puts a fair amount of

stretch and fade

in to the spaces between mistakes.

Just three more minutes

on this cycle

and you will never have happened.

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1. 6 – dream things
2. Shaira

Once, in awkward preteenage, she and Nisa shared a brief, aghast giggle when Ayesha from the butcher told them that her parents still did it. It used to be all so very euw and yuck back but oh look at her now — just pass the age her mother had been then– having done and done and still doing. To think of her child as a sexual entity shifted the colour-fill from her outlines in much the same way when as a teenager she chanced upon her parents kissing. But then, what had surprised her more, was that there had been such warmth between two people she’d always thought of as having been forced upon each other.

She’d read Shakira’s diary once, after her pockets had just about split from all the neuroses she carried. A mother’s worry trumped boundaries. She scanned the pages for keywords, not wanting to read too deeply and steal even more from her daughter. Her eyes latched onto a name. Shameem. And she found it on every other page after that and then on almost every line. There had been a Shameem in Zeenat’s Std9 class. At the all-girl school. A sharp pain jerked her away from the pages. She didn’t realise she’d been grinding on her own teeth. She read on. “I can’t believe I fell for it. All his dumb lies.” His. Not Her. Zeenat pinched her own ears for failing her daughter. She cursed this Shameem for bringing Shakira pain and closed the diary. After that, she only worried for her daughter’s heart. Not who it belonged to, but how it was received.

And Ismail seemed a gracious and grateful recipient. Zeenat just had to stare as her daughter stared at Ismail who stared back. This was all so very novel and sweet. But for the pachyderm balancing the tea tray on its trunk.

Iqbal and Ridwaan were deep into shoptalk. Feroza shared her recipe for Melting Moments biscuits between enthusiastic mouthfuls of confectionary being denied the very same. She seemed a great fan of her own words and was too enamoured to notice Zeenat’s distraction.

Would it be so awfully wrong if she just sewed her mouth and guilt shut? There was the chance that Shakira and Ismail did not share any genes. They didn’t look like brother and sister. Ismail had his mother’s pop of a nose and her small eyes. He was also what she’d once heard described as soft in the middle, and she knew it was the type of build that goes to portly pot in advancing years. Much like what had happened with his father. But still, he had a pleasant face. Friendly and open and full of unabashed admiration for her daughter. Zeenat could easily just never say anything to anyone. No one had to know. Not Iqbal. Not Shakira. It didn’t seem as if Ridwaan had made the connection. And even if he did, wouldn’t he have as much to lose? She could lie about Zeenat’s birth details. What good were men with dates anyway right? Besides, she could panelbeat the truth into anything.

But what if, what if, what if they were half-siblings? Could she live with herself, live with her God or without Him, on the split chance that her daughter was part of an incestuous marriage. What if they had children and something went wrong? She couldn’t turn blood into water. And then everyone would know what she’d done, twice over. Please Allah, a heart attack would be just perfect right now…

“So Zeenat, Iqbal tells me you’re of the Fifth street Khariwalla’s. I knew the family well. Very well.”

It was the first full sentence Ridwaan had directed to her since they sat down for tea. She looked up from her cup and into his eyes.

He knew.

—

Part 8 (& the end) to follow.

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1. 11 – of sons and daughters part 4
2. 12 – of sons and daughters part 5
3. 10 – of sons and daughters part 3

—

A few months after her wedding, Zeenat had heard from Aunty Khayroon’s daughter-in-law that Ridwaan had crossed over the seas to the UK to work in a biscuit factory his uncle owned.
Some time after, she was told he was planning to return to South Africa and settle in Cape Town.
News of him petered off as the bonds lost their stretch to passing years and families relocating to suburbs many kilometres off from Papa Seedat sneezing and Uncle Joe saying yarhamukallah from four doors away.
In families trying to put more space around them, there was no preventing the spaces that had sprung up between them. That’s how Zeenat felt, anyway.
No one visited anyone anymore. Scattered phone calls, weddings, births and deaths afforded the only times to reconnect. That she had become something of a recluse didn’t help things along either. But that was out of her own sense of shame, what excuse did other people have?
Now, she slept in on Sundays; a luxury even her late mother had begun to appreciate in her advancing years.

