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.