Called to Song

Citation preview

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved. Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:12:52.

Kharnita Mohamed

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

Kwela Books

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:12:52.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

For Mommy

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:12:52.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

Sonata

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:12:52.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

Chapter 1

Her mother was dead. He was not here. Her mother was dead. He was not here. Everyone was here. But not him. Her mother’s body lay between her and her sister, Zainab. Her mother was not here. Qabila did not bother catching her tears. She didn’t look at Zainab, her nieces or her aunts. They might as well have been on the moon, not seated across from her in the postcard-sized lounge. There was only one place to look. In a few hours, she would never again be able to trace the lines on her mother’s face with her eyes. Be close enough to touch. There was no more time. All the years, the maybe-next-times she’d borrowed from the future – now they’d all go unspent. The house was too full. Camphor. Rose water. Incense. Wortel-en-ertjie-bredie. Sugar beans and rice. The smells of death. Women in black scarves and black thaubs. Men with fezzes and some with thaubs: white, creams, greys, black, striped, a splash of colour here and there. Some had come straight from work, or from wherever they were when they heard the news that Ayesha Peterson née Samodien was no more. Except for Rashid. He had not come. They were trying to find him. The melodious sounds of Imam Waleed reciting Surah Yaseen filled the air. He had loved Mommy. So many people here who’d loved Mommy. Rashid had loved Mommy. Mommy had loved him. This afternoon was the first time Qabila had ever washed her mother’s body. She’d let herself be moved where the toekamandie directed. Zainab knew. Despite her grief, she knew exactly what to do. Her movements had been slow, but steady and sure. They’d passed each other softly, carefully. A light touch here, a gentle leaning into each other when they passed, resting for a minute. Everything had been ready for Qabila when she got to Zainab’s house in Westridge. A black thaub and black scarf to cover her when she got out of the car.

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:05:37.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

The lounge emptied of furniture, benches set up to accommodate as many people as possible. The white cloth and the arrangements at the mosque. Everything in place. Death didn’t wait for those who were absent. Like her errant husband. He should’ve been here to put her mother in the ground. Carried her, helped make arrangements. Instead it was all left to Zainab’s husband, Osman, and Boeta, her mother’s brother. Rashid. Rashid. Where was he? Everyone wanted to know where he was. ‘Phone must be dead again,’ she said, almost grateful for the grief that held curiosity and sly, cutting looks at bay. Another hour and she too would’ve been out of reach. On a flight to Dakar – and nothing, not even clicking the heels of her best red designer shoes would have gotten her back in time. She’d ignored the first two calls from Zainab. The calls from each of her nieces. What is it now? she’d thought. Finally, she’d taken the call because Zainab’s annoyance when she got home would be unbearable. Restrained. Long-suffering. Worn by years of disappointment. But Zainab’s voice on the phone had been soft, the usual recrimination dissipated. And tired, so very tired. ‘Salaam Qabila,’ she said. ‘Mommy had a stroke.’ Before Qabila could catch her breath to ask, how is she, which hospital, Zainab had said: ‘She maniengald. May Allah grant her Jannat ul-Firdaus, inshallah ameen.’ Her voice breaking then. Qabila had sat in the full, lonely airport and cried, though she hadn’t completely understood. She’d tried to call Rashid on her way to Zainab’s. Over and over. While waiting for her mother’s body to arrive at Zainab’s house, she’d sent message after message telling him to call. Osman tried. Her nieces tried. Rashid’s phone must be dead again. His battery was really bad. He really should get a new phone. Or maybe he was with her. She lowered her head, took a deep breath. Not today. Her mother was dead. Another person taking her hand to wish her shifa. Why couldn’t all these people just leave? Someone sat down next to her. It was Mummy Kayna, her mother-in-law. Qabila moved closer to her cousin, Fouzia, to put a breath of space between them, but Mummy Kayna just moved to fill the gap. ‘Why did you not tell me? I heard on the radio,’ she hissed in Qabila’s ear. Unlike everyone else, who looked at Qabila with varying degrees of pity, Mummy Kayna’s eyes remained hard. Looking around carefully, she pulled her mouth into a smile and patted

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:05:37.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

Qabila’s hand. ‘Losing a mother is difficult,’ she said in a stage whisper, nodding to one of Qabila’s aunts. Qabila closed her eyes. ‘Ja, dit is swaar,’ the aunt agreed. Qabila sighed and asked, ‘Where is Rashid, Mummy Kayna? We can’t get hold of him.’ ‘He isn’t here? Is he travelling? That boy, always on the road.’ Mummy Kayna’s face softened, every harsh line flowing away. The thought of Rashid as good as a facelift to his mother. ‘I don’t know, Mummy Kayna. He isn’t answering his phone.’ ‘There must be a good reason,’ his mother replied. ‘This lounge is so small.’ This time she whispered for Qabila’s ears only: ‘Why did you not have the janaazah at your place? There’s a lot of people outside. Shame, they are poor, nè.’ There was no pity or compassion in her voice – just smug cruelty. Qabila didn’t have to look at her to see the tight smile and narrowed eyes, meant to convey some kind of sympathy. Mummy Kayna’s fakeness fooled very few people; but then she didn’t really want to fool them. How could you let everyone know you were better than them if they believed you were sincere? Qabila put her head on Fouzia’s shoulder. Even her busybody cousin gave her the grace of grief today, but Mummy Kayna … Qabila cut the thought off. Not today. Today was to make sure she never forgot Mommy’s face. She looked like her mother, everyone said so. The same no-nonsense brown hair and brown eyes, the nose just a bit too broad. Qabila was darker though, like her father. Zainab had her mother’s milky coffee complexion and her father’s sleek hair. Even though she would see traces of Mommy each time she looked in the mirror, Qabila was still afraid she would forget. Sometimes she forgot Habib’s voice, or if that mole was on the right or left ear. Watching the videos was not the same. Would her mother find Habib and Abdullah in akhirah? How many more funerals would there be? She was too young to lose her mother, to lose her sons. Her father didn’t really count; she’d already lost him in too many ways, before his death claimed all possibilities. Why did death always arrive at the wrong time? The unendurable day passed. She endured. Her mother’s body left the house she had lived in. Her aunts and uncle and cousins left, and the friends their family had accumulated. Her colleagues, who’d never seen her in hijab before, or so firmly located in her history, left. Then it was just her and Zainab’s family in the emptied-out lounge. The three girls were sprawled across the cream carpet. Zainab sat snugly against Osman, their backs against the wall. Qabila watched the slow, steady rhythm of his hand stroking her arm. For a while,

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:05:37.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

they talked quietly of who had come and how the day had gone. Mundane details, many of which Qabila had missed. Different versions of the same funeral. Zainab was unusually silent. In her lap she pleated the shiny black fabric of her scarf and let the folds relax. Pleat. Relax. Pleat. Relax. Her voice was raspy with grief when she finally spoke. ‘Why don’t you know where he is, Qabila? What is happening with the two of you?’ On a different day, Qabila might have said something flippant, something defensive. Made her marriage seem like a union to be envied, a prize few mortals could understand. But on this day, when her mother was buried, her husband had not been there. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. Although she did. But how do you tell your sister on the day your mother died that your husband doesn’t love you, hasn’t loved you for a long time, might not have ever loved you? She sighed, got up from the floor. ‘I don’t know.’ She didn’t meet Zainab’s gaze and was relieved when her sister started pleating her scarf again. Soon after, she too left the house her mother’s body had been taken from to be buried.

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:05:37.

Chapter 2

Qabila ran. Just ahead, a rivulet of golden words streamed from a great glowing worm that rushed down one tunnel and then another and then another. Each letter birthed another word. Each word birthed swirling universes of words that floated up the dark walls and dissipated in the worm’s wake. A swelling chorus reverberated off the walls and echoed in the space between Qabila and the worm. She ran, the words sinking into her, singing on her skin. She wanted to get to the worm. Ride the worm. She wanted to flee the press of deep, dark silence behind her. Flee the words pulsing their way through her skin to riddle her brain with their litany. Qabila woke and groped for her to-do list on her bedside table:

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

Pick up shoes Onions Coriander Work on article x 1 hour Vegetables Bread Swim Underneath, she scribbled the dreamwords: To live is to be free of the spell To be free of the spell is to claim

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:05:37.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

a spell of your own To spell is to bespell and to bespell is to unmake the world Unspell Bespell Spell Qabila stared at the words. Softly, slowly, they found their way out of her mouth, falling into the quiet eddies of a morning not yet fully come alive. The saying loosened something … and so she said them again. Slowly. And then again. A little faster. Until the list of things to do brought her back into the room. To the blue drapes with the little cramped flowers. She wondered, again, if those little flowers would survive the real world of wind and rain and trampling feet. She stroked the brown duvet’s rich cotton, her arms reaching across the bed’s empty expanse. Breathed in the familiar ache. The flowers would survive. She got up. The bathroom still seemed lopsided: her side of the double basin crowded; just her old, familiar face in the too-large-for-one mirror. In the long corridor, the glossy white doors were all shut, relieving the deep red of the walls. The same bright paintings. She still wasn’t sure about seeing only the women’s backs in the brightly painted field, and she still loved the boy dancing on the side of a building. She didn’t look at the black-and-white photographs in their ornate gold frames. Rashid had left his dirty dishes on the kitchen counter again. The eggshells, casually tossed next to the scorched pan, were already stuck to the stove. Why she’d bothered tidying last night, she didn’t know. She was looking for her phone when she remembered, with a sharp splinter in her stomach: she could never call her mother again. Almost two months now. Two busy months. For a few minutes she held onto the dirty counter and breathed. The ache didn’t go away, it never did. But she could move again. She could get into her car and drive to the university, where she helped to mould the minds of tomorrow’s leaders. Like every day for the last two months, she wouldn’t notice anything en route. If she had to swear under oath what had been happening all that time, she’d only have her lists to testify to her days. For the rest of the day, she gave herself over to the lists. Adding, removing; tick, tick,

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:05:37.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

tick. And all the while, the words hummed a soothing backdrop: To live is to be free of the spell, to be free of the spell is to claim a spell of your own, to spell is to bespell, and to bespell is to unmake the world. Unspell, Bespell, Spell. In the car, she found herself shaping the words to the tunes of Kfm’s golden oldies. They hounded and soothed her, followed her and dragged her along, sometimes softly in the background, sometimes roaring, silencing everything else. Her mother would’ve had a ready interpretation for the dream, which would have made Qabila laugh as much as irritate her. She could just hear Mommy’s voice, talking about a world beyond a therapist’s chair, a world requiring faith – a faith that had been scoured and blasted and pinched and pulled and laughed out of Qabila. It might’ve been one of those moments when the gulf between her generation and her mother’s opened up like a chasm that could only be crossed by love’s generosity. To be modern was to deny the magic of dreams – the things that speak to you, that can’t be found on a list. Qabila carried her longing for her mother’s counsel through the rest of the day – through meetings, calls, emails, consultations with students; through the quiet polishing of an academic career. When she got home to Durbanville’s lush greenness, she put aside the list for a few minutes to call Zainab. ‘Salaam Qabila, algamdulillah,’ her sister answered. ‘How are you? How was the conference?’ Qabila smiled, feeling tears well up. ‘Algamdulillah. No complaints. I just miss Mommy. I had such a strange dream last night. I actually began to dial her number this morning to tell her about it before I remembered.’ Zainab sighed. ‘I also do that. And I tell myself, I must remember to tell Mommy. Allah must grant her Jannat ul-Firdaus, inshallah.’ ‘Ameen,’ Qabila said, wiping away tears. ‘What did you dream?’ Zainab asked. Qabila told her about the great worm and running to try to catch it, and the words that wouldn’t release her. She could sense Zainab on the other side, thinking. ‘Qabila,’ Zainab’s voice finally came, ‘why did you not just follow? Why try to ride the worm? Moet jy altyd alles control?’ Zainab’s laugh was short and strained. Qabila forced a laugh too, glad Zainab could not see how tight her jaw was. ‘From one control freak to another,’ she quipped. ‘Mummy would’ve had all kinds of explanations: babies, death …’ She breathed deeply as the word bit into her, and hurriedly continued:

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:05:37.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

‘Tall men, or something custom-fitted. And then when something happened, she’d reinterpret the dream to show that it had been a warning all along! Do you remember how it used to irritate us? I really miss her today. Always seeing the future in dreams …’ ‘It never irritated me.’ Zainab paused. It was one of those dense moments where words have too little meaning. ‘Her room is so empty. The house doesn’t feel right without her.’ Her sigh was so heavy, Qabila’s belly tightened. ‘The psychologists say dreams are the subconscious working out things that have happened, and then sending you a coded solution.’ She tried to laugh, but failed. ‘I don’t know about this subconscious stuff. You must speak to Auntie Moenieba, she knows about dreams. She has one of those Muslim dream books. Do you remember how she and Mommy would talk about dreams for hours? They were so close.’ ‘Shukran, I will get in touch with her. It’s so busy now,’ Qabila said. ‘Jy is altyd besig. You must make time for other things, you can’t just work. You couldn’t even come to the forty days. Everyone was there, all the family. To make dua for your mother, pray that Allah has mercy on her during this difficult time for her soul. They all asked where you were.’ ‘I know, I’m sorry. I wanted to come. I couldn’t know my flight was going to be delayed. At least Rashid was there. Shame, he still feels bad about being on a flight when Mommy maniengald. He got a promotion last week, so he’ll be even busier now. We have so much catching up to do. Maaf that I haven’t come to see you yet. It’s been so busy. You know how it is.’ She cringed a little at her own familiar complaints. When would she stop masking the barrenness of her life with accomplishments, with constant busyness? ‘Qabila, Qabila. Always busy. Maybe the dream is telling you to change. Everyone is passing you by. Life doesn’t stop, waiting for you to have time. You and Rashid. Always missing important things, while running after things that make you look important. You’re even passing each other. How could you not know your husband was going all the way to America?’ ‘Zainab, please,’ Qabila said. ‘I can’t, not now, please. Kanallah.’ She scrubbed the tears off her face and hoped Zainab could not hear her crying. Zainab sighed and changed the subject. She gave Qabila all the news she’d heard at the forty days: who was sick and in hospital, who had a new baby, who was going to haj. She made Qabila promise to visit them all. ‘Give me a minute. I need to write it on my list.’ She pretended to scratch around for a notepad while she steadied her breathing. She pulled her face into a broad smile. It was

