Chapter 46 | Dear God | Feelings and stuff

14/11/2005

Dear God

I'm sitting in our lone bathroom with tears flowing from profusely from my eyes. I'm attempting to sum up my innermost feelings and fill a few blank pages with pieces of my shattered heart.

To be blunt: I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I feel like my existence is an oxymoron to my being. Papa certainly feels that way. Not only am I not an ideal daughter in his eyes but that I influence my siblings to do wrong and ill treat him. In other words there is nothing that I've done for him despite him having done ‘so much’ for me.

Then, if that isn't enough I have to deal with society and their ridiculous expectations of beauty. That I'm not fair makes me the least possible candidate for marriage. Apparently a man’s only concern is the colour of a woman’s skin and nothing else. As much as I try to break through these dogmatic principles I find myself crumbling every once in a while.

I can keep showing a brave face, but for how long? I can keep pretending that everything is as it should be, but till when?

If anybody ever reads this they might probably consider me ungrateful, perhaps they’d even label me dramatic, but right now, I'm not looking at life from an angle of someone who has become accustomed to their ordeals, but from that of a teenager.

In the face of it all I can’t help but wonder if dreams ever do become a reality, if pain can ever be erased?

(Writing is really therapeutic, my tears have momentarily stopped).

I don’t understand this obsession with external beauty. What about personality? Is good character no longer an essential?

I accept that there are many bounties of which, in writing this, I have overlooked. But just for this once, I want to convey my grievances, to allow my anguish to take reign and my conscience to clear itself of all defiance.

I've been grappling with issues of insecurity for far too long and I think it’s time to look beyond them, to establish a positive attitude and to remind myself that despite what the world may say, I'm worth it. After all, YOU ordained my birth. There must have been a good enough reasoning for that.

I better get going. I've been sitting in the bathroom for far too long.

Oh, It’s raining! I can hear the sound of raindrops against gravel. And now I'm smiling. It’s truly remarkable how something like rain can lift my spirits.

Thank you for listening

Ta

Chapter 45 | Dear God | Paedophile alert

18/06/2005

Dear God

Happy Birthday to ME!

I can’t believe it. I’m officially seventeen. Wow. Ok no, it’s not wow, because I feel like crying. As childish as it may sound I DON’T want to grow up. Why can’t we decide on an age and then remain that age forever?

I was just telling Mama how being a certain age means you get to check out all the high school guys and now it’s like woah, paedophile alert. Ok, I'm not yet, but still.

We wrote Sharmaail today, which wasn't all that bad.

I think my own weariness with the very idea of getting older turned what could have been a FABULOUS day into an ‘Ok’ one.

From a ONE year older version of me

Ta

21/07/2005

Dear God

Mama met in an accident today just near village bakery. Some idiot decided to ignore the fact that the robot was red and sped right into Mama. Luckily Mama is unharmed but I can’t say the same for the car.

So we’re car-less, well at least until Papa decides to send the car in for fixing. A heads up – we’ll be waiting until doomsday, probably.

I started gyming with Za. One of her mother’s friends is a personal trainer and she does training from home. I never thought exercising would be for me but I am thoroughly enjoying it. Papa doesn’t know though, he’d have a hernia, or something. Exercising is a man’s right, apparently. Don’t ask me where he pulled that Fatwa out from.

The only con being that I have to walk home to make it in time before Papa arrives.

Got my periods today so I’m eating like I’ve been pleading starvation all these years. That reminds me, I’ve been going to the dentists for the last two weeks for a root canal. The treatment in itself isn’t bad but I’m still suffering with terrible pain. I woke up the one night in tears. Papa was still awake so he gave me a painkiller, which helped only temporarily.

Zaheda from my class went into pardah. I really admire her for taking that step forward , though I don’t think I’d be following suit any time soon.

With love

Ta

Chapter 44 | Dear God | The domains of adulthood

10/02/005

Dear God

Gosh! Can you believe the last I wrote to YOU was LAST year!

I spent my entire holidays working. Dullah Mamajee and Aunty Mohsina had gone for Haj and so I had to help Nana run the shop. It wasn’t really much of a holiday.

Sameera Khala and Uncle Noushaad booked a resort for one of the weekends. Get all the cousins together and there’s bound to be loads of fun. We spent most of the day in the pool and the nights playing UNO in the lounge area. We made such a ruckus that the staff had to eventually ask us to return to our respective rooms.

Now the holidays (if I can call it that) are over and I’m back to the grind.

Chat soon

Ta

26/05/2005

Dear God

It has been THREE (long) months since I’ve last updated you on everything that is, my life. Final year of madressa means all the more work and less time for leisure. I don’t really know what got into me today but I decided to pen my thoughts, however absurd they may be.

I’m turning seventeen in about three weeks and I’m finding it tough to adjust to the very idea of it. One minute I’m an innocent, carefree child (yeah right) the next thing I know I’m an adolescent on her way to self-discovery, a curiosity that is uncontainable, and a required rebellious streak.

Actually that’s a lie, I’ve never been much of a rebel.

Then there’s the whole of issue of not having a boyfriend that bothers me. Ok, it’s not so much an issue, more a concern. It’s not like I have the freedom to have one anyways, and though I know of many other girls that have secret boyfriends (whom everybody knows about except for their parents) I’ve never really been one for doing things like that being my parents back. I’ve done things without Papa knowing yes, but a boyfriend required a whole lot of hide and seek that I felt was best left in my childhood days.

Yes, I idolized the notion of being loved, of having someone who doted over me, of weekend rendezvous that leave me feeling weak knee’ed. But I was also aware of the risks that came along with that and I wasn’t sure I was ready to bear the brunt of my actions if Papa ever had to be made aware of it.

Enough about that, can you believe I have just FIVE more months left before madressa ends. I really have no idea what I want to do thereafter.

My intention for becoming an Aalima was not solely to teach but in doing so, to make a difference. I want people to see the beauty of our religion and not just follow it blindly.

In other unrelated news, my cousin, Nabeela, is leaving for Cape town today for work, and she came to greet me prior to leaving. I gave her a pair of earrings as a gift and I was so glad she liked them.

Za’ came to visit today bringing her usual: Akhalwaya’s WonderWhy pizza and Coke for lunch. I was in food haven. She spent the afternoon experimenting her new make-up artistry talents on me. I ended up looking like a collage of colour, though I had fun in the process.

I read my 1^st SVU (Sweet Vally University) book today. I felt like I was finally entering the domains of adulthood in doing so. I still prefer SVH (Sweet Vally High) though. I’m currently reading a super duper Vampire book titled; Bloodlines _ Family can be fatal (I can vouch for that) and I’m enjoying the story line immensely.

Quote for the day:

‘If a woman is not speaking to you, she is trying to tell you something.’

Ta

Chapter 43 | Dear God | Morbid thoughts

06/10/2004

Dear God

Last week Tuesday (28/09/2004) Mama went to East London with Altaaf for a holiday by family. The house was eerily quiet and we mostly ordered take-away. I think even Papa realized that any attempt at cooking on my part was futile. I really missed Mama.

Za and I had a bit of a squabble recently. Nothing major but it still made me wonder about the sanctity of friendship. I’ve never had much luck on that front and I probably still have much to learn.