—

When Shakira told her that Ismail’s parents would be coming over to visit on Sunday afternoon, Zeenat made sure she greeted the morning in good time. Her ear tingled uncomfortably from an accidentally slept-on folded pinna. This made her think of Nisa and her cheese-curl toes. She would call her sister after the visit. As adults, they made better friends.

She’d once confided in Nisa her concerns about Shakira
Her daughter never spoke about boys. No one called the house. There were no furtive midnight conversations on her cellphone. No one ever picked her up from a few blocks down so that her parents wouldn’t see. And it was not that they were too strict with their daughter. They believed they’d raised her with a decency and common sense that often eluded her peers. Shakira was not denied any freedoms. She just wasn’t interested.
‘Nisa, do you think Shakira could be gay?’
‘Hai, don’t say such things.’
Zeenat was used to living by tip-toe between eggshells. It did seem God had let her off too easy that time; a lesbian daughter would’ve been rather fitting.

–

(Part 7 to follow)

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1. 10 – of sons and daughters part 3
2. 16 – of sons and daughters part 7
3. 9 – of sons and daughters part 2

–

(part 6 to follow)

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1. 11 – of sons and daughters part 4
2. 16 – of sons and daughters part 7
3. 10 – of sons and daughters part 3

**Job

–

(Part 5 tomorrow)

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1. 12 – of sons and daughters part 5
2. 16 – of sons and daughters part 7
3. 10 – of sons and daughters part 3

*jaggery/molasses

–

(Part 4 to follow)

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1. 12 – of sons and daughters part 5
2. 11 – of sons and daughters part 4
3. 16 – of sons and daughters part 7

Her mother wouldn’t show face to her either. Everything was already arranged. The degs had been hauled out, the khalas had already cleaned all the chickens. Everyone knew Zeenat was flighty and four-minded. This was best for her. A good family. A good boy. It would sweep out her nasaarah fancies. Imagine, she wanted to bring home a white boy!
Zeenat sat in her room as the walls around her closed in to crush her ribs and the roof fell in on her head.
It was just like what she’d learnt in madressah; the aadhaab of the kabr. She even remembered the exact moment she died. She was hovering outside of herself, tethered to her shell by a silken thread. She saw her mother asking her something and her own empty head nodding consent. She could not get back in time.

And when she finally squeezed into the corners of herself, she saw how her mother’s brow was less a few lines. Could it be? A smile in those eyes; it had been a long time since Zeenat had seen that.

God was merciful, in His way. The white boy met what they usually call an untimely end; a freak accident at the factory where he worked as a welder. A beam fell on his head.
Zeenat mourned quietly, wishing it didn’t feel as painful and as comical as it did.
She didn’t even love him. Not like the way she read that people loved. He was a simple, kind man, the first who’d ever spoken to her as if he really cared to hear about her ideas on the world. She enjoyed their conversations whenever he came in to her father’s shop.

It was a mistake to tell Nisa about him.
The very next day her mother ambushed her in the kitchen. Zeenat always had the devil in her. Her mother told everyone it was because she never listened to her warnings about playing near the fig trees at Maghrib time. Perhaps it was a type of possession, for Zeenat often took great pleasure in riling up her mother with flamboyant untruths.
That was how a few conversations over a shop counter turned into midnight lovers trysts and an elaborate plan to elope.
Her mother’s jaw fell off of its hinge. Zeenat had gone too far.

After cutting the sleeves off of all of Nisa’s dresses, Zeenat fell onto her bed headfirst and wondered if it was possible to smother herself with the pillow.
She woke to Nisa’s wails and her mother’s shrieking threats of dispatching her to Mia’s Farm where they would beat the Shaytaan out of her.
It was less than a week before the Ahmeds came to ‘see’ her.

The mother was meek, the father seemed kind and the boy, well he just seemed average.
Polite enough and soft-spoken, Zeenat found the whole thing strangely bearable.
That was enough for her parents. Zeenat was just a handkerchief pegged to a washing line while the wind had its way with her.
A few phone calls, a few trousseau trips to town, a few awkward conversations between her and ‘the boy’; and now she wished a beam would fall on her head.