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:05:37.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

supposed to fool you into feeling happy. ‘I’m back,’ she said, proud at how bright she sounded. Dutifully, she added the visits to her list. ‘I’m sorry I’ve been so busy, Zainab. I’ll go see them and come visit you. Shukran for the chat.’ ‘Afwan. May Allah keep you safe, inshallah and give you shifa. Salaam. Don’t forget to go,’ Zainab said. ‘I won’t. I promise. I wrote it down.’ She was glad she’d called Zainab, even if her list had grown. Even if Zainab scolded. Maybe that was what the dream was for. That night as she cooked, she thought about babies and death, and tried not to think about some of the other things Zainab had asked. Zainab didn’t understand how her and Rashid’s lives worked. How could she? Qabila lifted and peeled and cut and sniffed spices to the beat of the words that infused her cooking. The words came rushing over her and rewove her into their rhythm: To live is to be free of the spell. To be free of the spell is to claim a spell of your own. To spell is to bespell. And to bespell is to unmake the world. Unspell. Bespell. Spell. Rashid came in as she was eating. She’d missed lunch again, and the lamb curry’s coconut-milk-infused spiciness was starting to fill the hollow. He greeted her, his left eyebrow lifted in that way she hated. ‘There is food in the pot,’ she said. ‘Lamb curry.’ ‘It’s okay, shukran. I already ate.’ Of course he had. She wanted to scream at him. Hurl her plate. Take one of the beautiful fucking ornate wooden chairs they’d spent six months deciding if they could afford and throw it at his retreating back. She bit the rage down and forced an ashy forkful of curry into her mouth. It needed more coriander and she would not cry. Her eyes flitted from the sumptuous cream silk drapes to the District Six artwork they had commissioned, and then skittered off to the sideboard laden with silver-framed photographs: mementoes of a seventeen-year-long farce. If only they treated each other with the same care they gave to choosing their possessions. Or maybe that’s why they brought only the most desired objects into their life: to offset the disappointment of living with each other. The TV went on in his bedroom and a familiar heaviness settled in her body, slowing her movements. A list, she needed to make a list of things to do. She should check her master list, see if there was something she could do tonight. Maybe she’d spend some time on her article – finish the darn thing. She was a great believer in finishing things. But, no. She’d check the master list first. Soothed by organising her recipes into a folder, Qabila was humming contentedly by the time she got into bed, ready to make her list for the next day.

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:05:37.

Chapter 3

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

Qabila was sewing a cloth so large, there was no horizon. A riotous kaleidoscope of red and blue and fuschia and yellow and black and white and every other shade. She could not say where one colour began and another ended. The needle was too big, too heavy for her hands – and then too small, too light. The air reverberated: To live is to be free of the spell To be free of the spell is to claim a spell of your own To spell is to bespell and to bespell is to unmake the world Unspell Bespell Spell The spell was sung, spoken, breathed, whispered and moaned in every tone and timbre. The words weighted the air like a symphony. It was beautiful. Qabila sang. As the words tantalised her pores, her stitches sewed each letter, each syllable deeply into her. With each sigh in the spaces between words, with each moan, each exhalation and inhalation, the words beat at her, caressed her. Like a man savouring a woman he adored. The words threaded their way through her hair, wove her toes together, rubbed the sore spot in the middle of her back. Carried her and held her still. The cloth grew

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:05:37.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

as she stitched every needful stitch to the thrum of the words. This time, she didn’t have to materialise the words on paper. On waking that morning, the words vibrated on her skin, danced and fluttered in her muscles. She stared at the ceiling from her king-sized bed for one, mouthing the words under her breath, over and over and over – she couldn’t stop. She felt a little loosening inside, as if a tightly closed box was being unsealed. Whatever was inside was seeping out. And still she said the words. Faster and faster, the box loosed its contents. And on that still morning, Qabila sobbed. She didn’t start slowly and build to a crescendo of weeping: the full weight of her sorrow was matched by the intensity of her sobs. She no longer needed to say the words: they streamed through her eyes, in every tear, in every gasp, in the tearing and pushing of the boundaries of her life. Just when she thought she could enter an ordinary day, the sobs would start again. Scratching her throat and salting her cheeks. Qabila, who rarely missed a day at work, sent an sms to her Head of Department: ‘Not well, came down with something.’ That day of great mourning, she wandered her house, touching the memories lodged in things, sullying them with her tears. She wept in the corner of the room she rarely entered but could not empty. Habib’s posters were on the wall: the solar system, the numbers. He’d wanted to go to the stars. And she remembered. She saw them laughing together: down on the floor, playing with impossibly small cars, the Lego that was always underfoot. Pantomiming a tickle monster as he ran and screeched, breathlessly hoping to be caught. The old woman gently wiping down his tired little body. She touched his clothes, the little jeans and the Spiderman T-shirt he was so fond of, and the Batman pyjamas he wore so faithfully in those last months. So many superheroes and no rescue. Her mother holding her in this room, day after day, when her very reason to live had been buried. Her mother facing Mecca, prayer mat on the floor, her body moving fluidly to intercede with the same God that had broken Qabila. She sat on Habib’s bed, in the shrine that was now older than he’d been when he left this place. She disturbed the sacred air and the sacred linen with her screams and tears. ‘Habib, Habib’ – his name a litany and dirge. Who would remember him with her now? All the stories her mother had, of him, of her, gone. Sitting in Habib’s room, Qabila knew, no matter how she longed for her, her mother would only ever be with her in fragments and snippets. She was truly an orphan now. No one’s eyes would soften for her the way her mother’s had, or ‘tsk’ at her in frustration – and love her in spite of it. She was a mother without a child. A daughter without a mother. A wife without a husband. Lost.

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:05:37.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

Rashid found her curled in the corner of the room, cried dry, staring into a memory trap. Their eyes met. His grief rose to meet hers – and then pulled back. He walked away. More tears. How could he thrive in this bleak life? How could she? Rashid’s shoeless feet came back into view. He laid a box of tissues on the floor, then scooted to sit behind her with his back to the wall, pulling her into his lap. His kindness pulled more tears from her body. He’d loved Mommy too. While Mummy Kayna tried to banish his grief, Mommy had let him mourn. She was the only one he would sit with in Habib’s room after the leukaemia stole his life, stole their life. Qabila let him wipe her face, and turned to stroke the tears off his. They held their vigil in the corner of their dead son’s room, until their forty-odd years pulled them into the comfort of the bed they’d once shared. When they held each other, it was with a child-like chasteness: they’d used up their desire for each other a long time ago, sex had too often been a battleground. Rashid left her for a while and returned with food that choked her; but she ate because he asked in a voice she’d forgotten he possessed. She didn’t dream that night. She didn’t dream that week. She didn’t have any lists. Her only purpose was to surrender to the tearing open of the long-fastened box. Rashid joined her. They wept. When the tears lost their urgency, talked. They remembered her mother and, remembering her, they remembered him. Habib. The child they’d almost given up on having. They smiled at how he’d marvelled at worms. How funny he’d been, how brave. How fully he’d loved his favourite nurses, and how fond he’d been of cheese. How their mothers had doted on him – their little princeling. All the small things that make loving a child the biggest thing in the universe. And with the light his life had brought, they remembered the other child. The one who never had a chance to meet them in the world. Abdullah they’d named him, slave of Allah. The pregnancy that had trapped them in this marriage. And for the first time, they dreamed him into life together: whose nose, whose eyes, whose character? What kind of loves and joys would he have had, what hates and despairs? It was a week of great loosening. Unravelling. A grey week spent in the graveyard of their marriage, reviving their ghosts and meeting each other at the fences they had built. They’d met in 1985. A year of turmoil, mass rallies bringing young men and women across the Cape Flats together in a bid for freedom. They’d believed they could change the

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:05:37.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

world, chanting slogans and running from police and teargas and purple rain and swinging sjamboks. A year when children became the conscience of a brutal land. Rashid had been in his last year of school at Belgravia High, where they’d burned tires and fought the machines of the South African police force with stones and shouts of defiance. She’d been in Standard Seven at Mondale High, angered by the knowledge of young people, just like her, being jailed and starved and brutalised; but not really believing things could be different. Until an earnest young man came to her high school to inform them of the organised discontent across the country. He showed her the possibility of a country without servitude to white people, and without hatred for other oppressed black people. For the first time, she heard about the anti-apartheid struggle’s use of the word ‘black’: a reclaiming, mobilising use, including all the people the government wanted to separate into a bizarre hierarchy of ‘Indian’, ‘Coloured’, ‘black African’. He talked about jailed people she didn’t know existed; someone called Mandela, who was imprisoned on Robben Island. And young people who were eating nothing but jam and bread in prison cells across the country. She also learned songs of freedom. While marching for freedom on the streets, they set the stage for entrapment with each other. Outside a crowded Athlone stadium, they exchanged shy smiles as their groups of friends mingled. Her school had bussed them in from Mitchell’s Plain so they could march with the UDF. ‘Do you remember how we ran to Moenier’s house after they started shooting teargas at us?’ he asked. ‘I was so scared. I didn’t know where to go.’ ‘You were so pretty, man. I was worried you would get hurt. That’s why I took your hand when we had to run.’ The memory made him smile. ‘I fell in love with you that day, you were so protective. But I was just a pretty girl to you.’ She’d accepted years ago that she was interchangeable. He waved the comment away. ‘You were a pretty girl, Qabila. You were brave to be there. I liked that.’ ‘My father thought I was a fool,’ she said. ‘He slapped me so hard I fell when I told him.’ She’d never shared this, the aftermath of their adventure. Slowly, she spoke the halfforgotten memories, finally bringing them into the world: ‘Standing over me, nudging me with those shiny white-and-black brogues. Just like your mother, you can’t do anything right! You both need to learn how to behave! Mommy screamed at him to leave me alone.

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:05:37.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

That it was her fault. She’d do better. He dragged my mother through the house into the closed bedroom – for backchatting, for forgetting who was the man of the house. For forgetting the rules. He really liked punishing her behind closed doors. It was terrible watching him do it. Worse when that door was closed.’ Rashid’s hand cupped his mouth, pulling the flesh around his jaw forward and then relaxing it. Over and over. She looked away, sighed deeply and shook her head. She didn’t need his pity. After that beating, her mother wore long sleeves and dark glasses for weeks. Her father bought her a handbag. She had so many trophies to commemorate the beatings. So many. When he died, Qabila was happy. What kind of man dies and is not mourned by his child? ‘May Allah grant her Jannat ul-Firdaus, inshallah ameen. I’m glad I never knew him,’ Rashid said finally. ‘You hardly ever talk about him, about growing up. About, about all of it. If your mother hadn’t told me, I would never have known. He’s the cause of all your trust issues. You really should talk to someone about it, a professional.’ Qabila wasn’t in the mood for this. ‘We hardly talk about anything, Rashid,’ she said. ‘It’s not like you discuss your family’s skeletons.’ His eyes narrowed. The left eyebrow lifted ever so slightly. He took a deep breath and turned his face to the window, nodded slightly. ‘There was a different kind of war in our house. Cold, very formal. The endless meetings we had when Faghria came out … She was shaming the family. Destroying our reputation. The things my parents put her through, the things they said. Making her get married! How she … I don’t know how she stayed sane. They tried to break her down in every way. I was too young to fully understand. Now I do.’ He laughed bitterly. ‘I love my parents, I truly do. They were trying to give her the best, to protect her in the best way they knew. It must’ve been so hard, then, to have a gay child.’ Qabila shook her head. Mummy Kayna and Boeya hadn’t spoken to Faghria in years, would probably never speak to her again. When Faghria came out after her divorce, they’d cast her out. She and her partner, Caroline, would forever be refugees in Johannesburg. If only Faghria had been at Mommy’s janaazah, rather than Mummy Kayna with her contempt. ‘We should go and visit Faghria again,’ Qabila said. ‘I miss her. I saw Caroline at a conference a few months ago. She said Faghria would love it if we came.’ Qabila shrugged, even though he was turned away from her. ‘We only ever stay with them when we’re in Joburg for work. I miss them. Faghria is my kind of people.’ Rashid turned, arms folded, looked over her head and scanned the room before giving her

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:05:37.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

a narrow smile. ‘Before I forget. I phoned our departments and told them we won’t be in for the rest of the week. We don’t want them saying we’ve gone AWOL.’ His smile still didn’t reach his eyes. He sighed. Loudly. ‘My troubles don’t compare with your issues. At least Faghria is alive. Your father,’ he shook his head, ‘that man. He has really damaged you. Maybe this sadness is for the best. We can find someone to help now.’ She wanted to protest. This wasn’t some breakdown. She was mourning her mother and sons; it had nothing to do with her father. But she didn’t feel like disagreeing with him, not now. She nodded meekly and ignored the tightness in her tummy. For that week, Qabila and Rashid ignored the outside world. Seven days of memories and half-truths as they rehashed the unmet expectations and small disappointments and big tragedies that had made them ghosts to each other. Their histories rubbed together uneasily when spoken into the space between them. Each barely recognisable in the other’s story. She could not recall when they’d ever been this tender with each other. On the last day of tenderness, Qabila was curled up in an armchair, Rashid lying on the sofa, legs carelessly akimbo. It was peaceful. An emptying-out had happened. They’d created the possibility for hard truths in a soft space. For the first time, Qabila had the courage to ask the question she’d avoided for so long: ‘Do you love me?’ He replied without hesitation. ‘What do you think?’ And then he sighed. Weary. Long-suffering. If his eyes hadn’t been tracing lines on the ceiling, she would have thought him a statue. She took in the tense lines of his body, stretched out on the imported blue-and-white-striped bull-denim sofa. The coffee-coloured skin she’d once wanted to burrow under. The sleek brown hair shot through with grey. She’d stopped just shy of running her hand through that hair so many times. The patrician nose, the mouth with its full lower lip she’d bitten when she was young and such things were the sum of happiness, and humiliation could be swept into a dusty corner of the heart. She took him in, line by line, this man who’d been the greater part of her past. This familiar stranger. She leaned back into the chair and closed her eyes. ‘No. The answer has always been no.’ The steadiness of her voice surprised her. ‘Qabila.’ His voice thick with whatever he was feeling. Still not a yes or a no; not even a maybe. All these years of not knowing, of never being able to just have the truth of it. How