About a week ago, Choti Foi and family was down by Daddi for the weekend. It was really nice having them around. Gori Foi had all of us in stitches with her rather dramatic stories as per usual.

I need to go and sort out my cupboard.

Chat soon

Ta

07/11/2004

Dear God

Don’t even bother asking what happened to me, ‘cos I don’t know myself. I’ve just been so busy.

There’s only FIVE days left for the end of Ramadaan! Can you believe it? (Well of course YOU can). At least my Eid outfit if sorted. I’m wearing an almost caramel and green colour dress with ballet pumps. 

I’ve purchased a ridiculously high heeled sandal. It was gorgeous and I really couldn’t resist. That’s my excuse and I’m sticking it to it no matter how lame. When I think about it though it WAS really foolish of me, considering what a waste of money that was.

I’m dreading exams, which commence just after Eid. I have 10 para’s of Tafseer to learn and I don’t even have my file with. Someone loaned it and didn’t even have the decency to return it in time. I’m SO dead!

My entire body is aching and I don’t even know why. No really, I don’t.

I’ve been having rather morbid thoughts lately. That’s what happens when you start questioning the reason for your existence and whether there is any point in actually being alive. Nothing suicidal though. An eternity in hell fire is nothing compared to the misery of this world.

Ta

Chapter 42 | Dear God | A break in, Vigilantes and a dead body.

11/09/2004

Dear GOD

Boy did we have a scene on our road last night!

Let me start from the beginning.

Aunty Samiha (Lebanese neighbour remember?) and Uncle Shahid had gone out that evening. Uncle Shahid had forgotten something at home and returned to find their front gate open and one of their dogs lying drugged on the front porch.

He walked on further and saw six guys rummaging in his house. He immediately started shooting. Did I tell you he had a gun license? Well now you know.

He shot one guy in the back, who died not long after and one in the chest. The remaining four fled the scene. As soon as Papa heard the shots he ran after the thieves. I think Papa was more determined to save them from Uncle Shahid than he was at apprehending them.

The cops were there not long after and our street was cordoned off. That didn’t stop inquisitive neighbours and passer-by’s from crossing over the yellow tape and filling up the road. There were cops all over the place. The vigilante were there as well, scouting our back yards for any sign of evidence and on the possible chance of their being a thief taking cover there.

By the time everyone dispersed it was nearing midnight and even the sight of a dead body couldn’t keep me from falling asleep almost instantaneously.

Ta

Chapter 41 | Dear God | John Abraham's Abs

17/08/2004

Dear God. 

Ramadaan is almost here and that means: Jalsa practice, exams and a pile on of unnecessary stress. Well, I deem it unnecessary! I still haven’t handed in my Arabic assignment which bee tea dubs, was due TWO weeks ago. Procrastination at its best.

I have some secret admirer from Durban who insists he is in love with me, despite not knowing a single thing about me. It’s really ridiculous how guys think EVERY girl will fall for that kind of ploy. I’m just like: ‘Yeah well, I love ME too so there’s something we have in common.’

Up top.

It was Miya’s birthday recently. Clearly none of us are getting any younger.

Anyways, I gotta go. Mama is screaming her head off. Just kidding, Mama cant scream to save her life, 

YOU know that.

Quote for the day: ‘Those who know you but don’t know Allah, will come to know ALLAH because of you.’

Ta

29/08/2004

Dear God

I just found out that Eesa cried when he was dropped off at Daarul_Uloom when Mama and Papa went to drop him off. He’s only 12 and it probably is daunting for him. I should have gone with to see him off. Now I feel terrible. Imagine being away from home when you’re so young.

The builders are banging outside my window at the moment. There’s not much left to do though, expect for fitting in a sliding door and painting. I can’t wait to see the final result.

Finally got to watch the movie Lakeer. My first glimpse of John Abraham (and his abs). Long hair on a guy isn’t my kind of thing, but abs? Those definitely are. My Gori Foi was by Daddi that’s how I got to see the movie. Gori Foi’s a huge fan of Indian movies and Daddi is okay with letting her control the video player during her stay, as long as there are Van Damme style kung-fu.

My secret admirer is still on my case. Her recent line was: ‘I can’t live without you!’ and I’m just like: ‘In that case I hope you have your will prepared, you’ll be dying shortly.’

My friends don’t call me hard-core for nothing.

Ta

Chapter 40 | Dear God | The one with sadistic tendencies

29/07/2004

Dear God

Guess what?

Appa Sumayya has decided she’s NOT coming back to teach (and that to, without even giving us a heads-up)!!!!

That means our whole time table needs to be reassessed considering she took us for most of our subjects.

On a positive note her wedding went off quite well. I was a whole bundle of flour combined with eggs the night before, but it was thorough fun. I mean, how often do you get to crack an egg on your Appa?

I wore a black and silver dress to the wedding and (wait for it) heels. Don’t ask, I’m still wondering as to whether I was temporarily possessed by a rather feminine Jinn. The wedding set-up was elegantly simple. 

I was upset Za’ couldn’t make it. She was still grounded and even though her dad agreed to let her come, her mum wouldn’t hear of it. In my case it’s the absolute opposite in terms of permissiveness.

I got my hair straightened for the first time with an iron. No, not a hair iron an actual clothing iron. Now before you fall off your throne in laughter, let me allow you a moment to picture this scenario.

Me, with my body dangling from the edges of an unsteady ironing board, my cousin Tasneem and our Lebanese neighbour Samiha pressing the iron onto my hair with all their might as if maliciously wishing my curls away and me beckoning my head (and hair) forward with a pull that could toss an anchored ship to its destruction. It made for a rather embarrassing moment when Saadiya (a 4^th year student and my lift for the night) walked in on us.

I didn’t even attempt explaining myself. What was I to say: ‘Oh uh I like this sort of torture treatment where someone presses an iron to my hair and rips it out strand by strand.’ Chilled.

Love: The one with sadistic tendencies

Ta

Chapter 39 | Dear God | An undercover operation

16/07/2004

So much has happened since I last wrote to you and the holidays are almost over.

The stoop outside of the kitchen was large enough to be built into a scullery. Papa would never have approved of this (even though he wasn’t contributing monetarily) and so Mama contacted the builders, drafted up a plan and a foundation was established. It took a two feet high wall for Papa to eventually notice and thus began another fight (entertainment, free of charge). 

Papa told Mama to break down the wall, Mama thought he was really acting childish (which he was) and phoned Uncle Yasser who was of no help at all.

That’s when the undercover operation was set in motion. Daddi had gone to Benoni to stay by Aunty Surayya and so that meant her house was currently unoccupied. When Papa gets angry he is unapologetically abusive. And so, Uncle Majeed told us to stay there till he got here to sort everything out.

We stayed there for three days without Papa having any idea where we were. He came home from work to find us all gone and since Daddi wasn’t there he thought the house had been locked by her and assumed we had gone to Nani.

Despite the situation it was the most fun I had in a long while. We read 41 Yaseen’s every night, prayed our salaah together and even went to bed early. Unafraid of the repercussions that would follow. But with Papa there were always repercussions, even when the fault wasn’t yours to bear.

