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.’