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:05:37.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

absurd to wonder about your husband’s feelings, but be afraid to ask. Just so she could continue to live as if the fantasy were real. So that when people asked about her husband, she could say ‘we’ and not falter. That little seedling of hope that had never been watered enough to bloom, and yet stubbornly remained alive in the fertile soil she’d provided. Saying nothing is also an answer. For the first time, she was prepared to listen to what he was not saying, to hear the worst. ‘It’s okay,’ she said. ‘I’m okay.’ And she was. She truly was. It was like a story one tells oneself and then finds is true. And yet, it was no loss. There was nothing to lose. She opened her eyes to find him a step away, looking down at her with a look of … what? Concern, fear? She couldn’t tell. She did not care. The muscle at the side of his jaw was jumping. She just looked at him. This man she’d loved painfully for all her adult life, whom she’d promised herself to, and remained faithful to despite the barrenness he’d provided. She looked at his denim-clad knees and past them at the Italian sofa and the heavy walnut coffee table with its perfect, glossy coffee table books. The woman who’d hung the nubby silk curtains had been full of instructions for taking care of the fabric. Qabila wondered what advice she’d give now – that beautiful windows are no substitute for an empty marriage? Rashid was looming over her now. He was always looming. She wondered what life without his looming would be like, for both of them. What would it be like, to not be someone who was loomed over? The idea made her giddy. ‘Why did you never leave?’ she asked. ‘Qabila. Please not now.’ How can someone do that – plead and be implacable, at the same time? ‘You’re looming, please sit down. Why did you never leave?’ Her voice was no longer steady. ‘Qabila, I don’t want to get into this with you, not now.’ Back bowed, he walked slowly back to the sofa. ‘I do, Rashid. I want to talk about it.’ ‘This is not important.’ She laughed. It started short and hard, and when it hit her belly it became uncontrollable – every time she looked at his upright, tense body, it would start up again. There was nothing joyful about it. Contempt and bitter resentment crept into his face. Guard down, his body betrayed him, told her what she needed to hear. But then, as if aware that he was giving her something real and deep, his face blanked again, the emotion leached out. She knew this face. The face that had hidden the truth from her. It could send her a smile like a doctor who’s lanced the pus

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:05:37.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

from your body but is still brightly professional. She’d lived with a professional husband too long. ‘I’m going to pick up some Nando’s for dinner, so you don’t have to cook tonight.’ He offered it like a treat, a favour. Before she could reply, he walked out. The laughter fled as precipitously as it had begun. She heard Rashid’s car start up and leave. She’d accepted their life for what it was. A pauper’s graveyard, just in the better part of town. Being entombed for one minute longer was intolerable. Qabila picked up her keys and bag. She didn’t know where she was going. She just knew she needed to go.

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:05:37.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

Chapter 4

The Cape doctor was blowing steely grey clouds about. Her neighbour was in his garden, pointing something out to the gardener. She raised an arm in greeting. He gave her one of his stony-faced looks before turning away. Courting his rejections had become a game to her and Rashid. They’d know the country had truly changed when he accepted their black selves in his formerly lily-white neighbourhood. Driving through the hilly streets, with their huge houses and always-lush gardens, she wondered about the turns her life had taken. How had she gotten to this place of abundance – and abundance of rejection? Become a person who turned rejection into a game? The mountains in the distance formed a protective circle. She wondered if moving to Durbanville had been the best choice. If she and Rashid lived in the southern suburbs or Cape Flats, where almost everyone they’d grown up with lived, perhaps they would have found a way through the trials of their marriage. A way that was not like treading on shards of glass so fine you barely knew you were bleeding. But they’d traded all that – the closeknit family, the bustle of friends and relations dropping in – for the green northern suburbs. Behind the boerewors curtain, people joked. They’d been the first black people in their street. They were not the last. Even though there were more black neighbours now, they hadn’t forged a community. So many joyless years in this place. Except for the few with Habib. Rashid had insisted they move, couching it as a defiant political move. But perhaps it had been to avoid witnesses to the travesty of their glittering marriage. ‘This is our city now,’ he used to say. ‘We shouldn’t congregate like a bunch of sardines in the southern suburbs. Look at how wide the streets are here, how clean, how big the houses – and the costs are lower. For a cramped box on a grey, broken-asphalt street, we’d pay twice as much.’ Durbanville was the realisation of white middle-class desires. A bright, airy, green village, set apart from the squalor and poverty and despair that supported its Disneyesque charm. It was so beautiful. Would it be so enchanting if she hadn’t known the other side so

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:05:37.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

intimately? The greyness of the Cape Flats, her Cape Flats, where homes had peeling paint and walls hospitable to mould. She shook her head. Habib had loved the house. And she deserved a beautiful home. Everyone does. She was approaching Capetonians’ lodestone, Table Mountain. A waterfall of clouds was running down the square-topped mass of rock. Her breath caught. It usually did. Table Mountain was a little like her marriage. From a distance it looked square, but if you went up on the far-too-expensive cable car and walked around on top, it was very bumpy. If you didn’t walk with careful attention, you were liable to trip and fall on the paths that hadn’t quite succeeded in domesticating a hard and rocky place. She loved her house and hated her home. How does that happen? She’d mistaken silence for peace. She’d waited for Rashid to love her, hoping he would see her. Qabila. Not the girl he’d been forced to marry. He’d never forgiven her for sleeping with him – well, he might have forgiven her for that, but not for the pregnancy. As if that was something she chose. She’d been so young, in her Honours year in Gender Studies. He was a junior lecturer in the Physics department. Sometimes, he’d join her group of friends on campus to say hi. He was dating her then – Thandiwe. It was quite a scandal and no one took it seriously. It was one of the things sophisticated Muslim boys did: date unsuitable girls, before marrying good Muslim girls. Except in Qabila’s case, the good, proper Muslim girl threw herself at the boy, hoping he’d see that she’d do anything for him. The ‘loose’ black Christian girl … well, as far as she knew, they only became lovers much later. She’d recklessly given her heart and body to Rashid when she was too young to understand that the fizzing excitement doesn’t last. She would’ve done anything then to bind him to her. She didn’t know that getting someone’s attention was not the same as them attending to you lovingly. If she’d suspected, she might never have seduced him at that party. But then again, she’d been convinced that theirs was to be a grand love story. So she wrote him a part, and was surprised when he didn’t stay in character. The night of the party, she’d put up her hair, tucking a gardenia into the bun. Standing at the mirror, she’d imagined him pulling out the flower, gallantly handing it to her and watching as the sleek curtain of hair fell down her back. She laughed now at her romantic folly. He hadn’t bothered untying her hair. She had to untangle the mangled flower when she got home. There had been very little gallantry. He’d been surprised she was a virgin, and apologised. Afterwards, when the euphoria started to fizzle and the doubts set in, that was the worst part: the apology. Not the clumsy sex, briefly painful when he shoved himself into her. The apology was what hurt the most.

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:05:37.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

Then waiting for him to call, and realising that for him it hadn’t been about romance. He’d taken what she offered, imagining that she gave herself to many men. He’d asked her why, that night – a question he’d scream at her later, during the rocky years. She’d told him it was okay, that she loved him and would do anything for him. She’d never forget the way he smiled at her then, the arrogant smile of an attractive man used to being loved without having earned it. ‘Thank you, that was lekker,’ he’d said, ‘but we’re just friends, Qabila. I have a thing with Thandi.’ She’d looked at him without understanding, and brushed it away by saying, ‘I love you, Rashid. I really love you.’ Not yet pleading. That would come later. She’d gone home feeling the pulls and twangs of sex in her body, and disbelief at his words. The force of her love was great, she’d thought. He just needed time for it to be real, to be something he believed in. He was using Thandi to avoid real intimacy with her. She could wait. Now, she wanted to go back and hold the young woman she had been. To tell her that love is something that cannot be had by force of will. That you need someone looking back at you with the same intensity. She should have believed him. Instead, when she realised he wasn’t going to call, she called him. He wasn’t warm or shy or overawed by the greatness of the gift she’d given him. She wanted to plead with him but could not. Her mother would have heard. What would have happened if they’d had cellphones then? Would she have been ghosted, sent a rejection by sms? Or would he have found a private place to say, ‘thanks but no thanks’? He wouldn’t have come to her house. They wouldn’t have driven to Strandfontein beach again. Not gone to the make-out spot, where respectable men took the girls they fucked before going home to sit chastely in their living rooms with their respectable wives or girlfriends. If her father had been around, would she have been allowed to run outside when he hooted? She shook the thought off. Probably not. If her father hadn’t been the kind of man her mother had to leave to survive, would she even have wanted Rashid? They used to talk about the university on the drive to Strandfontein. She’d listen as he complained. About his Head of Department’s power games, the machinations of the notoriously bad administration. Absorbing his discontent had made her feel like she was doing something important. There were days it felt as if they were having the same conversation, over and over; just the cast of characters changed. The right to complain to each other had become intimacy. Small talk masquerading as connection. As soon as they were parked amongst the other steamed-up cars, he’d look at her and tell her she was pretty, lean over and put the seat back before climbing over onto her.

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:05:37.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

She wondered what it would be like to have another man make love to her, be her lover. Rashid was all she knew. She’d grown to hate sex with him. The quickness, the instrumental nature of it. Like a chore to be performed, a body function in need of maintenance. They hadn’t had sex in years. Well, she hadn’t. She wanted to go back there. To that place with its salty air, where she’d given herself up to the perfunctory handling of a man she’d manufactured. Nurturing her love and fidelity to a fantasy had left so little room for other possibilities. Whole lives she could not reclaim or even imagine. She took the exit and drove back to the past, hoping to find a path to a new future. Out of the suburbs, she drove past apartheid-era government housing projects with their peeling walls and high rates of TB. Even with their cheap bricks seeping damp and spitting out racial hatred, these houses were still better than the little one-room homes that were built now. Whole families, parents and children and grandparents, in one tiny room. Outside communal toilets or a portable toilet inside to scent those crowded dwellings. It was as if post-apartheid planners thought black people really wanted shacks, after all. As if black people don’t care for privacy, or a separation between where they cook, eat, make love, sleep and shit. She was on Vanguard Drive now, passing an informal settlement that had grown since she’d last been through here. The haphazardly shaped shacks hugged the hilly ground. Her people were architects and builders; they’d been recycling long before it became fashionable. The place was abuzz with people, sitting outside on crates, doing their laundry, living in public view. How did they keep anything on the inside? Driving through Mitchell’s Plain, where she grew up, she nearly took the turn to Zainab’s house. But she wasn’t ready to talk. Her marriage was like the country. A sliding scale of failure. She had the grand house, but her home was less than the shacks: meaner, colder, less comfortable. She recycled kindness and warmth, like the poor who dig through the garbage of the rich for meagre comforts. She’d lived all these years on Rashid’s discards and treated them like the finest building materials, while needing a proper house with a proper foundation and rooms that shimmered with love and laughter. What was she thinking? How did she get to be so self-indulgent? To treat the violence of inequality as a metaphor for her life. No matter how unhappy, she’d still choose her comfortable life. She sighed. The salty air told her she was close to the beach now. She drove through

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:05:37.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

Rocklands, past the three schools, and turned off into a side road hugged by sandy dunes covered in fynbos plants. On her left, the cold grey Indian Ocean rumbled and roiled. She followed the sandy road, passed the Pavilion and drove all the way to the parking area. There were few cars. It was the middle of the working day. She couldn’t see the occupants. Perhaps they were lovers, sneaking away for an illicit romp. Or, like her, chasing ghosts. Or hiding from the poverty of their lives. The parking area was slightly elevated, with a mean-looking cinderblock toilet. Strandfontein Pavilion loomed on the left. This cold ocean was once a schizophrenic country’s idea of a funhouse for black beachgoers; now it was frequented by those who couldn’t afford to get to Clifton or Camps Bay, or who preferred not to feel less than the debris that collected on those white-claimed shores. Those for whom this beach was part of their past, who’d been lucky enough to transition into the new South Africa, rarely visited. She and Rashid certainly never came back here after they were married; never had to confront the toilet he fucked her in because he wanted to try upright sex. The memories rolled over her. How good it felt to have his hands on her body. How powerful to see his eyes cloud over. The laughter when a hand or foot or leg caught against the door or the gears. How dirty she would feel later. The bargains with God she made. How exciting the lying was, and how shameful. We get trapped in the contradictions, she thought; the highs are the lows. What would it be like to love without them? He was so angry when she told him she was pregnant. She stuck away his offer – to remove the proof of their sinfulness – in a deep dark place where her nightmares were buried. She was alone when she told her mother. There’d been no one to hold her when her mother’s flinches and Zainab’s pursed mouth made her skin feel raw. Or after she sat in her father’s new house with his skittish new wife and he told her she was a whore, just like her mother. Or when she sat with eyes downcast, her parents on either side of her, in Rashid’s family’s Lansdowne living room as his mother asked him how he could’ve been so careless with someone from Mitchell’s Plain. It was one of the few times she was grateful for her father’s meanness. Their marriage was arranged swiftly, even though no one, not even she, wanted it. They were married a week later in her mother’s tiny living room in Portlands. Over the years, she’d become intimately acquainted with the look on Rashid’s face on their wedding night when her father told him to take care of her, because, even though she’d made a mistake, she was a good girl. Those first few years living with his parents, first in his bedroom and then in the