I realized then how much I despised Papa. It wasn’t because he restricted us from so much (though so many people seemed to have assumed that as the sole reason) but because he was so distant from us. I called him Papa simply because I was trained to do so but he was nothing like a father. He bemoaned our every action and there was nothing that we did in which he didn’t disapprove of.

Papa says that he will never change. I don’t understand how someone can be so arrogant to behave as if they are always in the right. How is it that consciousness isn’t an attribute that resides in every one of us. Haven’t YOU said that man is different from animals in that you’ve granted them intelligence and the ability to decipher right from wrong?

Papa is so adamant that he is right and everybody else is in the wrong. I don’t know how Mama has been able to tolerate it all for 17 years. The indifference, the silent treatment, the narcissism, the abuse. It is unacceptable that one person has to deal with so much.

So that’s what took up the 1^st week and most of the 2^nd week of the holidays. Now we’re simply living our everyday with a half built wall, waiting for Papa to make it seem as if though it was ‘all his idea’ in the first place.

I just wish Papa could understand that the aspect of change doesn’t signify vulnerability, it shows strength in growth.

All this talk has exhausted me

Chat soon

Ta

Chapter 38 | Dear God | ‘You don’t do anything I tell you to!’

29/06/2004

Dear God

Two days of the holidays have gone by and NOTHING exciting has happened. My kind of exciting. Sigh.

We might be going to East London for a week. I repeat, MIGHT.

Appa Sumayya has invited our entire class and a few other girls from the madressa for a get together the Friday before her wedding. The dreaded ‘I don’t have anything to wear’ plagues me.

Mama and I had an argument in the week. As usual it resulted in a long-winded lecture about my attitude. I guess being a teenager is never the easiest part, for both parties involved. Sometimes I wonder whether I am subjected to this by my own will or whether the forces of nature are conniving bitches.

The general issue being complaints of ‘you don’t do anything I tell you to.’ I don’t get that about parents. What happened to looking at others with children worse off than your own? It’s almost like Mama finds this need to pinpoint my faults as if I can’t acknowledge them for myself. Why is it so much worse when one of your own criticizes you than when an outsider does the same?

It difficult being a parent, I get that. Really I do. But sometimes I wish they weren't on our cases all the time.

All this ‘you think you’re too big for your (non-existent) boots’ versus ‘stop behaving like a kid’ is seriously messing with my mojo.

Thanks for listening

Ta.

Chapter 37 | Dear God | All's forgiven

18/06/2004

Dear God

Happy birthday to me!

I’m exhausted as can be but I just wanted to fill you in. Our exam for today went well. I think I scored around 80 something (if not please do something about that).

Almost everyone remembered it was my birthday!! The house phone rang at 6:30 this morning and obviously it was Nani calling to wish me, no one else is consciously awake at that time of the morning.

(Be tea dubs, Appa Laila has taken to calling me her QT pie, oddly enough I’m totally OK with that :D )

Overall, it was a rather splendid birthday.

Over and Out.

Love: Me

21/06/2004

Dear God

What’s up you ask?

Well for starters, exams is over in three days time!! Then it’s holidays!! Whoop Whoop!! I was knocked out with the flu since Friday and that means I spent the entire weekend in bed. Not that that’s generally problematic but when you’re writing Usool the Monday it should suffice to say that the mere thought of it alone was enough to induce a virus into my being (yes, I probably caught a bug, but allow me this moment of dramatics won’t you?)

I confronted Appa Sumayya with regards to what she had said to Za and she claims to have not said it out of spite. More so, because there is a noticeable change in my personality when I’m around Za as opposed to when I’m on my own. I didn’t beg to differ, mainly because I didn’t have a standpoint that would give me a solid argument.

In honesty, I knew exactly what she was talking about. I’m just not sure I’m willing to acknowledge any such transition.

Even though I had forgiven Za, I still wasn’t able to look at her in the same light. After all the things she had said to me, I don’t think anybody else would have forgotten it that easily.

Mama just came into my room to ask if I’d like hot chocolate and popcorn (as if I’d say no). How sweet. And yes, she’s wearing her pink tracksuit, again. 

Appa Sumayya’s in-laws are arriving from Australia this week. She’s excited and naturally, nervous. It’s the first time she’s meeting them since she met their son, I don’t blame her for being somewhat anxious. His parents are pretty chilled with her and the wedding date has already been set.

Quote of the day: ‘It doesn’t take any more time to look at the good in life than (it does) to look at the bad.’

Gotta go (I’m choking on my popcorn here. YOU won’t be having a hand in that by any chance, would YOU?)

Love: Me

Chapter 36 | Dear God | An unexpected outburst

12/06/2004

Dear God

I’ve been so busy trying to organize my life that I’ve barely had time to study. Ok, I admit I don’t ordinarily study but it’s close to half term and I’m SUPPOSE to be studying.

I’m sitting in the car waiting for my mum as I write this. Recently Za (Short for Zahra) and I had a huge fight (this being after the whole ‘letter’ incident’).

Apparently people were telling her that she should terminate our friendship reason being: I wasn’t there for her when she needed me most. I didn’t hate her for this. If anything, I understood where she was coming from. What hurt was the fact that she listened to what everybody else had to say instead of forming her own opinion on the matter.

I actually overheard Appa Sumayya say to her: ‘Maybe you should get new friends and no longer confide in her.’ We were ALL in the wrong, what made me the enemy?

What the hell? Appa Sumayya is as close with me as she is with Za. Or so I thought

There was a confrontational blow-out in the car (right in front of Uncle Gul’s) she said some hurtful things and I retaliated (well, my version of a retaliation at least). It was humiliating, I couldn’t believe she had an outburst like that in the midst of her dad.

Uncle Gul’s hadn’t tried to intervene or stop us from arguing. If it was Papa, he would have turned around and slapped us both, his other hand steering the car as if undeterred by the doings of its counterpart.

Anyways, I got home all worked up. Mama knew about the drama but she assumed the role of a supportive parent and chose not to interfere. 

I despised confrontations. Of all the things that induced fear, it was the thing I was most afraid of. With Papa, confrontation meant prolonged minutes (that felt like hours) of silence. I don’t even think Nelson Mandela’s death would be cause for that many a ‘moments of silence’, even if all those moments were amassed and contained in a jar specifically allocated for its containment.

Anyways, Za called that evening. I was mildly surprised, considering all that she had said to me in a fit of rage. We spoke our minds, clarifications were dealt with and eventually we waved the white flag mutually. I’ve never really had a friend who I was close to as I was with Za, Neither did I have a confrontation that boded well. In this case though, it seemed that Za and I were destined to be friends and in that, a lesson in forgiveness.

Just a heads up (in case you had forgotten) it’s my birthday in six days’ time.

Speak soon

Love: Me 

Chapter 35 | Dear God | Zahra and the co-signed letter

11/06/2004

Dear God

There are instances in our lives that make us question whether what we are doing is right. Maybe that happens more often than not.

One of the hard hitting lessons of today was that by doing what WE feel is right isn’t necessarily what the rest of the world would deem ‘right’.  I used to think I could portray a ‘I don’t give a shit’ attitude without displaying any weakness but now I’m not certain.