Or she could run off with Ridwaan.
Ridwaan. He boarded at her Aunty Khayroon’s house.
He was from some far-away farm town with a name she could never remember. He worked at some place in Jeppe and would often come to their house to drop off something from her aunt. He was really bad at pretending and Zeenat never missed the look he’d give her. She knew that look. She’d read lots about that look and how girls could get into trouble because of it. Nisa thought Ridwaan was like something out of the film magazines. Poor Nisa, stupid and naïve, Zeenat knew her sister would have her heart broken at least ten times by five different people before she learnt anything of the ways of the world. She did agree with Nisa on one thing though. Ridwaan was something of a looker, with those almost oriental eyes and cocky smirk.

While everyone busied themselves with wedding preparations, Zeenat slipped out of the house to look for him.
He was in Aunty Khayroon’s backyard, fixing a wheelbarrow.
Squinting up at her, he motioned his head towards the garden cottage he rented from Aunty Khayroon.
Zeenat looked around the yard quickly, and flew into the cottage. It was only when she sat down on a milk crate to find herself again that she realised they’d barely exchanged one word.
How could he have known what she wanted? Did all men just know?
She started to feel something bitter rise up inside her. Guilt? Rebellion? She tried not to think too much of the God she dutifully prayed to. If there was such a thing as a necessary sin, wouldn’t this be it?
Tomorrow night, she would lie down with an almost-stranger, how would this be any different? At least this, what she was about to do, was on her own terms and not her parents. Before she died to herself, she needed to know she had lived for herself.

Ridwaan entered the room.
“It’s not proper for a bride to be in a strange man’s room.”
“I couldn’t give a fuck about propriety.” Zeenat was outside herself again, a bopping helium balloon strung to the arm of a fairground mannequin.
She was the omniscient narrator and Zeenat and Ridwaan were the characters from a chapter in one of the novels she read while her mother and Nisa prattled on about stupid things like pastry dough.
It was over quicker than she’d ever read about. And no one had ever written about the burning. Or was that because she’d sinned so greatly, the devil had finally signed the papers for her soul?
“Zeenat, let’s get married. I know this one moulana who will do the nikah. We can go live in Cape Town. I have a bit of money put away.”
Zeenat lunged for the bin at the table side, and proceeded, in one solid gush, to hurl the day’s breakfast and lunch.
“I’m so sorry! I’ll clean this, I’ll take this outside. I don’t feel well. I must go. I’m sorry Ridwaan, this was a big mistake. A huge mistake.”

–

It would be 27 years before she saw those almost oriental eyes again.
They were now in the face of a portly middle-aged man, who shifted his weight on her leather sofa and coughed to hide the rude noises the movement made. Next to him sat his portlier wife and their son Ismail, a boy her daughter had met at a business conference and who was now determined to make her part of his family.
If only you knew the half of it Issy-boy. Zeenat hoped that only sounded uncharacteristically loud in her head because everyone else was so quiet.
“Ridwaan, Feroza, please have some biscuits with your tea.”
As she dipped one of the chocolate-coated ones into her cup, Zeenat wondered why it had taken so long for God to begin punishing her.

(part 3 tomorrow)

(for a glossary, leave the words/terms you’re unfamiliar with in the comments)

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2. 16 – of sons and daughters part 7
3. 13 -of sons and daughters part 6

(Part 2 tomorrow)

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1. 13 -of sons and daughters part 6
2. 10 – of sons and daughters part 3
3. 12 – of sons and daughters part 5

She stuffed the comforter into her ears and began to think really loudly.

But there was this one note.

Stubborn and self-preserving; it crawled to the top of the aural shitpile, jack-booting the doof-doof-waas and emerged filthy and triumphant.

It was now a giant fly in her ear, its wings beating down on the drums.

Wings like fists; knuckle-dustered, fresh and going for the title.

She bled right through the pillow, on to the sheets.

Oh how she prayed for a senseless act of violence.

A deranged drifter with a stiffy for massacre and a Bring Your Own Bullets policy.

The music stopped.

The fly was gone.

She praised Heaven and promised lots of alms to beggars.

Turning over on to her other side, her hand sought out the cool spot under the pillow.

The dogs began to bark.

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I don’t know if this counts though, as I scrawled while (wo)manning our paper goods stall at the fleamarket on Sunday. Probably took longer than five minutes too. Brain spew mostly. It’s what happens when you stop reading real books. Flies sit on the mind’s eyes. Creative kwashiorkor.