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:05:37.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

partitioned-off section of the house they had built for them, flayed what little pride she might have had. The insults she bore because everyone knew theirs was a must-marriage. The coy ways the chaste women – or the ones who just hadn’t been found out – would remind her of her sin. She’d been naughty, they would say, their sweetly offered malice cutting into her. Lucky that he married her. Nowadays the men don’t admit to being the father. As if he had nothing to do with it. As if she was the only person who bore the shame. People she barely knew would advise her how to plead with God for forgiveness. Being educated in the white man’s world can take one away from Allah, they’d say. Sometimes it’s better to let your child learn the Quran than to have too much education. How elated some of them were, and how oh-so-very- helpfully they’d remind her that God never forgets. The few kindly reminders that the unborn child would intercede with God on her behalf – those words never really stuck. She recalled the rage and guilt when she lost the baby. How Mummy Kayna would wonder aloud why God had not granted them a child. Rashid started playing squash to cope, leaving her alone with Mummy Kayna and her spite. When he was there, his smiles never reached his eyes and he nodded in all the wrong places when his mother spoke. His voice would catch when she least expected it. Once he just stood and stood in front of the baby food at Pick n Pay. She peeled back the years. There was the grey time between starting to build a career and the wonder of Habib’s birth. Boeya, Rashid’s daddy, insisted she return to finish her degree. She needed a reason to leave the house, he said. And on those drives to campus every morning and afternoon, she and Rashid wove a relationship. Not tenderness. Not enmity. A relationship they could live in, not thrive in perhaps, but live. It was too little and more than she ever expected. ‘We should try for another baby,’ he had said. Probably on someone’s advice. She wanted to keep driving to work with him, and so said she wanted to complete a Master’s, and when she was offered a job in her department, she took it. They became busy, building important lives. They got the right house and the right cars and the right furniture; they went on the right vacations and worked really hard for the right promotions. And when there was little more they could add to the shininess of their life, she was ready again. She never told him she was, just in case something went wrong. She courted him all over again so they could make a replacement, lawfully, in the eyes of God. Habib was beautiful. With him, they walked and laughed like people whom God had forgiven and rewarded for their good behaviour. And then Habib got sick. For a while, she became a merchant, haggling over the price of a life more dear than her own. She begged

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:05:37.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

and pleaded, bargained away every pleasure. Every right. Just so he could breathe a good breath. Have a good day. Be a miracle child. The first friend who told her he saw Rashid and Thandi at a Wimpy gleefully reported the news while her child was dying. Why do we take so much pleasure, Qabila wondered, at the unravelling of others’ lives? Is it to avoid fixing our own? She ignored it – until the smell of the hospital could not be washed from her hair, and her mother’s whispered reassurances and the soothing sounds of her prayer beads were not enough to soften an unforgiving day. He’d muttered that he was tired of takeaways for dinner, pushing the fish and chips around on his plate. ‘Maybe Thandi will give you a cooked meal,’ she said. ‘What are you talking about?’ She’d never forget the sound his fork made as it clattered on the plate; how still he became, hands on either side of the plate, fingers spread. Mouth compressed, his eyes took in every line of her face. ‘You think I don’t know you’re seeing her?’ she said. ‘Bringing your bad luck into our house. She probably went to a witch-doctor to get rid of complications so the two of you can fuck around. That’s what they do, go to witch-doctors. Does she have Aids? Are you bringing Aids into our home? Are you whoring around with her? While our child is fucking struggling to live? How can you do this to us? To him?’ The viciousness of her own voice surprised her. Scared her. She sounded like her father. The same cutting cruelty, the same rage. ‘What the fuck,’ he said. He got up so suddenly, everything on the table protested noisily. He walked up and down, his back turned as he crossed the room from one side to another as if he couldn’t bear to look at her. He went to stand in the doorway to face her, hands in his pockets. ‘Racist,’ he said, ‘fucking racist. I’m whoring around? What the fuck! You’re a fucking racist. How can you say that? You are the fucking whore. Do you even remember how you threw yourself at me? Opening your legs, trapping me with a baby that you couldn’t even give birth to? Desperate Qabila. If anyone’s killing our child it’s you with your lies and whoring. Racist whore.’ She froze. Looked down. Forced her limbs to unlock. Slowly got up. Her heart raced at the sight of his clenched fists, his hardened face pale where the skin was tensed. She inched backwards. She was her mother after all. ‘I can’t believe you said that. You should know better. You do know better,’ he continued. ‘I should have left. When my mother told me to leave you after the miscarriage,

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:05:37.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

I fucking should have left. But no, I felt sorry for you. “Duty,” my father said, “do your duty. She is your wife now. We don’t leave our marriages, Rashid. We work at it. Don’t embarrass us.” Fuck that, I should’ve left.’ He walked out and left her with the cold fish and chips. That night and every night afterwards, he slept in the guest room furthest from their bedroom. Their marriage’s fragile civility was ripped away in the bitter months that followed. The ferocity of their fights made their prior disagreements seem gentle; they said too much when they had so little to hold them together. Except when standing vigil for those long hours as their son lay dying. There, a brittle peace reigned that had everything to do with the little boy they loved and nothing to do with consideration for each other. After he died and they buried him and cried and mourned separately, they must have convinced themselves they were each other’s punishment. His death had taken the fight with him. When her father died, Rashid did his duty, even though she was mostly relieved. Rashid got a new job teaching on the mountain. She stayed at the university where they had both been students, where their lives had collided. Each day they left from the same house in different cars going in different directions. Over the years, they rubbed along together with little friction and no heat. Don’t forget the milk. Did you remember to wish so-and-so for her birthday? My flight comes in at ten. Pragmatic. Prudent. Passionless. The sightings continued. As their fortunes grew, the places Thandi and Rashid were seen in gained a star or two. Qabila never confronted him again. The shame of what she said and who she became when she had fought with him, never left. He never admitted anything. As the years ticked over, she became inured to the fear he would leave her. Then realised he never would. Stopped finding signs and omens in her furtive observations. Stopped wondering why he stayed. Whether it was from cowardice or duty, she didn’t know. He was the good guy, a martyr who married the girl he knocked up and stayed with her even though she couldn’t keep his children alive. He got to have a woman who loved him without having to earn it, and had no need to respect it. And she, she got a kind of peace. The pain was familiar. Easier than finding new ways to hurt, risking her heart for a second time. Look at what taking a risk on a person had gotten her. Sitting here, watching the grey ocean outlined with brown scummy foam crashing and receding in a wild but predictable way, she admitted she wanted to end their prison sentence. Maybe she would’ve done it sooner if her mother had not loved Rashid so fiercely. Been so proud of him. My son-in-law, she’d call him, face filled with wonder. He’s

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:05:37.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

not like your father, she’d say when Qabila tried to find the words to explain what was wrong between them. Look at the good life he’s given you. Every marriage has troubles. Zainab hated Rashid. Zainab with her many children and small life in Mitchell’s Plain with her doting husband. Her mother’s love had been easier than the humiliation of Zainab’s hate. Now that her mother was gone, Qabila needed a man whose face would soften when she walked into a room. Someone she could laugh with, without paying a penance later. She wanted to be loved. Wanted to share hope. Sitting there, amid the haunting of her past, she knew if she could’ve, she would not have chosen what her life had become. Guilt twisted her insides, because she wouldn’t have had that brief time with her sons. Murder of a different sort. That’s why she’d stayed. She wanted to flee from the thought. Her hands moved to start the car. The first lines of the poem popped in her head. To live is to be free of the spell … She dropped her hands back into her lap and gave herself over to the soothsaying of these words that made sense without logic. They found their way into her tense muscles and rigid jawline. She’d bound herself with old cords of regret and sorrow, and yesterdays that could not be relived – but perhaps could be relieved. Qabila’s car cut through the dancing sand as she drove home through the dark Strandfontein backroads. The roiling ocean to her right was a fitting complement. There was no resettling for her. Not yet. There was one more question she had to ask Rashid. The question that had haunted and tormented her. The question she’d never asked. Qabila put her keys down on the little table littered with in-between things: keys, bank statements, her vermillion scarf, his gloves. She should have just lived in this narrow little corridor. ‘Where were you? I called you. You left your phone at home.’ Rashid’s voice slammed into her tender skin. ‘I went for a drive,’ she replied softly. ‘I got chicken,’ he accused. She couldn’t help the snicker that escaped. ‘Chicken for chickens,’ she muttered. ‘What? What did you say?’ His voice boomed down the passage. She met his eyes. Saw the anger, hurt, fear. So much fear. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘The chicken’s cold now. It’s in the kitchen.’ The evenness of his voice was at odds with what his eyes were telling her.

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:05:37.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

‘I went to Strandfontein Pavilion,’ she said, ‘to that parking lot where we used to go.’ ‘What? Why would you do that? That’s mad.’ His distaste could’ve sent her flying. She felt its full force before he swivelled, starting his retreat. She sighed. ‘Do you love her?’ Qabila asked. Her voice soft with the faintest undercurrent of hurt. She watched his arm grabbing the wall to correct his stumble. For a breath, nothing moved. She stared at his back. He nodded. Slowly. Solemnly. Although a small part of her she rarely fed had hoped otherwise, she was not surprised. Was not upset. It should have hurt. What kind of wife calmly accepts her husband’s affair? A trickle of relief softened the tension in her bones. For years, Qabila had imagined that this answer to this question would break her. Had imagined her marriage would end with screaming recriminations. Hoped, too, that after the screaming, he would say it had been a mistake and that he’d loved her all along. That he just needed to almost lose her. She smiled wryly at the foolishness of not realising that some endings start long before they are spoken. He had left her a long time ago, and she’d grown accustomed to his dutiful notlove. ‘I want a divorce,’ she said to his back. His shoulders dropped. Four words. Four steps to lay her cheek against his back and beg him to turn. Four steps. Until he goes where she cannot follow. ‘It’s been a hard week, Qabila, a long day,’ he said eventually. ‘I’m going to bed.’ Even if she ran she would always be four steps behind. Four steps too many. She felt as if she should cry. Instead she went to the kitchen and ate cold chicken and potato wedges that stuck to the roof of her mouth. Tomorrow was soon enough to find a lawyer.

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:05:37.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

Chapter 5

Qabila floated through her morning rituals. Rashid must have woken quite early to avoid her. Once, her need for his love would’ve weighted his absence. Now, an undiscovered life without him lay before her. She could live in Paris for a year or go for singing lessons or buy a little cottage in a forest. She could go on road trips to nowhere without his sullen presence. Early in their marriage, they’d often driven up to Joburg to visit Faghria. They always went in secret. Mummy Kayna and Boeya would have disowned them if they’d known – might never have spoken to them again if they knew they went to Faghria’s wedding. But Qabila wouldn’t have missed it for anything: that wedding was one of the warmest unions she’d witnessed. Caroline was an academic too, a literary scholar who specialised in queer theory. She and Qabila frequently attended the same conferences. Faghria used to enjoy telling them all not to talk shop, particularly when they complained. ‘Be an artist,’ she’d say, ‘like me – and not the troubled kind. Then you don’t have to worry about all this institutional stuff.’ She hoped they would still be sisters. Faghria was the only Fakir she was completely comfortable with, and she didn’t want to lose her or Caroline. The house phone’s shrill ring startled her. ‘I’ve been trying to call you for the last two days,’ Zainab’s voice accused. ‘Your phone’s turned off. Where’ve you been, what’s going on? Are you okay? I’ve been dreaming of you every night.’ Her sister’s worry was palpable, but instead of making Qabila feel smothered and impatient, she felt something she’d forgotten how to receive. Love. Not the movie kind. Not the Rashid kind. The kind that was rough and unrestrained and spiked a room with need and fear and tenderness and memories. The love brought by the chaos of being tied to unpredictable beings. Beings we barely understand but who we depend on for the fullness of our days. Love. Qabila folded into the chair next to the phone. ‘I’m sorry you’ve been worried,’ she said. ‘What’s happening with you? Rashid said you were sick last week and needed space.

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:05:37.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

What’s going on? Did you have a breakdown?’ ‘I really miss Mommy. I think it’s only hitting me now. It was a difficult week. I was remembering so much.’ ‘Memories of Mommy?’ Zainab asked. Qabila sighed. ‘Everything. How did I get it so wrong, Zainab? For so long, I’ve just floated along … I was so unhappy, but I wouldn’t acknowledge it. Never mind try to change it. But I’m getting well. That’s where I was: getting well.’ She knew she wasn’t making sense, and yet this was the most sensible she’d felt in a long time. ‘I’m divorcing Rashid.’ ‘What? No wonder I’m dreaming of you. Rashid warned me that something is off. Stay there, I’m coming over.’ The phone clicked off. It was just like Zainab to issue a command and expect to be obeyed. Her homemaker sister was one of the most intelligent women she knew. Over the years, Qabila had tried to convince her to do something with her brilliance. Zainab would sigh and tell her that she was doing exactly what she wanted. That there was more to life than accumulating possessions and strangers’ respect. ‘What’s wrong,’ Zainab would say, ‘is not that I am doing something that doesn’t show I’m brilliant, but that the world doesn’t reward the brilliance in small everyday acts of love.’ Qabila would usually shake her head. ‘But you don’t have to struggle the way you do! And what will you do when the kids grow up?’ ‘Allah Kadir. God is capable.’ Qabila was stunned by the fatalistic surrender, but had learned to respect her sister’s faith. It usually won the argument. God, after all, had given her three children and a husband who loved her. Qabila couldn’t argue with that. She bustled about, clearing some of the mess that had accumulated in the last few days. This must be what young people felt when their judgemental parents came to visit. She smiled wryly as she imagined Zainab wiping white-gloved hands over the furniture. And what did she mean about Rashid warning her? She would have to call Ntombi to come and clean again. Rashid had asked her not to come for the last week. Her sister was dressed in a bright floral hijab. Her scarf wrapped a little carelessly, evidence of the haste with which she must have left the house. They kissed and exchanged greetings. Zainab held Qabila’s face, looking her over slowly, methodically, like a psychic reading tea leaves at the bottom of a teacup. They hadn’t looked at each other like this for many years. What Zainab saw, Qabila didn’t know.