I’ve let my closest friend down. Recently we landed in a pile of trouble when one of our Appa’s found a letter to a boy that we had co-signed. When you’re in an Islamic institute the word ‘boy’ is sufficient enough to warrant a call to your parents. And thus began one of the most terrifying days of our lives. Leave aside the fact that Papa would practically hit the roof had he found out.

Zahra had written the letter and I had signed my signature (in agreement) at the bottom of it. Luckily, for me, my mum was the only one called in as my dad was at work. None of us called blame but neither did we side together. We sat apart afraid, more than anything, of the repercussions of our actions. You have to understand that neither of us came from homes where being called in to the principal’s office would be considered socially acceptable, and that too the principal of an Islamic institute.\

I admit, I am grateful for my mother. She is one of the most logical persons I know (when she isn’t emotionally clouded) and therefore on our way home I wasn’t subjected to a spew of curses. Instead, my mother jokingly said that she still doesn’t understand why she was called in and that whatever it was we had done, should not be repeated.

I realize now, that it was because of my mother’s calm demeanour, that I didn’t turn out to be rebellious. Like her, I did things only after substantial amount of thought was put in and therefore rash decisions were never in my resume. I was spontaneous yes, but never rash.

On a different note I’ll be turning 16 in a month. I’m excited but also apprehensive.

Growing up means that we have to shoulder more responsibilities and I wonder if I’m ready for that, whether I’ll ever be ready for that. How I wish I could be 13 forever. The older you are the more you’re subjected to the question of ‘what will people say?’ This wasn’t a question I asked myself, it was a question the adults in my life would continuously repeat.

At times I question whether there isn’t any more to our lives than the opinion of others. Whether our merit isn’t a determination of how far we’ve reached or the good that resides within but merely a sum of the verification we received from others. The older we get the more we become aware of this but then too, the more we act in accordance to the validation we receive from others.

Chapter 34 | Dear God | Duke Nukem, Mario Bro's and a game called Ung _Gush

2/ 06/ 2002

Dear God

I was strictly forbidden from spending time with my boy cousins in particular, which was tough considering that they spent every holiday by us. They stayed by Daddi but spent most of their waking hours by us.

Getting caught was a terrifying experience as we (Miya and I) either got shouting or a hiding for our ‘misdeeds’. Both were equally bad so I could never say I preferred the one over the other. The funny part now when I think back to the times we spent together was that we did nothing ‘inappropriate’ with them as is common with young kids of today. 

We had fun. Nothing more.

We played TV Games together. Each taking turns until the one lost all their lives. Duke Nukem, Mario Bro’s and Sonic proved an integral part of our childhood.

If we weren’t playing TV games we were at our neighbourhood park. Back then, there was an enormous wooden jungle gym and the slides and swings were in usable conditions.You would find families seated on the benches watching their kids enjoying a Sunday afternoon. Since we lived in close proximity we always felt as if though the park was our territory. We weren't bullies so it wasn't that we threw our weight around but between us we shared this common belief.

We’d spend hours on the swings screaming out the weirdest of things whilst aiming to swing higher than the child next to us.

At night we would spend our time playing a game called ‘Ung-goosh.’ When I think about it now I realize how much the word ‘Ung-goosh’ sounds like Anguish. This is funny because we brought our entire neighbourhood down with the amount of noise we’d make during. None of our class friends had heard of this game before and so we began sharing with them the rules of our special game.

It’s pretty simple. Like the game red rover, you need people standing on either side of the field (we played it in our old backyard which could barely be constituted as a field).

1.       There must be an equal number of players. For eg: If there’s 3 players on the one side there needs to be 3 players on the other end as well.

2.       You need a soccer ball, preferably one that is not pap (soft) but that worked for us too.

3.       One team has to throw the ball and the other has to kick the ball. It’s a lot like cricket the difference being your feet is the bat. Your name is called (by the throwing team) the ball is tossed in your direction and you have to kick. If the opposite team catches the ball before it touches the ground the entire team is out. If the ball is thrown at you whilst you’re making a run (yes, you can make runs) you’re out.

4.       A stick is placed a little closer (to the team kicking) than halfway. If the ball is not kicked further than this line the person who kicked the ball is out.

5.       And where does ‘ung-gush’ come in you may ask? Every time you kick the ball or make a run (which you can only do after you have kicked the ball) you are required to say ‘ung-gush’ if you somehow forget to say it and are blasted by the throwing team you are out.

Fun stuff.

Authors Note: I had initially penned my diary entries as 'Dear Diary', eventually I realized that my verbal conversations with God need not be limited to spoken words and so, I started writing to someone I knew 'gave a damn'. For the sake of this blog (and in wishing I had done this sooner) I started my journal entries with the right way this time round. God was listening all along anyway.

    

Chapter 33 |The one with the Diary (and a FABULOUS give-away)

 The inception of every story starts at that precise moment in our lives when we desire that we be heard. That the story we wish to share be heard by a million others. Sometimes our reasons are selfish. We desire fame, recognition and the fortune that can be amassed thereof. Sometimes we simply wish to share our experiences. We desire nothing more than to touch the lives of others, to enhance their experiences by means of ours and to share the journey we’ve faced.

From a young age I kept a journal. Back then I didn't understand the significance behind this. I simply took it as a means of collecting my thoughts so that one day I could read back to the story that was to become ‘my life.’

I had no idea what ‘life’ had in store for me neither did I understand what all of this meant. I reminisced empty lined pages with a bunch of childish garbage.

Dear Diary.

‘I think I’m in love. I’m not sure what that even means. Every time I see him I like him more.'

I was 10. I had no idea what ‘love’ meant. The boy in question simply took it as a crush. Back then, I thought it was something more meaningful, a couple of years later I realized different. There was no holding hands, sneaking around sort of thing going on, but still, I thought it important enough to diarize.

When my dad found my diary one day, I was gutted. Besides being disappointed with me he also found it hard to trust me. I don’t understand how anybody can take a 10 year old seriously but Papa wasn’t the type to take anything lightly. This was the first of many ‘straws.’ I was barely 10, what did I know?

I shred that diary into a million pieces, even burnt a couple of pages for safety measures, after which, I promised myself, no more.

And I stuck to that promise.

For four years, I didn’t detail a single aspect of my life. It was as if I had no evidence of my existence for that duration. Then, for my 14^th birthday, Miya gave me a Diary. It was actually a notebook, a lily smothered in lilac marked the cover page and I thought it a nudge, to recapture my experiences in a way only words can enable me to express.

What you are about to read henceforth are actual extracts from this diary. Proceed with caution.

AUTHORS NOTE: In order to add an exciting element to Dodging Dad, we’re giving away prizes. To enter you need to subscribe to our blog via email and follow us on twitter. Get family (your great-great grandmother can subscribe from her Qabr, I think) and friends (this is an opportune moment to test those ‘benefits’) to subscribe and follow us, in order to up your chances. Every subscriber or follower (not stalker) that mentions YOUR name (yes, the one your Mama gave you) provides you with an additional entry. The person who garners us the most followers or subscribers (or even both, we’re not really fussy) wins. It’s as simple and easy as that. We’re not even joking.

1st Prize: Aura by Swarovski perfume (Full size)

2nd Prize: A Swarovski studded lip gloss tub and a Swarovski make-up bag.

Disclaimer: The Dad Dodger will not be held responsible for the awesomeness of the prize. Yeah, we’re cool like that. 