Deep, deep
down, down
under under
under ground

there lived a
family of
coo-coo-da-boos
who snacked on cashews
and drank old shoes.

They’d boil them up
into tea
for breakfast, lunch
& night-noon snackie.

They’d ululate for
scuffed stilettos,
eat them buttered
with pressed potatoes.

Muddy sneakers were
their favour,
and a dash of rum
improved their flavour.

So what was it with shoes
and coo-coo-da-boos?

Why not flat tyres or
tumble dryers?

“But you see, you see
it is the memory”
“The memory?”
“The memory! Yummy!”

“Yes, yes, see, see
coo-coo-da boos
wrote the book on Recluse.
They’ve never seen the bright of day
and buy nuts and shoes on e-bay.

So for coo-coo-da-boos
to munch on shoes
is the only way
for them to see
a life beyond the coo-coory.”

“But how
can chow
do that now?”

“You see, you see
a soul is a sole,
rubber, leather
whole and hole.

sweaty feet leave behind
the stinky happy
of memory kind.

When coo-coo-da-boos
chew on shoes,
their tongues are feeling
your every being.

Your run, your walk
your standing still,
your itchy scratchy
restless thrill.

They love the taste
of sweaty sweet.
Stinky means a
life complete.”

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Talk to me dammit, Say something, anything. Please. I can’t stand it when you get like this. Really, I can’t handle it. Why the hell aren’t you speaking? Come on, please. Please? I’m begging you. What did I do? Tell me. Come on, just tell me. Don’t look away from me. You can’t avoid facing me forever you know? I’m always going to be here. We’re not leaving this table until you say something.

Is it because Sarah said I kissed Jillian at the party? That bitch has always had it in for me. Since that time with Sam. You can’t believe her. Really. I’m not lying. Why would I lie to you? Please, believe me; I’d never go near Jillian. She’s in my writing class. That’s it. I hardly speak to her. She was at the party with Aaron anyway. Sarah must’ve seen us talking about the Hemingway assignment. You know how she likes making up stories just so people will think she’s interesting. Remember when she told you she saw me holding Carla’s hand in the parking lot? You didn’t believe her then because you knew I’d never even go anywhere near that slut. I mean, Carla? Seriously, she’s been with half the guys in this place and most of the girls too. Jillian isn’t much better either. Im telling you, I love you too much to waste my time with skanks.

Say something. It’s not about Katherine, is it? Then what is it? Whatever Sarah’s told you is a lie. You know how she can’t stand me because I told Sam what a two-timing whore she is.

Oh God, you’re crying? Why? I swear to you. I haven’t been unfaithful. Never. Except for that one time. But that was it. I swear. I was drunk remember? I didn’t know who I left with that night. I promised you that I’d never lose control like that ever again. Please, please. Stop crying. Here’s a tissue. Here, let me wipe it away. What? Why are you pulling away? God, that’s violent. What have I done? Look, you’ve gone and dropped the mushrooms. What’s wrong with you?

That look in your eyes….stop it. I hate it when you stare me down like that. As if you’re trying to peel away layers of me and expose me. Why? I’m not hiding anything. If you just tell me what’s bothering you, we can fix this. Like adults. Come on dammit!

Ok, I’m sorry for shouting. It’s not my place to throw a tantrum. You obviously think I’ve done something terrible. But I haven’t dammit. I haven’t done anything as heinous to warrant this reaction from you.

Ok ok, I’ll admit it; there was that other thing with Cassie. But really, it happened when we were having that break remember, and things were still bad between us. I swear, I never went near her again.

Oh God, why are you acting like this? Come on, let’s be adult about this. And Jenny was a once-off thing, I told you about her remember? What? Why are you pointing like that? The waitress? Why would I have anything to do with the waitress? She’s not even that attractive.

What is wrong with you? You don’t look right. Oh my God, you’re turning blue. What’s happening? The dessert? You’re pointing to the dessert? Yes? The Zabaglione? Are you choking? No? You can’t be choking on custard? The dessert? What about the dessert dammit?!

Waitress! Waitress! There’s something wrong with my girlfriend. Please! Can you help! I think it’s the dessert, something in the dessert? Strawberries. Oh my God, she’s allergic!