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:05:37.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

Zainab sighed. ‘We need tea,’ she said and tucked Qabila into her side, their heads close as they moved to the kitchen. Her sister was praying softly as they walked. Her hands rhythmically stroking Qabila’s shoulder to the salawat. An oasis of grace in a week that had tried her endurance. In the kitchen, Zainab led Qabila to a chair and put on the kettle. Her movements slow and deliberate, she set out cups. Hunted for cookies and filled the air with sonorous Arabic praises to the Prophet and beseeches for the relief of pain. Every time she passed Qabila, face intent, she’d touch her gently, as if applying a healing balm. The part of Qabila that had stopped believing in such things wanted to scoff and sneer. Instead, she closed her eyes, leaned back and let her sister’s voice wash over her. When the room fell silent, the swirling thoughts she’d begun the day with had been gentled. A deep sorrow seeped to the surface. They drank their tea, no words passing between them. Every now and then they would find each other’s faces and speak that language too large for syllables. When their tea was done, Zainab carefully packed the teacups and crumbed plates into the dishwasher, and then asked, as she resumed her seat: ‘Do you want to come home with me?’ And with those few words, Qabila accepted she was not the only one who knew her marriage had been over for a very long time. She started to cry. Her brief bubble of peace pierced by humiliation and exhaustion; the pretence that had taken so much effort still left her nowhere to hide. Her sister held her like she was one of her children. Zainab was praying again, and that made her cry too. She wished she had a God to believe in. Maybe she wouldn’t need to be held while she cried if she had a God to cry to. When she could speak past the lump in her throat, she told her sister of the week, the dream and yesterday’s drive to the dark past. She let it pour out of her. God’s unlove and punishment. And Thandi. And every hurt, small and large, that had festered in the years of silence. Her talkative sister listened, made tea and plied her with cookies, and when she was done talking asked her again if she wanted to go home with her. Qabila wanted to say yes. But knew that exchanging one person for another who treated her as not good enough was not what she needed. Zainab would preach. Tell her she needed a relationship with Allah to be happy. To work less. Do the things that Zainab did to be happy. She needed to get back to work, too, and doing so from her sister’s house was not a good option. When her sister left, Qabila went looking for her phone to see who else might have gotten in touch with her. There was a backlog of calls and emails. Mostly work. She was exhausted just looking at the messages that had piled up. She knew it would be a good distraction to get lost in ephemera – for a few minutes at a time, to have small solvable problems that

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:05:37.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

could be ticked off a list. If only the problems she needed distraction from could be ticked off as easily. Tomorrow was soon enough. Rashid found her in the dark on the patio, staring at the swimming pool. Purging to her sister had left her with a strange peace. ‘Hi,’ he said into the dark. ‘Aren’t you cold?’ From the wary lines of his body to the smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, he exuded awkward bravado. His body language tried to tell her: it’s okay, I forgive you, everything is normal. How many times had she been coaxed like this? Not again. She sighed and slowly turned back to the soothing water lapping the side of the pool. ‘No, it’s okay. Not cold. How was your day?’ She looked over her shoulder quickly. ‘Same old,’ he said. ‘I’m going back tomorrow. I saw the backlog of emails and messages this afternoon.’ He sat down on the wicker chair, his features obscured in the dark. ‘You don’t have to, I told them you were ill and needed at least two weeks. When last did you take sick leave?’ Qabila shrugged. He knew the answer was: who remembers? ‘I’m going in tomorrow, it’ll be unmanageable by next week. You know how it gets. If you don’t deal with things as soon as possible they just pile up. I have a conference in Zurich next month. A book chapter due in two weeks. If I don’t get some of the smaller things sorted …’ She made a strangled sound that they both chose to ignore. The end of her marriage would go on her list too. She let out a deep breath and gave him a quick look. His mouth was moving, or maybe it was just shadows in the dark. They sat in silence for a while. ‘I have to get out of these clothes,’ he said. He pulled his favourite red tie over his head as he rose. He wore a suit and tie every day. She used to find it sexy. Very few of their contemporaries did. They didn’t need to. Modern universities liked to pretend they were liberal now. ‘Do you want to eat?’ she asked without looking at him. ‘Er, yes, some food would be good.’ ‘Okay,’ she said, not moving. ‘Why don’t you stay there? I’m up already. I’ll sort something out.’ ‘Okay, thanks.’ If it had been in the time of deep pretence, she might’ve made a joke and pretended to faint at his offer. He was trying. It was cold out. She got up to get a blanket in the living room, and heard him on the phone. Tonight she preferred the cold dark to being inside the big warm house, so she settled back into her sphinx-like reverie. What was he trying to rescue? It just didn’t make

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:05:37.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

sense. Maybe he thought she was having a nervous breakdown. He always accused her of breaking down. She snorted at the idea. She’d never felt saner. Not in control perhaps, but sane. Like she’d awoken from a very long dream. Her mind flitted through the detritus of the past. The hobbies she’d taken up at first to fill his frequent absences, then later discarded as she threw herself ever more into her career. Universities sure appreciate women who don’t need to balance work and family. She heard the doorbell ring and nearly moved to open the door. ‘I’ll get it,’ she heard from inside. ‘I ordered food.’ Of course you did. He bustled onto the patio, his false bonhomie disrupting the solemnity of her reflections. He was fussily arranging the dishes whilst heartily expressing appreciation for the pizza. She nodded and smiled in all the right places. ‘Yes. Nothing beats the smell of a pizza. You got to eat it while it’s hot. But it’s great when it’s cold too.’ Nod. Smile. Nod. His fussing was interminable. She wanted him to shut up and leave her to her memories and regret. She snorted when she realised a few weeks ago she would’ve felt grateful at this concern. If only she knew that threatening to leave would make him want her more. Helluva time for her to realise that her marital strategy of over-availability was the opposite of what worked. And maybe that was the core of his love for Thandi – unavailability. Their divorce might end up being a disaster for his affair. She thought she should laugh but couldn’t feel any mirth. They’d both been prisoners. Rashid was still in the grip of Stockholm syndrome. He’d learned to love his captor – not her, but the marriage. He was telling her some story about a visiting professor who’d kicked up a fuss about not being treated like the world’s greatest intellectual. ‘Zainab was here today. She asked me if I wanted to stay with them until I’m settled,’ she said. ‘What?’ he said, a tight furrow between his brows. ‘You’re not making sense.’ She enjoyed the sensation of shocking him out of his empty prattle. ‘Our marriage has been over for a long time, Rashid.’ She looked at him then. They held each other’s eyes and whatever he saw in hers made him drop his pretence. He looked out at the pool. She watched the lines of tension ease as his body sunk into his chair. ‘Are you sure?’ he asked, giving her a quick look. ‘I am,’ she said with the soft solemnity of a vow.

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:05:37.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

‘Are you going to stay at Zainab’s?’ ‘Uh-uh, no.’ She shook her head, surprised at how calm she felt. As if she was part of a scene she’d rehearsed so well that the certainty allowed for no wild feelings. ‘Do you want me to leave?’ She smiled at that. ‘We’ve lived separate lives in the same house for a long time. It doesn’t matter.’ ‘You’re absolutely sure?’ The wary relief in his voice made her look at him. He sounded like a captive who did not dare believe that he just might be freed. She’d expected him to ask her to stay. To beg when he saw that final hardening of her resolve, so she’d know the years with him had been worth it. She wanted to weep – but not here, not now. He was watching her closely. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes. ‘Yes,’ she whispered. Nodded. Tried to hold the tears inside, to contain the wave of regret. She kept nodding. Her mouth scrunching up. The breath catching inside her. She breathed it out, letting the moisture pushing against her eyelids fall. He whispered her name. ‘Qabila, Qabila, Qabila.’ His voice catching. He was crying. For the second time in the last few days, they cried together. Separated by cold pizza. This time, neither reached out to hold the other. Rashid put his head on the wrought-iron table and sobbed. She was shocked now. He hadn’t cried like this – like a wounded animal – when their babies died. His grief raw and dense and old, so very old, an ancient song that was deep and true. It pulled the weight of her own sorrow forth; threw her entire body into the breaking of the bond that had held them captive. They acknowledged, through their wild grief that night, how heavy the mantle of their marriage had been. And yet they grieved that the marriage they’d spent so much time on, and suffered for, could so easily be undone. They cried for the unnecessary sacrifice. The honesty of their youthful desires. The wrong turns and the moments of grace. Sitting apart, they cried together. When they were spent, their throats hoarse, their faces burning and scratchy from sorrow’s salty fountains, they stared at each other, hollowed out like survivors of an apocalypse. It was an end. The next morning she woke, her head pounding, eyes raw, limbs like rubber. She lay there listening to the wind howl and sweep the gardenia’s branches against the window. Her mind skittered over the night before. She didn’t want to go to work. Didn’t want to be home. She rolled over onto her side, hand rubbing the empty side of the bed, and smiled bleakly. How

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:05:37.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

long would she continue the ritual of looking for someone who wasn’t there? She listened carefully for Rashid. Hoped he’d left, so she wouldn’t have to see him. There was a confused bundle of feeling there that she didn’t want to probe. It was very quiet. As if he was hiding in his room again. Finally driven out by her bodily needs, Qabila found his note in the kitchen. I won’t be home. I’m going to stay with my parents for a few nights. She looked at the note, the words making no sense. The coffee pot was gurgling, the coffee perfuming the air. Why would he not want to stay here? Liar, he was probably going to stay with Thandi. Well, at least she wouldn’t have to deal with him. She went back to her room, picked up the list with the poem and read the words. Yes, she was freeing herself from the spell.

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:05:37.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

Chapter 6

Rashid didn’t return to the house. His suitcases were gone. He must have packed when she was out. A few weeks later a note appeared on the fridge with an address in Walmer Estate. He’d scrawled: I’ll be staying here if you need me. Take care of yourself. A part of her wanted to be devastated, and so she cried. She wasn’t sure afterwards whether she felt relief or pain. And so it went for weeks. Qabila moved between the crying and her lists. She broke apart and came back together. She moved through the world of the university with a smile and with that walk that broadcast competence – the one she’d practised for so long. She raised her eyebrows in the right places and endured her colleagues’ mundane mutterings as if they were new-minted currency. She smiled in the right places, turned up in the right rooms, prepared the right words and kept her lists ticking over. As long as she mouthed the right things, none were the wiser that she spent her evenings crying. She flew to her conference and talked about power with conviction, while back home she’d given over the dissolution of her life to lawyers. She shopped for chocolates in Zurich. Tick-ticking the recipients off the list. Hung out with her conference buddy, Nyameka. Told her she was fine, and did not let her see how much she hurt. Convincingly marvelled at the weather and crooned at the lake. When she got home from Zurich, her friends and family rallied around her. They all seemed to know that she’d deserved better. He friend Erna couldn’t quite hide her relief that Qabila’s perfect life had cracked. Even so, a gentleness grew between them in those weeks of admitting their imperfections. Qabila had heard the hard-nosed sociologist’s stories before, but had never really felt them. She no longer had the mask of a perfect marriage with which to corrode intimacy with the struggling single woman. Erna was a divorcee too. Her husband had been a stalwart member of the new NG Kerk and had kept her and her two children rigidly on the straight-and-narrow path to his version of heaven. Erna hadn’t known that her husband’s business partner was helping him create heaven on earth. She’d come home unexpectedly and found them so lost in each other that

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:05:37.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

they hadn’t heard her arriving. As the ‘failed’ woman who had not kept her husband from ‘abomination’, she was politely shunned by the members of her church. Though they spoke to her, with slow and deliberate care, they never invited her and her children anywhere any more. Husbands were ushered away and women would make arch comments. Erna attempted to entice Qabila into online dating adventures and offered tips on how to avoid men who made regular church appearances but kept secret dates on the side. Qabila’s nieces dropped by often. The awkwardness of their youthful love brought an inexplicable joy. They sat with her, even though they clearly wanted to flee their discomfort with deep pain. When fear of the future pressed, she would call the youngest, Saleigha, and ask questions about engineering. And Saleigha, puzzled at first, would tell her aunt what she’d learned that week in one of her courses. About buildings and what kinds of structures are sturdy and which materials one needs. The twenty-two-year-old was excited by freedom. Unlike her two sisters, Saleigha didn’t have big dreams of marriage and was considering internships in other parts of the country. The oldest, Ariefa, would drop by with the baby and let Qabila play and lose herself with Fahiem. Ariefa reminded Qabila of herself at that age: married too young to an ambitious man who she loved more than she loved herself. Qabila worried about the way she deferred to Riedwaan. At least Ariefa’s baby lived. When she visited, Qabila imagined how different her life might have been if her own baby had not died. The middle child, Firdous, was getting married in a few months. Every time she came by, Qabila wanted to shoo her away. She didn’t want her bad luck to tarnish Firdous’s shining hope. And still Firdous brought it into her house. Love and hope wrapped in hesitant compassion. After the wedding, she and her fiancé were moving to Saudi Arabia to teach English. They had gotten tired of ignored job applications and jobs that offered menial pay, despite their educations. Qabila marvelled at how they imagined their life together as a team in a new and unknown world. She wanted to protect them from disappointments. And yet, Firdous seemed wiser than Qabila had been at that age. Zainab came to visit with homilies about God and lots of fragrant Cape Malay food and memories of a time before Rashid. Qabila and her sister would imagine what their mother would have said and done, and they grieved together. For their mother, for Qabila’s marriage, for her sons. And sometimes even for their father. Their voices softened as they recalled the beautiful and the sad and terrifying. At other times, they would recall funny stories and shriek with laughter. Her sister would break off to pray in Habib’s room – just like their mother used to do. The first time had startled Qabila, but there was a rightness to