Perfectly Imperfect | Authors Note

The intention behind the start-up of this blog was neither as a means to vilify any of those mentioned nor to bring attention to myself or my family, but so that those reading can use this as a means of self-reflection and perhaps, in some way, right the wrongs of their own history.

 Just recently I was reprimanded for writing on aspects relating to those closest to me. I don’t blame them though. Perhaps they find my obtrusion a means of airing dirty laundry best left unwashed.

So, in an attempt of clarification for all those who have chosen to read this, whatever your reason, I hope that this blog reaches out to you as intentioned. Apparently certain family members are using this as resource, to further perpetuate their gossip induced meet ups, and this disgusts me.

This is my story, that certain people are mentioned only signifies the symbolism of their contribution to my life. To those who have misconstrued the aims of this blog, I’d like to remind you that the harshness of reality is prevalent in the lives of every single one of us. Avoidance isn't the solution.

I maintain that the objective of ‘dodging dad’ is merely to share an experience rife with societal expectations, indoctrinated ideals and social wrongs that are dominant in every demographic regardless of colour or race, so that they may be brought to the forefront and combatted.

My disapproval for dogmatism is openly evident and I simply smirk at any mention of this being a rebellious stance.

As I had previously mentioned here, 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.

This may read as a vendetta fuelled attempt to besmirch my father (and all those mentioned), when in fact this is far from the truth. Life, unaccustomed to those who living under a seemingly unblemished rock, is filled with oddity.

Each of us are faced with stumbling blocks, at varying points of our lives, mines was my father. For the most part of our lives we feign a beau ideal, maintaining a façade that has nothing to do with the torment that belies our smiles. How this assists in rectifying our perceptions and creating a space for lack of judgement if essentially up to us.

I don’t wear my despair on my face, therefore writing has always bode well for me. For those who are too narrow-minded to see beyond the eccentricity’s, I apologize. 

Chapter 32 | The Green steel door of opportunity

The madressa Mama enrolled me in was not even five minutes away from home. Mama was the one that did those sort of things. I don’t know if it was Papa’s disinterest in this regard or perhaps his mental placement of Mama in the role of all things un-Papa-like that made him a stranger to most things that involved ‘us’.

Papa had no idea who our teachers were, how we adapted to schools socially or scholastically, or the challenges we faced thereof.  Sometimes I think, if asked, Papa would have not known the name of our schools either.

 It was almost an unspoken rule, Mama was the parent, Papa, the reckoner.

The first few months at Aalima madressa was a struggle. Socially, I wasn’t able to adjust, and girls, regardless of the nature of the course, can be petty. I wasn’t trained for combat and so, just as I dealt with Papa at home, I held back my anger and pretended that all was well. Occasionally, I’d lash out, but it never fared well for me. I ended up making a glorified fool of myself, in the name of self-defence, not realizing that sometimes silence is the strongest ally.

Academically, I excelled.

Arabic, rooting itself as my favourite subject. Our classroom had no tables and I’d sit, arched, my stomach touching my knees, poured over my books. I’d often get teased about my sphinx like position but I was comfortable, and though it hurt (for some reason) I’d feign indifference.

There was one girl in my class that I was particularly fond of. Her name was Shaista, and she had this friendliness about her that made her the girl that everyone got along with but no one considered their best friend. Her cheeks shared some of the chubbiness that her body carried and we eventually became acquainted.

For that year, I considered her my friend. We’d sit with each other break time, and on the stoep outside waiting for our cars. I’d lend her books (which were always immaculate) and her metallic writing pens and some days, after madressa, I would go to her house.

Things became easier eventually, though I never found my footing socially.

Papa was out of a job then.  As a gesture of good-will, our neighbour, and by then a close friend, Aunty Fazila , loaned Papa some money. It was enough for Papa to start buying and selling cars momentarily, until the assurance of something stable came along.

Mama learned to sew with the one lone machine that stood in the lounge. Eventually it was moved to the kitchen. Abdullah Mamajee gave Mama money to build an outbuilding (aside from the Maids quarters) to be used for establishing her business.

 It wasn't easy to convince Papa that this would be in his aide, but Mama stood by her decision. The outlet was built, painted and a solid green steel door marked the entrance of a room, portentous in possibilities though small in size.

Chapter 31 | An Aalima in the making

The decision to do an Aalima course wasn't entirely my own. I was in the initial stages of memorizing the Quraan, but without much gusto. I attended afternoon madressa that was conducted from a house in Mayfair. The house, a semi much like ours, was purchased with the intention of building a fully-fledged Islamic institution in the near future. 

At the time though, there was just one class running, from what looked like the bedroom of the house. Except for that lone room, the other rooms were barren, nothing to show for a home that once was.

During break we were allowed to go out in the back garden. There, in the midst of weeds and an overgrown tumble of plants, was a giant peach tree. Indented into the ground as if asserting ownership. It bore fruit, despite not being watered, and often, in our eagerness, we’d eat the peaches without waiting for them to ripen. Green peaches, raw and yet, still tasty to our child-like selves.

There were at least five other girls, excluding Miya and I, and I would often catch drifts of their conversational whispers during class. They were in high school and much of which was discussed included the name of some boy or another. I tried to associate with them, futile attempts at trying to fit in, at trying to appease the masses, none of which worked in my favour.

Our Appa, Appa Khadira, was a buxom woman whose layers of fat carved itself into the very fabric of her black abaya. Her dull monotone matched her ever existing tiredness and gave the impression of a much older woman, when, in fact, she was twenty five at the time.

We were often reprimanded when we’d involuntarily burst into fits of laughter by her two year old daughter, Nusaybah, ‘Watts so fun-nee huh? Watts so fun-nee?’ she’d screech, which only heightened our laughing spell.

Appa Khadira was the one who told Mama that I would be better off doing an Aalima course. My memory wasn’t apt, she had said, making it seem as if though there was nothing to an Aalima course except as a remedy for delinquency, or the unimpressionable

 I knew that I would not be allowed to school further than Grade seven. I was neither affronted by this nor did I negate Appa Khadira’s opine. Sometimes I wish I had said something, that I had stood up for myself, but I remained silent. It was all I knew, I thought I was too young to make decisions based on my own standpoint, that I had no inkling as to what I wanted from life, or expected of it.

I wanted to be a medical practitioner, specializing in surgery, I knew that much. But I also knew that my dreams weren’t going to materialize and that for now, I would have to journey on the road that life had chosen for me, in anticipation of all that was to come.

It was decided, I would attend a madressa that was not far from home, to become an Aalima. A woman well versed in the knowledge of Islam.

I spent my last months of my school year responding to questions of ‘So which school will you be going to next year?’ with, ‘I’m not going to high-school, I’m actually doing an Aalima course.’ Often, I would have to explain what an Aalima course entailed and with time the lack of dejection in my voice was evident, my parents decision becoming my own. 

The universe, I believed, was largely like an empty canvas. The drawing I sketched, the colours that I chose to bring to life and the effort I put in, would portray a vision that was either alive with potential or as lacking as a dreary winter’s morning.

