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.’