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:05:37.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

it she became grateful for. It was a room ready for new prayers. New bargains with God. There were long calls with Rashid’s sister, Faghria. More in the beginning, but less and less as loyalties grew strained. Together, they tried to understand Rashid better. How his parents’ insistence on looking perfect to outsiders had killed off his choices. ‘He was damaged,’ Faghria would say, ‘by the way my parents treated me, and then when he disappointed them. They so wanted their prince to have the big wedding and perfect family. He tried so hard to go back to being the son he thought they wanted. It wasn’t easy. I think he took it out on you. Don’t be too hard on him. He lost the children too, Qabila. Whatever he was to you, he was also their father. He loved Habib. Are you sure you want to give up? You know, he and Thandi might just be friends. He says there is nothing going on.’ It was good to talk about him, analyse him with someone who was there when he was not yet the man she married. But they both grew weary in time of batting their different versions of Rashid between them. Qabila loved her enough to let her go gracefully. Without Rashid, she saw the frailties and strengths of the people in her life and loved them more fiercely. Being with Rashid had turned love insipid. Through the pain and loss of this love, she could feel new things happening. What was growing, she did not know. She merely surrendered to anything that felt better than the rejection she’d lived with, courted and preened for. It was a grey time nonetheless. She sucked up the love that came her way and let tiny roots find purchase in the rocky landscape of her heart. In the meanwhile, the lawyers spoke to each other. Rashid didn’t want the house and was willing to sell her his half. He was starting over. She wanted to scream. She didn’t want him. But she didn’t want him to start over so easily. There were moments her feelings were seven things at once, and none in agreement. She sat in her dead son’s room and told him that his father did not want to live with him any more. Some days, her rage was like a pulsating volcano in her stomach, regurgitating all the should-haves and didn’t-gives and didn’t-hears and didn’t-loves, and all the ways he’d wronged her. On other days, the good days, she’d feel relief; the hopeful possibility of filling the void called Rashid. Some days, she sat there in that outdated powder-blue room and ranted at herself. Her stupidity for loving badly and giving her children a faithless father and a reckless mother. There were days she just remembered. Too tired, too spent to feel. She kept the rhythms of her life. The only difference the freedom to wail in Habib’s room without expecting Rashid to return. They eventually came to an agreement: she would keep the house and pay him the lowest market rate. He would choose a few pieces of furniture for his new life. They divvied up the

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Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

stocks and all the little important things they’d chased and used to weight their life with meaning. Their marriage was set to end in that most soulless of reckonings, the balanced ledger. Seventeen years dissolved in four months. The day before she was to sign the divorce agreement, she dreamed the words again.

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:05:37.

Chapter 7

She was on a small leaky rowboat in an ocean of words. The now familiar poem roiled and crashed in great big waves and gently lapped the boat. Each word was the poem entire.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

To live is to be free of the spell To be free of the spell is to claim a spell of your own To spell is to bespell and to bespell is to unmake the world Unspell Bespell Spell Salty brine coated her face and lips. Whispered words sank into her flesh. The boat creaked the words. Water seeped and loose boards admitted the poem’s susurration. Gulls cawed the words as they swooped and dove overhead. The boat was sinking and Qabila tried to bail the waterwords out, throw them back into the ocean – but she couldn’t bail fast enough. The wet jumble kept coming to puddle at her feet. She grabbed the oars and tried to row away. Still the words crept up her legs to cover her lap. The boat was swamped and she knew she was going to drown. It was so unfair, so very very unfair. What do you want from me? she screamed, over and over and over. She screamed as the water reached her chest. Though the boat was completely submerged, she remained seated, her body melded to the boat. As the

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:05:37.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

water reached her chin she let go, sobs rattling and catching in her hoarse throat. The ocean of words claimed her. She drowned in them. With every wordful of ocean she took in, her lungs filled. She surrendered. Her hand sweeping the empty side of the bed, Qabila woke with the words thrumming in her veins. As before, she found herself mouthing them over and over. She lay on her back, chanting the words. When she was ready, she trailed out of her room and walked the house, spraying the words into the sterile rooms. When the words petered out, she dressed with care and went to meet her husband for the first time since the night of the great crying. They’d agreed to meet at her lawyers’ offices at the Waterfront. Everyone looked up at her as she entered the conference room. The rich cream walls were hung with expensive watercolours, evoking a nostalgic Cape Town. Rashid looked different but she couldn’t fathom why. He was talking softly to a blond man in an expensive suit. Rashid greeted her warily, looking her over. Magriet, Qabila’s very expensive lawyer, introduced her to Attorney Vosloo. The country really had changed. White people working on black people’s behalf now. If you could afford it, she thought. ‘Shall we begin?’ Magriet said as Qabila sank into the chair opposite Rashid and Vosloo. The lawyers spoke and droned through procedures and possessions she didn’t care about any more. Rashid and Qabila mutely looked at each other. She felt like a photographer, approaching her subject from many angles, yet never satisfied with the image. The lawyers started talking about the arrangements for the house. ‘I don’t want the house,’ she blurted out. The room went silent. ‘What? What do you mean you don’t want the house?’ Rashid asked. ‘I don’t want it.’ ‘I don’t understand. We agreed that you would keep the house,’ Rashid gave Vosloo a look that said, did I not tell you she was impossible. ‘I don’t want it. I changed my mind.’ ‘Mrs Fakir, this changes the agreement … we’ll have to draw up another set of papers,’ Vosloo interrupted the exchange. ‘When did you change your mind?’ Magriet asked. Ignoring Rashid and Vosloo’s beetled brows, which screamed inconvenient woman, she turned to Magriet. ‘This morning,’ she said. ‘I can’t live there. Its, its … its fullness traps me.’ Magriet’s squint belied the gentleness of her voice. ‘Are you sure about this?’

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Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

Qabila’d had enough. ‘Yes,’ she said, and stood up. ‘Could you please take care of this, Magriet? I’ll call you later.’ She knew she was being rude, saying goodbye over her shoulder, on her way out the door. She could hardly tell them she’d had a dream that pushed her to be freer than she dared. Waiting for the lift, she looked around in frustration for the stairs and rushed down them. Outside, she stood at the entrance, closed her eyes, breathed the salty air and felt her muscles relax their heavy grip. Someone was at her side. Without opening her eyes, she knew it was him. She knew his smell. It had almost dissipated in the distance between them and yet the tiniest hint of him cut through the salt. For years, she’d divined the tones of his breathing, and once – a wisp of memory reminded her – she thought she knew what every breath meant. She didn’t turn to look at him. They just stood there until he broke the wordless space between them. ‘I’m hungry,’ he said. ‘Do you want to go for brunch?’ She looked at him then. The strange look was still there, without the divide-our-assets tension. ‘It’s the air,’ she said, ‘makes you hungry.’ He smiled the kind of smile that comes after too many long, painful nights. She offered him one of her own. ‘C’mon, let’s get something to eat,’ he said. They walked through the early-morning tourists and Cape Town’s glamourati to Tasha’s, one of their favourite brunch places. ‘How are you?’ She wanted to lie and tell him she was great. That she never cried, and she didn’t miss what they’d been. She laughed at herself instead. ‘I’m going through a divorce,’ she said. ‘And you?’ His face caught in surprise, before he nodded and said, ‘About the same.’ Qabila responded with another sad smile. They both sighed deeply at the same time and didn’t speak until they were seated and greeted by a waitress named Mandy. She recognised Rashid from the campus in the clouds. She took their order and asked them how long they’d been married. ‘Just over seventeen years,’ Rashid told her. ‘Wow, that’s a miracle. I hope I’m as lucky as you are,’ she said as she turned to relay their order. Qabila wanted to cry. Instead she stared out the window. Ignored the husband of seventeen years. Didn’t let a tear escape, so Mandy could hold on to her hope. When the food arrived, she smiled at Mandy dutifully and ate dully, pushing the first few

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:05:37.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

mouthfuls past the lump in her throat. They ate in silence, neither trying to hold each other with their eyes. When as much of the food had been eaten as people discarding a marriage could eat and the bill was paid and Rashid had held her chair out and they were heading to the parking lot to their cars so they could drive in opposite directions, he held her in front of the paypoint and she let him. ‘Do you want to go back?’ he breathed into her ear so softly she thought she’d imagined it. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Do you want to see my place?’ She didn’t want to. She said, ‘Yes.’ They took his car. She’d forgotten how assured his hands looked on the steering wheel. She wondered if Thandi would mind. She didn’t care. What was she doing? Did he know what he was doing? The tense silence was comfortingly familiar. Neither remarked how picturesque the misty harbour was, spread out below the mountain. Or on the narrowness of Walmer Estate’s steep streets, in comparison to the wide streets of the northern suburbs. He parked in a garage tucked under a house that seemed to be mostly made of perched, jutting squares and windows. He tried to smile reassuringly as he led her through the garage door. It did not reassure her. The cheerful kitchen belied the house’s austere exterior. So did the living room, which overlooked the harbour. She went to the window and watched the light play over the ocean. He was pottering around behind her. Her shoulders dropped when he left the room. She brazenly explored her surroundings. The furniture was well worn and against the wall were school certificates for a John Bergson who was most excellent at attendance and mathematics and a different sport every year. Frances Bergson seemed to prefer netball, accounting and subjects that said ‘great future businesswoman’. The last certificate was dated 2002. Where were these promising Bergsons? Rashid had returned to the room. She gave him a brief look and went back to her investigations. There was Bergson memorabilia scattered everywhere. A beautiful family. The father bespectacled and suited at graduations, the mother soft and round with nary a stitch out of place, and the children smiling in glowing good health. Qabila could hear the kids’ plummy accents and the parents’ tighter vowels. Something about the Bergsons’ ruddy achievements and shabby luxury relaxed Qabila. ‘Who are they?’ she asked and sank down next to Rashid on the blue cat-scratched couch. ‘He teaches engineering. On sabbatical now, they’re in London for the year. Their

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Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

daughter’s based there. She’s an artist, married to a Brit.’ ‘And the son?’ ‘In Joburg, teaches law. Do you want to see the rest of the place?’ Rashid asked, getting up. He showed her the four bedrooms. They were intimate and empty at the same time, the way dated memories are. Qabila couldn’t help comparing this house with hers. This was what a lived-in house looked like. And even so, this house could not hold the children. The children always leave and only time capsules remain. ‘It’s a happy house,’ she said. They were standing in Frances’s room; Frances, who the parents probably hoped would never return to this bedroom to live indefinitely. If she did, it would mean her life had not worked, that she’d experienced a great loss. Rashid laughed. ‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘He has a reputation.’ ‘What do you mean?’ she asked. He just shrugged. So many people papered over the cracks. Why was it so hard for lives to be exactly what they seem? He was staying in the guestroom. It was strange to see his things in this new place. There was a careless abandon to how they were strewn around the room. She heard his shoes shushing across the wooden floor as he pushed them into a corner with his foot. He shrugged, an almost embarrassed smile on his face. ‘There’s a cleaning woman. She comes once a week.’ ‘You don’t have to apologise,’ she said. For the first time in a long time, he let her pause in the space where he slept. She touched his things, and left them where he’d tossed them. The relaxed and messy room went with the new look on his face. There was a vulnerability about the room, about the whole house. He lay down on the bed while she tried to excavate this new life of his, much as she had the Bergsons’ lives. His eyes followed her as she opened closets and peered in drawers. She knew she was being intrusive. That she had no right. She expected him to stop her. She wanted to stop. She didn’t know what she was looking for. A part of her couldn’t understand why he let her rummage through his life like a tourist browsing through curios, hoping, impossibly, to find something to take home that would change home forever. He was lying back on the pillows now and looking at the ceiling. ‘Why aren’t you stopping me?’ she asked. ‘I have nothing to hide,’ he said. She perched on the edge of the armchair that he had turned into a laundry hamper. His

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:05:37.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

long body was stretched out on the peppermint-green duvet. ‘Did she not want you when you were free?’ she asked. She realised, as the question left her mouth, that’s what she’d been looking for. Not him. She’d been hoping to find Thandi. She wanted the woman who’d stalked her fears to be real. For so long, his freedom and Thandi had been linked in her mind. Yet here he was, and there were no signs of Thandi. ‘Come here,’ he said. He patted the bed, inviting her to lie down beside him. ‘Are you mad?’ Her face felt tight and hot. She could feel her muscles pulling and bunching. His eyes went back to the ceiling before he looked at her tight face again. ‘Kanallah,’ he said. She moved a step to the bed, before the strange pull he and this house was exerting on her snapped. She turned her back on him, then hurried to the living room and expected him and his strange mood to follow her. Whatever game he was playing, she wanted to leave. He should take her back to the Waterfront.

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:05:37.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

Chapter 8

The midday call to prayer started, the Arabic enfolding her. She hadn’t been this close to the muezzin in a while. The comforting rhythm of her childhood rooted her where she stood. Where was Rashid? What was he playing at? She hurried back to his room. He was going to take her back to her car. Right now. She blinked at the sight of him on his knees, on his grey-and-blue prayer mat facing Mecca. She stood still in the doorway, breath trapped in her stomach. Rashid used to stand in front of her, leading the salaah, on that same blue-and-grey musla when Habib was alive. When he died, they had without discussion turned their backs on God. And each other. He still went to mosque on Eids, the occasional jumuah, for weddings and funerals. She still dressed appropriately and abided by cultural rules when the occasion demanded. But the large sacrifices, the big ways in which belief structured the small movements of their days and hearts, ended with Habib. Rashid had changed. She’d seen the difference but not counted on how deep the changes went. Had being with her made him godless? She wanted to watch him practise his faith, but it was too intimate, too intrusive. So she went back to the living room and stared out at the ocean, her imagination staying in the room with him, following the unfolding ritual. But she must’ve gotten the raka’at wrong, because he appeared sooner than she expected, startling her. ‘Okay?’ he asked. She peered at him over her shoulder, her neck pulling just a little too hard. He looked serene. She nodded. His hands were on her waist. ‘What are you doing?’ She tried to pull free, only to have his arms wrap around her stomach, pulling her into him. He rested his chin on top of her head. She stiffened. ‘Just relax,’ he whispered, ‘please.’ ‘What is happening with you? What are you doing?’ ‘Please, Qabila, please. I fucked up, I kept fucking up. I couldn’t find my way back. I need you to trust me. Please try, baby.’