Chapter 30 | Rats for roaches and Cats for rats

Our house was considerably small for a family of six, but nonetheless, it was still a place we could call ‘home’. Mama was the thread that held it all together and if it wasn’t for her our house would have fallen prey to termite infestation and grime filled floors, literally. Papa couldn’t care less about the state of the house.

I don’t blame him though.

He grew up in a dingy, one bedroom house, that involuntarily hosted rats that dined on steroids and cockroaches that mated with their Durban counterparts and then migrated. For him, the mere fact that our house contained a bathroom, and that too, indoors, was reason enough for it to be featured on Top Billing.

Miya and I shared a bunk bed (courtesy of Nani) while Eesa and Altaaf made do with a darkened grey sleeper couch that was folded up each morning, to enable us adequate space for walking. A mahogany, three door cupboard, fitted on one side and to the right of our bunk bed was a large enough window that looked out into the garden.

We had painted our room, with the aide of Innocence, our part-time Gardener slash handyman, a bold yellow and the edgings a deep summer blue. It looked bigger than it actually was, as a result.

Our house, thankfully, was larger than some of the other semi’s in the area. The entrance door led straight into our lounge. A drab grey two seater couch with tiny triangle’s in odd shades of pink, blue and green, stood on one side, a three seater to its left. The coach was the remnants of a customer’s order.

Mama’s sewing machine nestled between the door that led to the passage and the unlit fireplace on the far left corner. Directly opposite the lounge was our lone bathroom. If I stood facing its door, to my right was our room and to the left was Mama and Papa’s room. Next to the bathroom was a larder which we used for storage and ultimately a computer room slash wardrobe for the boys.

I can’t imagine what our house would have been like had Mama not intervened. It could possibly have been taped off and considered an artefact for foreigners to capture in photographic memory and for South Africans to point out to their children as a reminder of the result of negligence. 

Chapter 29 | 'Shut-up, or else.'

Ours, was an emotionally dissimulating family. Confrontations were considered an otherwise lethal weapon and even general conversation had its thresholds.

We grew up eating supper on the floor, as was the habit of Prophet Muhammad [Peace Be Upon Him]. It was a focal part of our day, where we sat together as a family and force-fed ourselves with the rhythm of polite conversation.

It wasn't so much a matter of not having anything to say to each other but rather the restriction that came with having Papa in our midst. We’d sit, separated by our ta’li’s (a ta’li being a circular plate large enough to be used by three or more people), one ta’li for the girls and one ta’li for the boys, three of us on either side of the mat, eating from the side closest to us. A salt shaker, a bottle of water, two containers of achaar, and a glass for each of us were the only things placed in between.

Food, supper time more-so, was merely a supplement that sustained my being. Nothing more. Even then, I was the most talkative. I’d recount the occurrences of my day, filled it with hilarious antics, and sometimes exaggerated, colouring an otherwise plain script.

Papa hated dinner-table discussions, ‘Did you read your dua (before eating)?’ he’d interject, staring at us unsettlingly.

We’d continue chatting, but this time without the initial vigour, knowing that the conversation would soon be halted. Then, the Professor-of-dinner-table-discussions would once again resort to silencing us; ‘Read Bismillah. There is no need to speak. All this unnecessary talk is a frivolous waste of time. Rather make Dhikr.’

In other words, ‘shut-up or else.’

And just like that the conversation dissipated.

With that said, we’d hurriedly stuff food in our mouth. Alternating between breathing and simultaneously suffocating ourselves, in an attempt to disentangle our bodies from a build-up of contempt.

The table was cleared up as swiftly as possible, I’d wash all the supper dishes, Miya would wipe the counter tops and pack everything else away and then we’d retreat to our room.

Chapter 28 | The Affair

My inability to taper my words or formulate them into sentences that were rife with tact was often a source of contention. I had no inclination to dissimulate myself from the probability of what needed to be conveyed and it took a couple of years and a few hard gashes to my otherwise, already bruised emotions to establish an alternative.

Uncle Waheed (Heedie), Papa’s closest friend (he even attended Mama and Papa’s wedding) had five daughters. When I was too young to realize something was amiss, Uncle Heedie, it was found, was having an affair with a coloured woman. By then Mama had established a close knit bond with his wife, and she too, was devastated alongside her.

Uncle Heedie’s wife, Aunty Safiyya, was a beauty to behold. Even then, with my childlike innocence swaying alongside me robustly, I admired her elegance and the prettiness that oozed even from underneath the layers of her nikaab. Her eyes, always lined with hues of green or blue radiated with compassion and sophistication that was far more mesmerizing than the exposure of skin.

They remained married, but he moved out and she was left to care for five daughters, whilst their father succumbed to the lustful inclinations that controlled him.

In my pre-teens, I’d often sleep over for the weekends by Aunty Safiyya. I was persistently asked if I could stay over and since Papa’s knew them even prior to my materialization, he agreed. My teenage years were drawing to a close and with that came multiple behavioural changes. Papa, being the person that he was, was adverse to change and any sort of transition was considered a violation, punishable.

Aunty Safiyya’s two eldest daughter are at least two and three years older than I am, but that didn't stop us from spending many a laughing moments together. They would hire Indian movies and we would sit in their open plan lounge glued to the story enfolding in the screen before us. Afterwards we would put our pyjama’s, get into bed and spend the last few hours before sleep forced our lids to collide, in random conversation.

Associating myself with differing personalities and my involvement with the outside world meant that I was growing, as a person. I was some parts susceptible but this stemmed from naivety and a lack of transformational interactions. Papa didn't see this as a transference from youthful to behavioural inconsistency. For Papa, it was a transgression of the by-laws that he had placed in order to uphold his integrity.

One day Papa decided it was enough. I was no longer allowed to stay over by Aunty Safiyya because he opined that I was being negatively influenced by them. He didn't provide me with a cover story for which I could save-face, and so when asked, as was habitual, whether I’d be coming over for the weekend I shamefully replied: ‘Papa said I can’t.’ ‘Why not?’ ‘He thinks you’re a bad influence.’

I didn't turn around to see the look of dismay that locked her lips as a result. That evening when the phone rang, I answered as usual. It was Aunty Safiyya, she wanted to know whether Papa had really said that, I answered in the affirmative, realization dawning. I begged her not to say anything to Papa, afraid, understanding now that I should have probably covered up for him. Pretended that he didn't want me to stay for different reasons, that it had nothing to do with me, or the change that was evident.

She called for Mama, and my nerves were left tethered. Mama confronted Papa, they weren't speaking at the time.  Papa had isolated himself from her, seated in the lounge, his back to the unlit fireplace carved in the wall.

I walked in, fearful.

‘Do you hate me that much?’ He said, looking me in the face.

I shook my head. First to my right and then to my left.

‘Answer me!’

‘No, I, I, don’t, I don’t hate you Papa.’

‘Then why would you do something like that to me.’

‘I, but, I. . .’ my voice crackled somewhat.

‘I’m your father, you heard. You could have made up some story of why you couldn't go. You didn't have to spoil my name like that.’

I looked down, my head intent on focusing on the floor.

‘Just go from here. I don’t want to see you face.’

Chapter 27 | The unauthorized lieutenant

At the onset of my teenage years, financial instability edged its way back into our lives. The shop that Papa had which, initially was doing so well, slowly started to lose its customers. The taxi rank close by, had for some reason, moved away. Businesses in the vicinity started closing down and eventually Papa had to no choice but to do the same.