Yes? Your handbag? What do you want from your handbag? Your pills! Let me help you! Dear God, please be okay. Here’s the water, let me help you. Ok, ok, that’s it. Ok, it’s looking better. There’s colour in your face again. Thank God! Wow, that was a close one. How are you feeling? Do you want to go to the emergency room? No? You’re ok? That’s a relief!

Hey, where are you going? Wait, you can’t go like that? You’re still not looking well enough to be on your own. Wait! Wait! I’m sorry, I didn’t meant to tell you all those things, I mean, I didn’t mean to do all those things to you. Those women meant nothing, nothing I tell you. You’re the only one I love! The only one I care about! Wait, Wait! Fuck.

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So far, it hasn’t been working out too well. I’ve got a great method where I write down all the things I have to do, and then proceed to do none of them. However, today was a little different.

There’s been some talk of names abound and I feel I should share with you that the name Shaira means poetess.

Here follows what may or may not be part of my working draft for “The Daughter of No One Famous“.

The henna cleaved out of the brown cone.

On the trembling palm before her, Shaira worked adroitly to lay down the strokes. In one ambit of steady movement, she marked outlines and filled in the curlicues and flourishes.

Her work was intricate and ornamented but there was something about it that was not beautiful.
The paisleys and flowers were done as well as the virginal red patterns left on the hand of a bride, but these lines were too carefully thought out. The points were too sharp.The brown strokes; thick and assertive, were a puncturing geometry not at ease with the soft roundings of the mango leaves.

Shaira’s work was a command, not a beautification. Hers’ was a pen of destiny.

“You will find love in the period of time it takes for the mendhi to fade. He will be someone you already know. You will marry within the year. There will be moments where you find him fussy and somewhat cruel, but with him you will find much joy. You must be patient. This is the Will.”

With her left hand outstretched to keep from smudging the wet henna, the marked one reached into a pocket in her cloak. With a quivering right hand, she pulled out a bundle of crumpled notes and left them in the bronze ashtray at Shaira’s side. A hoarse gratitude emerged from her small mouth, but so silent was she during the marking, that her voice could only find the ‘you’.

A little fold of a person, the marked one bent down awkwardly to scoop up her bags and hang them from her unburdened shoulder. “The henna is dry now. You can use both hands.”

She was startled, and ran her fingers along the raised patterns, expecting her fingertips to be muddied. It was only a few minutes earlier that the pattern glistened with heavy moisture. She cleared her throat, “Jazakallah”, and with the henna crumbling off of her hand, she gathered up her things and left.

Shaira stretched out her arms and made circles from her wrists. She opened and closed her hands. The cracks from her joints snapped low in the warm and dark room. “Open the curtains Sakinah. These notes are so dirty and worn; I can barely make out the amount in this light.”

Sakinah got up from a chair in a corner shrouded by drapings and clutter. “You really need to clean this place up Shaira. Or is it all for atmosphere?” Shaira didn’t respond to Sakinah’s snideness. She counted out the notes as Sakinah drew open the curtains. Without the barrier of the thick fabric, the hooting and shouting from the street below rushed into the room.

“With this one’s R150 and the R300 from the two earlier this morning, we can do a round pass the Big House tomorrow hey Sakinah?” Sakinah looked out of the window and down into Church street. She could see the marked one getting into her car and tipping the car guard before driving off.

“Don’t you feel bad doing this Shaira? Fooling these people like that. That woman really thinks she’s going to find love and happiness. All because you scribbled on her hand with that coloured mud you got from Akhalwaya’s and mixed with pareloo paani. It’s wrong man!”

Shaira put the notes into an old saffron tin and packed away her henna-divining supplies. “How am I worse than some moulana who claims he can remove jaadoo by having you stand in a cat-litter box while he hacks around your feet with a butcher knife? It’s all the same Sakinah. People put their faith in a lot of things, they only believe because they want to. I just gave that girl a bit of hope. She probably will find someone now that she’s being active about it. So are we going to the Big House tomorrow or not?”

The anger was large in Sakinah’s eyes. “I don’t like going there. I lost all the rent money the last time. You know there’s no barakat in money won from gambling.”

“Hey, I’m just trying to make my own destiny,” said Shaira as she wiped dry henna flakes from the table into a cupped palm.

mendhi – henna
pareloo paani - water that has had a prayer read over it
jaadoo – black magic/curse

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1. Character: Sakinah-bhai
2. {Cheaper Than A Moleskine} A brief intro to Basheer
3. I want you to love her…

“If you keep giving away these pieces of your heart Mummy, what’s going to be left to beat in your chest?”