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Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

The tone in his voice stilled her. She wanted to harden herself. To melt into him. To run. She didn’t know what this was. In all their years together, yearning, shut out of this man’s heart, she’d learned his every breath. She’d attuned herself to his every mood, responded so many times to what he asked of her without words. But she didn’t know what this implacable and entreating tone meant. She allowed herself to lean into him. For so long, she’d longed to hear him say some version of these words. Now that the moment was here, she didn’t know what to do. It didn’t feel like a romance, like love winning out or any of the other clichés she’d imagined. ‘It’s okay,’ he said. ‘No, it isn’t. I loved you for so long, Rashid. Without anything from you. It always felt like I loved you from the outside, and had to be grateful that you stayed with me out of duty. Loving you hurt. It hurt. The last few months, I’ve realised I covered that up behind the loss of the children. I used our children to hide that you didn’t love me.’ She sighed. A little of the tension left on the rush of words. He coiled around her. He was crying, his tears were seeping into her hair and coating her scalp. He cleared his throat. ‘I’m so sorry. How did we get this so wrong? I loved you, I always loved you, Qabila. I still do. It was always you.’ She heard the words. They made no sense. There had been too many bitter nights and lonely mornings. ‘What are you doing, Rashid? Are you afraid of the divorce? Does Thandi not want you? Afraid your parents will disapprove of her? Is dividing our stuff too real?’ Qabila could hear her voice rising. The anger that always seemed ready to burn pushed its way to the surface. She tugged at his arms and wriggled against him, but he only tightened his hold. ‘Let go of me,’ she panted. ‘You’re smothering me.’ ‘No,’ he whispered in her ear. He shifted and kept saying no until she stilled. They stood like that, she trapped, her back to him, his head on her shoulder now, facing out to sea. There were tiny ripples on the ocean. The harbour was busy. Qabila knew it was only the distance that made the sea look as if it were dancing gently. He was sniffling behind her. There was a lump in her throat but she was tired of crying. Scenes of her marriage overlaid the ocean in a rippling collage, compressing the years. Fights, celebrations, love, birthdays, graduations, births, funerals. Their story, her story. She stroked his arm. She wanted to comfort him. She wanted to believe his sorrow, his arms promising to never let go. But there’d been too many moments that told her, when she needed it most, his arms would not hold her up.

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:05:37.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

‘Did she leave you?’ she asked. ‘What?’ his voice cracked. ‘Thandi, did she leave you?’ ‘What is it with you and Thandi?’ he asked. ‘I don’t know why you’re so obsessed with her. We’re friends. Nothing more.’ He let her go. She held onto the windowsill to keep from falling. He walked to the far side of the room, faced the wall, and walked towards her again. He shoved his hands into his pockets, took them out. ‘Rashid, why are you lying? There’s no reason to lie any more. We’re over.’ She didn’t know if scratching this wound again would help, but she needed to hear him admit this affair. ‘I’m not lying, Qabila. Thandi and I are friends. I know you don’t like it. You’re so jealous, but we’re just friends. I don’t understand why you’ve always been so obsessed by her. For years you’ve been throwing Thandi at me. GodAllah, Qabila!’ He threw his hands in the air. ‘I love you, but sometimes I just can’t believe some of the stuff you say. It’s supposed to be post-apartheid, for heaven’s sake. It’s not like you don’t have all kinds of friends. Do I accuse you of having affairs with them? Just because they’re white or not the same kind of black? Do I?’ He was walking up and down. His hands combed through his hair. Qabila took a step back. ‘Stop making this about fucking race. Why do you do that?’ He paused, looked her up and down. Slow. Deliberate. Eyes narrowed. Shook his head. His words started out slow and steady. ‘I love you, I love you. Look at me, Qabila. I married you. I stayed. Even when things were bad. When you kicked me out of your bed, I stayed. When you said crazy, racist things, I stayed. You couldn’t help it. All that stuff with your father, it messed you up. But enough. Look where we are now, because you just can’t believe anything. I don’t know what you want, I don’t know what to do.’ ‘Tell me about Thandi,’ she said. ‘That’s what I need.’ His mouth twisted. ‘Why? There is nothing to tell. We are friends. She is one of my best friends.’ ‘If there is nothing to tell, why are you so angry? Why did you never invite her to the house? She’s the only best friend who we’ve never socialised with.’ ‘I have never cheated, never. How would you feel if I’d been accusing you for years? We have to trust. We have to learn to trust each other. Every time it feels we’re getting somewhere, then this. How many times do I have to tell you? I’m not having an affair with her.’

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:05:37.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

‘You admitted you loved her. When I asked you, you nodded. You love her.’ ‘What?’ He laughed harshly. His eyebrow lifted. He paused after each word. ‘I nodded. I admitted I loved her.’ He smiled that slow, mocking smile that made her feel like the dullest, stupidest child. ‘You are like a wind-up toy with this question. Over and over, the same crazy accusation. I nodded. A whole divorce because I nodded, when I was thinking – here she goes again. Thandi is a friend.’ Qabila stared at him. She couldn’t believe he was denying it. Had she gotten it wrong? Could she have been this wrong? ‘When you were falling apart after Abdullah, she kept me together so I could be strong for you,’ Rashid continued. ‘When you fell apart after Habib, she helped me turn up, day after day, for you. She stopped me from throwing myself into a grave after my son. You are so suspicious. Your father really damaged you. It’s not my fault.’ The harsh lines in his face softened. He took two steps towards her. ‘I missed you. Didn’t you miss me? I know you don’t want to say so, but you always miss me. You’re grieving over your mother now. People make rash decisions when they grieve.’ His entire body folded towards her as if begging her to understand. She wanted to believe him. What if it was the truth? Truth and trust don’t always go together, though, she thought as she dropped onto the couch. ‘Do you believe me?’ he asked. She felt herself nod. As she looked away, she saw a slyness in his face. It passed so quickly, she couldn’t have said if it was real. But she recognised that look. It was the look he gave her when convincing her to do something unpleasant. The one that said, I’m smarter than you. He sat down next to her and stroked her thigh. His voice low and slow – that way he had of speaking to her like she was an unreasonable child and he the long-suffering adult. The sound of his hand moving between her hip and knee on the fabric of her cream wool pants might as well have been nails on a chalkboard. She did know him, after all. He might’ve changed, but the parts she needed to be freed from were still there. ‘Living here has been good for me,’ Rashid said. ‘I go to mosque regularly. Maybe if we’d gone to haj instead of going everywhere else … I know things have been difficult, but I’ve had a lot of time to think. I’m glad you don’t want the house any more. We can move somewhere closer to our people. It’s not all Surrey Estate and doekie brigades, you know.’ He laughed, then frowned when she didn’t laugh with him. Maybe he wanted a medal for figuring out how to be cosmopolitan and Cape Malay. As if people didn’t do it all the time. ‘Well,’ he went on, his hand continuing its stroking. ‘Living there in Durbanville, away

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Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

from everyone, the athaan, it’s difficult to remember how to be together. I have been spending a lot of time here with Kashief and his family. We can find our way again, Qabila.’ ‘So what are you saying?’ she asked. ‘You want us to work out how to be a good Muslim couple. Salaah and go on haj and that will make everything all right between us? And what does Kashief have to do with this? Didn’t he hire all those strippers when he got rich?’ ‘Jirre, Qabila! The poor man is doing his best to live a good life now. He made up with Yumnah. Their whole family went to haj last year. He is in the mosque every waqt. A man is not his sins. Allah gives you the hidayah to change. They are very happy.’ There was a benevolence to his movements now. Arms wide, a righteous smile that said trust me, I am the only adult here. ‘We’re getting old. You know if you don’t bring your life right by the time you are forty, you never will. We are a few years too late but we can make up for it. Allah will forgive us. Don’t you want a good life? I know you do. You wouldn’t have stopped us finalising the agreement today if you didn’t,’ he said. She folded her arms and bit her lip. Tried to ease the truculent creases from her brow. Tried to convince herself she was not the child he made her out to be. She nodded. When Rashid started laying out reasonable plans, the only thing that was required was acquiescence. In the early years she’d imagined these types of plans meant they were together; only to learn she was a thought experiment brought to life, and what she wanted or needed was not important. The best plan for Rashid was what counted. Eventually, she realised that protesting just prolonged his determination to make her see reason. In the last few years, she nodded and ignored the grand unfolding of the latest plan. He was talking about how good it would be to bring God back into their life, and how necessary. Yes, Islam placed restrictions on you, but it also was a religion of compassion. Qabila watched him, keeping her face still, and let the newest plan unfold. Had he begun brewing it in the car? In the tense silence at Tasha’s? Last night? While he was making salaah? While he droned on about how a pilgrimage would strengthen a new commitment, she wondered if he and Thandi had made love in this house. As he spoke about the meditative peace of salaah, she tried to unpick his declarations for a false tone. Yes, he knew it would be difficult for her if she suddenly turned up at work in hijab, but covering her hair and dressing modestly would not be a hardship. As if she dressed lewdly, she thought. As if he were the one who’d have to deal with some of her feminist colleagues’ disdain. She heard him say he knew it was unfair that she’d have to dress modestly, but covering herself with a

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scarf to show her commitment to God was surely a small sacrifice. Because even though things had been difficult, God had also blessed them. His time with the men at the mosque had revealed much that had not been especially important before. He was talking about the mosque committee. She made sure to nod and say an inshallah here and there. She watched that broadening of his chest that happened when he was the centre of attention, and knew it was her answer. Everything was only about his experience during their brief separation. The important lessons to chart the course of their new lives were his. All that was required was her presence to fill out this new picture of a dutiful Muslim family. When she’d had enough, she lied and told him she wished she could stay, but she had to finish her lecture for the next day. Their dry lips met when she was seated in her car, him leaning through her Jeep’s window. She smiled that smile that caged her in a straitjacket. She composed her refusal over and over on the drive home. Maybe she was wrong about him and Thandi, but she was not wrong that there was no future for them. She sent him an email to thank him for the day, and turned a revitalised marriage down the way nice girls break up. It is not you, it is me.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

Salaam Rashid Shukran for understanding when I left Magriet’s office. I’m glad Allah has made his presence felt in your life, but I’m not ready. It would be too much pressure. You deserve a woman who is salieg. I am too messed up still for the life you want. I hope it is a beautiful life, inshallah. Magriet will be in touch with Vosloo. Let’s finish the divorce off through them. We should sell the house, seeing as neither of us want it. Shukran for today. Salaams Qabila She used it like a weapon – that part of her that had been ground up by his neglect and lack of caring. She spoke to him in the language of smallness and unworthiness. The visit had taught her she was not immune to him. She didn’t know whether she really wanted to be free. The doubt scared her.

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:05:37.

He called her the next day. Fortunately, she had an early-morning meeting and had put her phone on silent. The reasonable talk he asked to have in the text and voicemail was not on her list for the day. We can work this out. You have always been so insecure. Don’t worry. I will help you, my love. We can take it slow. There are marriage and haj classes at Walmer Estate mosque. We can learn how to live as good Muslims inshallah. Talk to you later. She didn’t respond. Instead she had supper with Erna, during which they analysed Rashid based on anecdotal evidence and biased empiricism. When she got home that night, she found a note he’d left on the kitchen counter: Dear Qabila I know there is a lot to be fixed between us. Yesterday gave me hope. You’re struggling to believe. I have enough faith for both of us. I am going to Uppsala tomorrow and should be packing. I wanted to see you before I left. Kanallah, just think about starting over. You don’t believe I love you. I do. If you give me a chance, I will prove it to you. You can trust me. We can have dinner when I get back. I miss your lamb curry.

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Your loving husband xxxx In the days that followed, his emails and voice messages were newsy, their conversations brief and light. The newest collaborative project to help poor Africans develop their science and technology capacity was promising because of the large amount of European donor funding; but annoying because of the large number of Europeans. Uppsala was warm. The sun sparkling. At times, she wanted to believe him. She wanted to start over. She wanted that story. The one where misunderstandings were comical farces, and pain and hurt could be laughed away to claim a happily-ever-after that was already there, but that she just didn’t recognise. She wanted to be that kind of fool. The jealous, suspicious kind who messed up her own happiness, rather than the woman who wasn’t loved well enough. Better to be a paranoid wife than a woman her husband was betraying his mistress with. They could attribute her

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Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

mistrust of love to Daddy dying before she got closure for what he’d done to Mommy, to her, to Zainab. Only it wouldn’t be a new story. It would be the only story. The one Rashid used to explain every disagreement. The story that kept her undecided. In Rashid’s story, her history was the cause of the empty bed, the stilted conversations and seething politeness. She did fear abandonment. She did get very angry at feeling betrayed. She was afraid of men’s violence. Did she want that? To live with the knowledge that her barren marriage was a reflection of her neuroses? Was Thandi a figment of her history coming to haunt her? Could she forego her pride and the need to be right, and choose to be happy? She traded what-ifs back and forth, dispensing small acts of forgiveness for nuggets of suspicion. She forgave him for his too-many trips, for playing squash too much, for the late meetings and coldness. She started erasing the tally of small, sharp looks and meaningful, furtive gestures. With every call and little note he sent, she started to clear a path toward living with that old story again. She had the drowning dream again. She went to see Zainab, drove down the R300 freeway and past the cramped rows of houses. ‘Algamdulillah,’ her sister praised God when Qabila told her that Rashid wanted them to live more Muslim lives. She burbled with joy. ‘Allah has granted Rashid hidayat to bring you closer to Him, Qabila. You will see when you live with Allah in your life, everything will be smooth. The family that prays together stays together. I’m going to make dua for the two of you, inshallah. And he has made his niyyah to go to haj. Algamdulillah.’ Qabila laughed. Zainab’s joy was infectious. ‘Don’t celebrate yet. He says I’m wrong. That it’s because of Daddy I’m so suspicious.’ ‘Qabila, does it matter? If you’re right or wrong? He wants to start over and he wants to do it with the deen. The deen will protect your marriage. I couldn’t trust Rashid because he had no relationship with Allah. But a man who lives by the deen, truly lives by the deen, will be good to you. He will care for you and there won’t be affairs. He could take another wife, but for a man who is truly salieg that is a difficult thing.’ Qabila was about to make the response she always made: that Islam disempowered women. ‘You will see, Qabila, how good it is to live a good, Muslim life. The deen protects you as a woman, as a Muslim wife. You have rights. When you live a proper life, Rashid will not think to only nafaqah you is enough. No, the Nabi says you must be kind and loving to your