This meant that Papa was left without any means of income. But wait, there is worse.

‘How can there be anything worse than not having financial independence?’ you might exclaim. Yet, for us there was.

Papa being jobless also meant that for an ENTIRE day he had nowhere to be. Usually, we’d tread on autumn leaves when he was around but this was much much more agonizing. Papa would have made for an exceptional lieutenant in the army, he’d guard us continuously and there was nothing we could do without asking him for permission first. Even Mama was subjected to this authoritative rule.

Asking for permission FOR ANYTHING forced us to be courageous in the face of uhm, Papa, even though our veins trembled in absolute fear. Something as mundane as “Please sign my exam paper” would solicit a penetrating stare so questioning it would leave you double checking to see if you had placed your birth certificate on the table by mistake.

When Papa and Mama would fight I’d often find Mama on her prayer rug afterwards sobbing her heart out. I ached at the sight of her but I was afraid of Papa as much as she was and though I sometimes said a word or two in her defence I didn't have the courage to take on Papa. In fact, nobody did.

Sometimes Daddi would come running to our side as fast as her short legs would take her begging Papa to leave Mama alone but even that didn't soften his heart. When Papa was angry nothing could temper his anger. I wonder if Papa would have been different had his own father been alive long enough to see him grow into a young man.

Often, after a fight Papa wouldn't speak to Mama for weeks on end. You could see the hurt in Mama’s eye and though she’d often pretend as if though it didn't faze her in the least, I knew that Mama craved a marriage that was to some extent stable. 

Chapter 26 | The one with the Goompy

It wasn't compulsory of me to fast, but from the age of eight I strived to do so for the entire month of Ramadhaan.  I wasn't getting anything out of it, no one promised me money as an incentive to fast yet still, I persevered. The more I was told: ‘You’re still young there’s no need for you to fast’ the more I pushed for it.

For one Ramadhaan in particular (which coincided with the summer holidays) I was staying by my Aunty Aasiya in Transkei. It was a real farm like atmosphere and despite being a thoroughbred city girl I found the breakaway soothing for the soul.

Mama’s youngest brother, Abdullah Mamajee was not married then. He would crash by Aunty Siya’s place with a bunch of friends and other unmarried cousins and I would wake Sehri time to find the table filled with faces I had barely familiarized myself with. I’d make do with a bowl of cereal and if I could manage, a toasted sandwich.

One sehri in particular stands out for me; we were all seated at the sehri table when Abdullah Mamajee said to me ‘Don’t fast today. You don’t have to anyway.’ I didn't say anything but moments later I was sobbing silently in my cereal bowl. A mixture of salty tears and fresh farm milk filled my mouth and I tried to swallow but without ease.

Someone remarked on this, I can’t recall who, and in a haste to make amends they quickly tried to soothe me. I know that one of them had called Mama and I felt better after I had spoken to her. I could never forget their sense of concern at the sight of my tears and even now it still brings a smile to my face.

Aunty Siya had these ginormous glass sliding doors that braced the entrance of her house. It was mint green walls followed by three conjoined doors that led directly into the lounge/dining area. Even though the outside area was as dusty as one would expect from a farm town, Aunty Siya made sure her windows were cleaner than a glass fresh out of a dishwasher.

I don’t know if it was out of sheer absent-mindedness or whether, I was trying to access platform 9 and a ¾ but I walked right through that door. I came in with a bump on my forehead the size of ½ a golf ball and my Aunty Siya’s daughter Asma, a tiny buddle of adorableness points at me and says: ‘Mummy see, Goompy (referring to the lump on my forehead).’ My family, being the comedic bunch that they are never let that slide and ever since then, I was referred to as Goompy. A nickname that, unfortunately, stuck with me even through my adult years.

Chapter 25 | Cruella's hairy nostrils

There was this one girl in madressa that bullied me relentlessly. Even now, as an adult, the mere thought of her makes my stomach churn a beat faster than Kim Kardashian spreads her legs. I was thirteen, pre-pubescent and unsure of myself. My darker than Indian skin made me stick out like the protruding stomach of a starved Somalian kid, it didn’t help either that our financial situation did not deem me fit for the league of (self-deemed) extraordinary Indianism. 

I was the only batsman on my team and even though I had what could be called a ‘big mouth’ I contained no finesse. I didn’t know how to stand up for myself without ending up with a foot in my mouth, and that too, one of my own.

I’ve never used the word bitch liberally, but at the mere sight of her, you’d think that was the only word my vocabulary contained.

To paint a mental image; she was thin, of average height, pale in complexion (without bordering on anaemic) with long dainty fingers. The one thing that really stood out for me was her nose. It was precisely pointed but her nostrils extended inwards giving any one that looked her a way a clear view of the hair that grew along the insides.

She was pretty no doubt, but I was in a battle against Cruella and no matter how hard I tried I couldn’t counter react. I was not without flaws, not now and not then either. Perhaps it was something I had said or done that had set her off, whatever it was I wish 13 year old me knew that sometimes the best battles are fought in silence and that not retaliating isn’t always a sign of weakness.

I never related all these incidents to my parents. It’s not that they wouldn’t have listened, I just didn’t feel it was their battle to bear. I wanted to handle it on my own, regardless of how tough it was.

 Sometimes I wonder what would have happened had I told them. Would things have been easier? Better in fact?

Chapter 24 | Two Dadda's and a Daddi

Papa’s family is humongous. So big that it was only at a cousin’s wedding in my teens that I discovered Papa’s step step siblings of whom, I was previously unaware of.

You see, Daddi had married twice. She had four children from her first husband (these I knew fondly) and two (Papa and his real sister) from the second. Daddi’s first husband hadn't actually been in love with her and so he began a sordid love affair with a woman of Malay origins. Daddi was not oblivious of this relationship and she one day followed him to the house of his mistress.

As to whether anything immoral went down between the two of them, I cannot say. All I do know is that despite her heart being shattered by this discovery Daddi would still visit this ‘other’ woman bearing gifts in the hope that her husband would be pleased with her actions.

On the contrary Dadda number one, divorced Daddi and married his mistress, leaving her to fend for herself. Eventually, Daddi remarried. It seemed as if though her entire married life was doomed from the onset. Dadda number two passed away before the birth of his second child, Papa, as a result of a heart attack. If he lived knowing Papa, he would probably have died of a heart attack any ways.

Whilst his other siblings at least had someone they could call ‘Dad’, Papa and my Choti Foi grew up without a father. When Dadda number two passed away, their financial circumstance was in a pitying state – there was nothing else but for Daddi to send her two eldest sons to live with relatives.

Like many uneducated women back in the day, Daddi was limited as far a possible working ventures went. She found a job in a factory as a seamstress and she slogged to make ends meet. I realize now that I never once heard her complain about her life then, of how difficult things used to be.

Papa wasn’t as close to his siblings as Mama was to hers and I think that growing up apart from each other had a lot to do with that.

As for those step step siblings I spoke about in the onset? Well Dadda number one had 6 kids from his second wife, this apart from the four he had with Daddi. His sperms certainly did the rounds.

Chapter 23 | In pursuit of a Bra

I bought my first bra when I was twelve.