“That’s really pithy Zaiby. Have you been watching those bollywood dvds with the subtitles turned on?”

I want this character to be so much of all I admire and fear, yet I know she can’t be everything. Blogging bits of her here, I hope you can help me string together her DNA. 

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1. Character: Sakinah-bhai
2. {Cheaper Than A Moleskine} A brief intro to Basheer
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Under the grey fleece of sunset, the muezzin called out for Maghrib.
She hated this time of day. It was lead on her brain, oppressive and dim.

It was also when she thought most about Basheer.
Husband for 40 years, widowing her for three; so many days of looking over her shoulder, that even now she still found herself straining her hearing to catch his tapping on the loose parquet flooring.
They would eat supper together and then he’d leave for salaah.
Now, she ate alone. Biscuits and tea.
The charm of cooking had long been kneaded out from her fingers.
Basheer always wanted fresh rotis with his supper.
She harboured no delusions about the farcical therapeutic nature of rolling out the dough, forming perfect circles and frying them to golden discs.
It was a tiresome chore, and it rubbed at her nerves after the long days.
It was only in their last few years together, that she’d started buying them from Khan’s. He never knew the difference.
Basheer was never abusive or hard to live with; he was just a bit strange.
She never quite understood, maybe it was because she was a bit strange too. And there were no other people made for them.
They were once two kids, pushed together by families who welcomed the cementing of ties that ran so far back,their forbearers were of the other faith.
Awkward kids thrown together, forced to try and understand.
And to have awkward kids of their own.

–
“Zaiby called. She’s coming to visit after work.”
“We haven’t seen her for so long. Is she upset about something.”
“We did nothing wrong Basheer. We did nothing. We do nothing. That’s why. We’re getting older, she’s getting younger. There’s nothing for her here.”
“What kind of talking is that? We’re her bloody parents. What is this new way?”
“We cant understand Basheer, it’s so different these days”
“You always gave her too much string. So why is she coming to visit then? Why now?”
“I told her you were dying.”

–
But it was just the flu; a mild one that didn’t stop him from opening the shop every morning and talking it into Sakinah’s ear all night.
Zaiby would never have visited otherwise.
The doctors’ aren’t even sure Zaiby, it could be cancer. They’ll only know when the tests come.
Sakinah always lied to her children. They expected it.
A part of Zaiby knew this was another one of her mothers’ creative moments. But, even though she’d never admit it, she missed the cloying familiarity of home.

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3. Shaira

Well, it’s not really ‘new’. I’ve had it for a while, using it as storage for sliced-up photoshopped pages that linked to my other blogs and a home to my final web design assignment.

I’ve taken three blogs (Electric Spaghetti, The Zephyr and I, Cheaper Than A Moleskine) and coalesced them here.

This will now be the home of vanity blogging, poetry and experiments in telling. These will be categorised accordingly, and there are links on the sidebar to guide you towards your preferred reading.

This blog is built on Wordpress and sports a tasteful theme, I think. However, there may be radical paintbomb-wall-type theme tweaks ahead or very subtle colouring of the cornices.

I haven’t quite decided. But it’ll do for now.

So, go on, look around. Tell me what you like, don’t like. I may not agree with you, but I will consider improvements.

Wordpress plug-ins will be accepted in lieu of housewarming gifts.

No related posts.

No related posts.

“Samuel tripped into the lunchtime insanity. In his usual way, other peoples feet, shopping bags and alarmingly cute kids with killer eyes insinuated themselves into his path. Grace was Monacon royalty (or was she, trivia was not his strong point) and had nothing to do with his social dispositions.

Why did Armand always force him into these socially awkward situations? He hated meeting new people especially the arty-farty, social elites Armand insisted on making acquaintances with. Its networking dahling, Armand would spout in his affected enunciation, misleading his listeners into believing he was thoroughbred northern-suburb and had not so much as breathed in the direction of the free state farm he was born on. His name wasn’t even Armand and if his poor arthritic mother knew that her Werner had so callously tossed aside his birth name she’d stop sending him her cinnamon and molasses rusks.”

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Similar posts:

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3. I want you to love her…