof.The massive empty rooms upstairs filled with roaches large enough to be mistaken for baby sized mice and the steep stairs outside that housed Lailah, the ferocious yet gentle guard dog.

When I was 3 days old I had fallen off the bed. The loud 'thud' had brought everyone running to my direction in panic only to find me sound asleep on the floor.

'You had jinn from then.' My mother jokingly said the first time she shared the story with me. 'What a high bed you fell off and still you didn't wake.'

Though it did give me a viable life long excuse if anything. 'Oh, I couldn't do my homework. No, it wasn't my dog this time. See, I fell off the bed when I was a baby and sometimes I get these fatal blackouts that require me to lie down for hours on end.'

The fatal blackouts weren't at all true but how were they to know.

Chapter 2 | The arranged matrimony

“If I get married, I want to be very married.” - Audrey Hepburn

My parents marriage was an arranged one.

Whilst both of them came from modern families, they had discovered spirituality in their youth.

Mama was 20 when she married, Dad 27. There was a 7 year age gap between them and though it might seem like not that many years in comparison to Prophet Muhammad (P.B.U.H) and his wife Aisha (RA) it made for a detrimental difference in my parents marriage.

Whilst Mama's other siblings had taken to finding their own partners, she had chosen to go the 'respectable' way.

Hearing her tell the story, it certainly sounds like she was destined for Dad.

She a 'Durbanite', He a 'Joburger'.

Approximately 600 miles separated them and they had no idea that either existed until the day my father came to see her.

He liked her. Despite the fact that she had only asked him two questions.

1. Are you an Alim?

Him: 'No.'

2. Are you a Hafiz?

Him: 'No.'

My mother had only two requirements in a spouse. That he be an Alim or a hafiz.
Everything other than that, was by the way.

Now, considering the above scenario, you would probably be wondering what was it that convinced my mother to say yes.

Well she didn't.

Even, till this day, she still hasn't.

You see, my mother had walked out of that room with the intention of refusing my fathers proposal.

He was none of what she wanted.

So she had made up her mind, only to be swayed by the opinion of my grandmother.

Enter my Nani.

Then, a thin, just above average height woman, with gaunt cheeks, head scarf tied to the back of her neck and a cigarette protruding from between her index and middle finger.

My mother's 'husband list' was her claim to sainthood in comparison to my Nani's.

Nani wanted a Surtee boy.

That my father spoke Gujrati with proficiency was enough to leave my Nani swaying in elation.

Finally, she was to have the son-in-law she could walk the streets with.

 If only she had known then, that he was some parts kanam too, I bet she would have lifted her petticoat and ran as fast as her tobacco filled lungs would have allowed.

So when the phone call came to find out whether my mother was in approval my Nani chose to respond with:

'She has her periods so she can't make istikhaara now (this much was true). However, we are very much interested.'

'We' being, just her.

Chapter one | The beginning

'Be the change you want to see in the world.' Ghandi

Sounds simple doesn't it?

 If you have a problem with the universe, fix it.

Mend those broken bridges, alleviate world poverty, volunteer in worthy causes and still make it home before dad

I wonder if Ghandi ever perceived that perhaps our biggest obstacle en-route to success, happiness and world peace might be one of our own?

Who would have thought - I'd be stifled from saving the world by my very own Dad. Being the next big thing isn't going to come easy.

Chapter 1.
The beginning

I was born 9 months after the marriage of my parents; Ridwaan and Naseema. My birth was an unusual one. Not unusual in a typical sense.

During her entire pregnancy, my mother was certain that I, her first born, was to be a boy. It wasn't that she was submersed by societal influence into thinking that rightly, a son should be the first born.

As if though, the gender of a child can be brought on by the subjective views of cultural traditions.

It was mostly because of a dream she had had. Mama's dreams, as I grew up learning, were usually accurate.

She had dreamed of Prophet Eesa (Jesus) while she was expecting me in which, she had heard the words: 'Huwa Huwa Muhammad - He is, He is Muhammad.'

According to a dream interpreter, the child born would be a healer. In typical Indian sense, I was to be born a male child fulfilling my destiny as a doctor.

Even then, before I had shown my face to the world, I had chosen to rebel.

So instead of a boy, Mama had a daughter, and this is where my story begins.

I was born on the 14th of June 1988, in the very midst of winter, at 2;00 in the morning by a mother who was certain that her laborious pushing would result in the birth of a son.

My father wasn't in the country at the time. In the early years of their marriage, for a period of about 2 years, he traveled abroad for the purpose of Jamaat.

What stopped these trips, we still don't really know. We can only assume.

Mama says that he was probably afraid she'd do something drastic while he was away, like drive the car, or make friends.
So while my mother was pushing her non-existent son out with all her might, Dad was using his 'might' to 'push' the Japanese into Islam.

I guess, if this was a contest, Dad came out winning.

When I was old enough to understand, I learned that Mama's birthing process was actually much easier than many other women could attest to.

Considering I was a 3.8kg baby and she, a 50kg mother.

It wasn't only with my birth though, it was the same throughout all her pregnancies.

This was the conversation that occurred between my mother and the nurse on the event of my birth:

'Sorry, I don't think this is my baby.' (My mother, obviously)

'Ma'm this is YOUR baby.' (The nurse, somewhat amused).

'No! I had a boy. I really think you're mistaken.' (My mother, adamantly insistent).

'Ma'm. You're the only woman to have given birth in this hospital at this hour. Its YOUR child.'

'Oh.'

And that, was my grand entry.

 If I had known I was expected to come out with balls between my legs I wouldn't have used them to play one last game of golf before I made my exit.