I was wearing a tight fitting black top with white edges on the sleeves and my blossoming buds couldn't have been more obvious. 

Mama was perhaps too shy to acknowledge the fact that I needed to purchase a support system or she preferred to feign indifference. Either way, my breasts were making headway and I wasn't going to let them drive by without appropriate structure.

Our next scheduled grocery shopping trip was an opportune moment and I managed to convince Papa that letting me walk the mall with Miya wasn't going to result in any act of misdemeanour's. The only shop I knew well enough to navigate myself (and eleven year old Miya) through without summoning the Guards of suspicious twelve year old in pursuit of a bra, was Woolworths.

I helter sheltered amidst the aisles as if though Papa had Al-Qaeda wrapped around his baby finger and I would be found faster than Bin Laden could say: “Twin towers? Where?”

Eventually I found it. I had no idea what a first bra purchase entailed, whether A; B; and C was indicative of the level of progress I had made, like getting graded, but by my boobs? And the numbers weren't of any help either? 32, 34, 36? Was this the mathematical equivalent of the 2 x’s timetable which had somehow fast tracked to its 30’s?

I took the thing and placed it over my top, it looked like the right fit. I chose a simple white cotton bra, unsure of the rules and bra-gulations. As I neared the counter to pay for my purchase, I was hesitant. What if the lady behind the counter took note of my nervousness and called the Al-Qaeda forces waiting in anticipation. If she noticed she never made mention of it and I passed her the R20-00 I had saved up over months with as much nonchalance as I could feign. I must have looked like an addict sliding wads of cash with fervent side way glances into the hand of his dealer.

Fifteen minutes later we walked out of the store, feeling like we had accomplished much.

A week later I told Mama. I had a very open relationship with Mama and hiding this from her was a secret even my new bra couldn't contain.

Me: ‘Mama, there’s uhm, there’s something I need to tell you.’

Mama (looking slightly apprehensive): ‘What is it?”

Me (confidence wavering): ‘I bought something.’

Mama: ‘What? A music CD?’

I wanted to laugh. Considering that we weren't allowed to listen to music I thought that was a fair guess on Mama’s part.

Me: ‘No. something else.’

Mama: ‘A bra.'

I blushed, ‘Yes.’

Mama: “Oh! I had kept some for you.”

She pulled out a bag from on top of her cupboard, opened it and handed me two bra’s. One was an almost silver grey and the other, skin tone. They both had lace on the uppermost part and a little button in their respective colours in the middle.

Mama had kept them for me all this while? I beamed with happiness. Fine, so she might have not mastered the art of speaking bra with her daughter but Mama was thoughtful. I’d take that any day.

Authors note: Experienced any hilarious puberty woes? Share your story with us (adding a humorous edge to it) and it could get published on Dodging Dad. 

Chapter 22 | The Haude_Cooler

Newtown Madressa, in close proximity to the Oriental plaza, was  my madressa (Miya’s and Eesa’s too) till Class 5. There was the café not far by, for which we would empty out some coins from our money box so that we could purchase a buddy bottle (Coke) and a few sweets for after, for a little less than R3.

Every day, after madressa, we would stand by the poles outside the musjid round the corner, till Papa came to fetch us. Sometimes it was at precisely 5:00pm, and at other times we would stand till darkness was nearing its fort. Unafraid, yet anxious.

Cell phones weren’t a norm then, Papa himself didn’t own one. And so, we waited, in expectancy of his arrival ‘any minute now.’

No one’s parents offered you a lift, or asked if someone was coming for you, or where was it you lived. If someone did, I don’t recall it.

The berry filled tree’s than traced along the pavements would sometimes be used as appetizers in our wait. For all I know they could have been poisonous but we didn’t know better, still, we survived.

We would sometimes run into the musjid to drink water. The cooler stood in one corner, leaning magnificently against porcelain tiles, dripping seductively, tapping against the silver stainless steel cup placed under. I can’t say this without it sounding like an exaggeration but I have never tasted water sweeter in taste and cooler in temperature than the water from that cooler. It was like the Haude_kauthar had nested there and gave birth to a family of perfectly tasting water molecules.

Once, whilst we were standing there a man in his mid 40’s placed a R1 coin as he was passing us. I assumed he had mistaken us for beggars and I ran after him to return his alms. He smiled and said that we should keep it. Long story short, I ended up swallowing that coin by mistaken.

When I think about it now, I’m disgusted by my indifference to concepts like hygiene. Drinking from the same cup as possibly a hundred others? Putting a coin in my mouth? What was I thinking?

Though when I consider it, I realize the childlike innocence that was my childhood. In a couple of years, I had grown and I latch onto these little memories, though seemingly insignificant, because they segregate the adult from the child. 

Chapter 21 | The quests for breast

I still remember the first girl Altaaf pointed out to me in Pre-school. It was a walking distance away from home and I would often make an effort to either walk him there or back.

We would discuss school, his teachers and his friends. One day he mentioned a girl in particular, Shaista. I was curious to catch a glimpse of her, the girl who had captured the interest of my little brother.

I asked him to point her out and like a mother-in-law in search of the perfect daughter for her son, I approved.

She had on capri jeans, a white shirt and her black hair tied in two ponies. She smiled and waved at us as we walked away and I was mentally purchasing her Tupperware and AMC pots.

In Grade 7, I had moved schools yet again. This time round, the adjustment was an easier process.

Though, I can't say the same for my budding breasts.

Mama was the 'modest' type and the only discussion we had on periods was a brief moment after I accidentally blurted out that she wasn't fasting, in a room filled with women, at a taleem.

The 'talk' barely covered any aspect of interest and all I heard were the words 'period' 'when you big enough' and 'it's not something to speak about in the open.' All this meant for me was that I had to do my own research if I wanted to understand the transition from 'girl' to 'women' in more detail than Mama would provide.

I saw the evident bra straps beneath the sheer white shirts of my fellow class-mates, while I still contended with wearing a vest. Whilst others girls had breasts that resembled mountains that hadn't even started out as mole hills, I worried that my bosom buddies weren't being sufficiently fertilized and hence, the mole hills that barely touched the surface.

I read Judy Blume's 'Dear God, it's me Margaret' and to some extent, it made me accept that I was not alone in my quests for breasts.

I grappled with the concept of 'coming of age' and though I was forthright in thought, it wasn't easy to ask whether it was normal for my breasts to be competing in size. I can only imagine the giggling fit had I asked whether breast strokes were even permitted for Muslims.

I made new friends but I struggled indefinitely, to find 'the one'. We'd have sleep overs, sit with each other the entire break, we even read each other's journals but it wasn't enough for me to trust them.

So I made the school library my best friend. In just one year at my new school, I had made it as scholar patrol, I was a media monitor, I scored 100% in a computer skills test (I never knew I had the skills for), I was given an opportunity (which I had rejected) to be a part of 'soul buddyz' (a TV program back in 2000), I had bartered half of my possession in a bathroom stall (this was after a rather in-depth lesson in EMS on the concept of bartering in a century so far back even my great grandparents have no recollection), and I was awarded platinum in an English Olympiad I can't even recall writing.

It was an opportunistic year, unlike any other I had ever experienced. I read every book the school library had to offer,