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Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

wife. These men who use sharia to just get their own way are not good Muslims.’ Something of what Qabila was thinking must have showed. ‘No, Qabila, no,’ Zainab preempted her response. ‘I know what you’re going to say. Try to believe. Just try. I know it’s hard for you educated types. They teach you to find truth, as if truth is always hiding, as if the whole world is hiding something. People say faith is something you have. For me, iman is something you do. In the good times it’s easy – you don’t have much to do. In the bad times, you must find your faith. And Allah makes it easy, algamdulillah. Allah is truly great. He shows us how to keep our iman with salaah and zakah and all our other duties. People treat them like a burden but they are blessings for the bad times.’ ‘I want to believe him, Zainab. I want to believe it’ll be all right. But what if I was right? About Thandi.’ ‘Then you were right … and you’ll need Allah and your iman more than ever. Allah will have another plan for you, and this thing with Rashid is to bring you close to Allah again. Believing in Rashid is not the same as believing in Allah. This is a new start, Qabila, with or without Rashid.’ ‘But Zainab …’ ‘No, Qabila. Stop analysing. Take Rashid back or don’t take him back. Take abdas and make salaah and ask Allah for guidance. Leave it in His hands. He will show you the way.’ Zainab softened the sting of her words with a kiss on Qabila’s forehead. ‘Come, I will salaah with you.’ Qabila wanted to refuse. It had been a long time since she’d bent her knees and back to God, since she’d folded her body in the rituals her mother had taught her. She associated it with a younger version of herself. She remembered Rashid’s face when he’d finished praying in the Bergsons’ house, and that ache in her body as she watched him. She followed her sister. She nodded when Zainab laid out the long dress and scarf and socks. She felt soothed by the water when she performed the ablution to prepare for prayer and was amazed at how easily the ritual returned. When she faced her God for the first time in years, her body pointed to Mecca, her feet together on her mother’s prayer mat, her sister’s shoulder touching hers, she felt the tears rise. She did not feel unburdened afterwards. She felt slightly silly, slightly fraudulent. A bit grateful, but also scared, ashamed. She wondered what her secular colleagues would say. Zainab’s family gathered in the lounge. By some unspoken assent, no one mentioned Rashid again. Instead Qabila asked about Firdous’s wedding plans, and they were soon

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animatedly discussing food and dresses and guests and bridesmaids, and all the other details that go into making a wedding. They looked at fabric swatches and Zainab brought out their grandmother’s midouras, silver and gold glinting in the delicate fabric. When the athaan rang through the house, Qabila joined her family in prayer. She ignored her nieces’ and brother-in-law’s beaming looks and acted as if it was no big deal. On the drive home, she wanted to pick at her decision. Instead she contemplated the place of God in her life, and if she’d prayed to impress Rashid. Was she preparing herself for a new life with him?

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The next day, she didn’t wake up for the early-morning prayers, and worked through the midday and afternoon prayers. She downloaded an app and set an alarm for the first and second evening prayer. When it went off, she laid out her prayer mat in her dead son’s room. She started by washing her hands and ended with her feet, so she could pray to the God she had abandoned. So she could begin to build a relationship with Her again. Qabila smiled at the temerity of referring to God as Her and not just Him. If God was neither male nor female, then God did not have to be a stern, autocratic, forbidding patriarch but could be softness, nurturance and care. When she made her list for the next day, salaah five times was included.

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:05:37.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

Chapter 9

Thursday after work, instead of going home, she decided to treat herself and stopped at Tygervalley Centre for some retail therapy. When she shopped, she lost herself and felt powerful. For those few hours everything was okay. When she was younger, she’d equated beautiful things with a beautiful life. Unfortunately, she could never order up moods for the people in her life, or choose an experience for a particular day by taking it to the correct counter. She went to her favourite shoe store and sat down to try on some of the recently arrived stock. ‘Do you have these in a size 5? And these? I want to try these as well,’ a woman behind her asked the assistant. ‘Are you sure you want to try all of them?’ the assistant asked. Qabila didn’t need to see her face to know she was implying that a black woman could not afford the shoes. She obviously didn’t want to be inconvenienced. Qabila cringed. A moment ago, she’d been on the other end of that arch, slightly contemptuous voice, and ignored it. Today she just wanted shoes. On another day, she would have given the young black assistant a lecture on internalised racism. No matter how often it happened, it always rankled when black people threw the insults of white racism at other black people. ‘Why would I ask?’ the woman responded, clearly annoyed by the subtext. The assistant muttered something and Qabila heard her move off to get the shoes. Qabila wondered briefly if the woman would try on many pairs and take none as a silent protest. Or buy more than she wanted to prove that she indeed could afford the shoes. How they consumed was one of the ways blacks who’d ‘made it’ protested racism. But using money to prove that she was a worthy human being with as much right as anyone to be in a bloody shoe store always left her feeling empty. Qabila twisted around to smile this understanding at the woman. The silent code of black middle-class solidarity, she thought ruefully. A gesture to say: good to see someone black here, and don’t let them get you down! But the woman was sitting behind Qabila on the

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Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

large leather ottoman, and all Qabila could see was her back. Even the shops’ design didn’t allow solidarity. Soon enough, the assistant came back with the woman’s shoes. The assistant turned to Qabila. ‘How’s the fit?’ she asked. How could a voice go from graceless and churlish to light and charming in such a short time? The other woman’s presence had magically made Qabila more acceptable. ‘I’m good thanks,’ Qabila said. She got up to pace, admiring the elegant T-bar and medium heel in the mirror. She wanted the shoes. Her feet felt great in them. But she knew, even as she admired them, that she wouldn’t take them. Not here, not today. She hoped her voice had let the saleswoman know Qabila would not be drawn into the old apartheid hierarchies of blackness that placed so-called Coloureds above black Africans; into those racist social engineers’ stupid schemes. She could hear the other customer moving about, and looked up at her with a wry smile, hoping to convey an apology for the saleswoman’s behaviour. Their eyes met and they smiled, their expressions mirroring each other. And just like that, acknowledged how fucked up things still were. But they were here, too, despite the violence of white supremacy. Perhaps not received everywhere as had been promised, post-apartheid, but they were here and they were here to stay. The customer looked familiar. The woman was clearly also trying to work out where she knew Qabila from. It took them both a few minutes. ‘Thandi,’ she said, forcing the smile to stay in place, ‘is that you?’ Thandi’s smile slipped before a professional warmth oozed out of her. ‘Oh my word, Qabila. What a surprise!’ ‘Wow, small world,’ they both said and laughed. ‘Touch wood,’ Qabila said with a smile. ‘Do you shop here often?’ She’d never seen her in this mall before. ‘No, not often. I’m in Boston, so it’s close. But I spend a lot of time travelling. Busy busy busy, you know.’ ‘You look really good,’ Qabila said, not hiding her scrutiny. And she meant it. Thandi looked perfectly put together – expensive too. How the shop assistant could not recognise that made Qabila sigh. Thandi had always been beautiful. Not the kind of beautiful Qabila and the people in her community had grown up admiring: the sleek-haired, narrow-nosed, light-skinned kind. Thandi’s beauty was the kind the media’s positive post-apartheid representations of black people had eventually trained the country to see. Everything about Thandi’s face was

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Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

generous: large dark eyes, a broad nose resting on raised cheekbones, full lips covered with a dark-brown gloss. Her abundant hair was braided in an elegant chignon. Then Qabila’s eyes rested on Thandi’s earrings, emeralds nested in diamonds. Her stomach clenched. She couldn’t look away, couldn’t look at Thandi’s face to see if she knew what those earrings meant to Qabila. The need to check if they were real so strong, her hand was halfway to Thandi’s ears before she let it drop limply to her side. Her breaths were short and too fast. ‘I thought they were for me,’ she murmured. Her eyes trailing back to Thandi’s and then weaving back to the little truth-tellers in her ears. The world had shrunk down to the beautifully shiny stones. She’d found those earrings in Rashid’s jacket pocket and thought they were a reconciliatory anniversary present. When their anniversary passed and the earrings never materialised, she accused him of buying his mistress expensive gifts. He told her he returned the earrings because she hadn’t deserved something so precious. She fought with him too often. Complained too much when he was late, travelling or distracted. What was there to celebrate? Thandi touched her arm, said her name, looking worried and sad and embarrassed. Qabila glanced at her before turning her gaze back to the earrings. Thandi’s hands briefly pinched her ears, covering them. Qabila sank down onto the seat. The shop assistant said something. Thandi said something. It was all so far away. Qabila watched Thandi leave, and tears welled. She felt old. She wanted to scream, run after the woman who’d helped break her heart. Expose the whole wild, violent mess. Beat her, fight with her, pull out that careful chignon that hid adulterous treachery. Kick and scream and fight as if her very survival depended on it. The way she’d fought as a child, before she learned to hide violence in a stream of pretty words. Before she knew how to use education as a weapon. She wanted to fall down on the floor and beat her stupid hands bloody. The stupid hands that had continued to cook, that kept trying to tempt Thandi’s man to love her. She wanted to beat herself, to beat her breasts and scream and scream. She wanted to rage and run and grab that woman in this bastion of whiteness. To live is to be free of the spell, to live is to be free of the spell, to live is to be free of the spell. She let the refrain pierce the maelstrom. Ignoring the saleswoman’s patronising gaze, she intoned the words like a mantra. She held onto the words and let them drag her to the surface of things, where life happened.

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Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

Chapter 10

She felt like a stranger in the house. The ghost of Thandi that had haunted this house had been flesh and blood all along. She didn’t feel vindicated. She’d wanted to be wrong. Ghosts could be banished, exorcised in rituals of forgiveness and acts of illumination. She looked at the photograph of her and Rashid, taken six Eids ago, above the table in the foyer. She didn’t know who these people were. She realised she had not truly believed in Thandi; she’d been a myth, there to explain the unknown, not a reality. She stared at the photograph and tried to divine what he could have been thinking. How many times had he spoken to Thandi on that family day? Had he stood there wishing she was Thandi? Had he gone to see Thandi when he returned from mosque? She didn’t know. She would never know. He’d lied. She’d just started to believe him again. But he had lied. Why? She took the photograph to the lounge to inspect it, as if it could tell her. How many times would he fool her? Who was this man she’d loved and why, even with the evidence of his years of neglect, did she continue to love him, be compelled by him? Why, with all her suspicions? How could she be so stupid? The alarm on her phone intoned the call to prayer. It startled and then infuriated her. ‘Fuck you, God! What have I ever done to deserve this? I made one mistake when I was young and so fucking stupid – and what do I get for it!? You continue to fuck me, so fuck you!’ The alarm kept buzzing as she stared at it. Fuck fuck fuck, she thought. She threw the photograph onto the mantelpiece, with its knickknacks that said a family lived here. All the years of swallowed anger, all the resentment she’d locked up in a box called do-not-lookor-life-will-be-unbearable – she let it all spill out. Baubles and memories crashed down, accompanied by the alarm’s call to prayer. The sounds released the scream inside her. In this neighbourhood of sprawling gardens and high walls, no one would hear her. And so she screamed. She screamed at Rashid and God and Thandi and that fucking saleswoman. She walked through the room and one after another picked up the lying things and smashed

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Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

them. Broken in pieces on the bestrewn floor they were truer than they’d ever been. She ignored the phone, going off again and again, until it was the only thing left whole in the room. At last it too was silent when it thudded against the wall and clattered into pieces. She walked out. She was a force of nature and would destroy the house. Finally, she’d let the rage that ate away at her innards loose on the world, so the destruction it wrought on the inside would be on the outside where it belonged. She pulled up short at her son’s room, her new prayer room. She leaned on the wall. She’d asked God in that room whether she should try again. Whether she could believe the man who fathered her children. He’d sent Thandi to her. It was not the answer she had wanted or expected, but it was an answer. She went to the bathroom. The slow, measured ritual of ablution soothed her beleaguered senses as she started to unburden herself. Three times the water washed over her face and limbs as she intoned the words of preparation so she could once again speak to her God. She did not know if she was going to rail or thank Her. Once again, the world slowed down to one movement at a time. But now, it calmed and comforted. She stood in front of her God, the way her mother had done before her, and heard her mother whisper faintly. Held true by the memories in her limbs, she straightened and arranged herself in this small flowering of faith. She prayed the ritual words and moved from one predetermined movement to another. She let herself cry. Everything had changed, and yet for centuries people had gotten through tumultuous times by repeating these same movements. Each limb bent in the service of faith was an affirmation of an unbroken history, and the capacity for people to endure misfortunes small and large. She would endure. At the end of the salaah, she sat on her prayer mat and spoke to God. Without artifice, she begged and thanked and poured the tempest out. She had asked and been heard, and so she kept speaking. She might not like the answers she received, but sometimes when one has gone unseen, unheard and unanswered for a long time, then just knowing you’ve been heard is enough. The next morning, on the way to her son’s room for Fajr, she passed the mess in the living room. She reminded herself to tell Ntombi to pack up the glass shards in a box with Rashid’s name on it. She didn’t want to touch his lies. On her morning list she put a reminder to order boxes and contact an estate agent. Time to start packing. When she got to her office, she saw that while she’d been making sense of the hard truths

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Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

on Thandi’s earlobes, he’d sent her an email full of glorious visions of new beginnings. What if he and Thandi had once been together, but were no longer, and he truly wanted to start over? All through her lecture on the gendering of mental health care and the way popular representations of women’s emotional responses to patriarchy produced stereotypes of hysterical women, she kept thinking: what’s that thing they say about tailors? I’m the tailor with unsewn hems, the hairdresser whose roots are showing. You may not understand him, Qabila, but you are a professional reader. Apply the tools of your craft to your life. There is a truth to be found in the text. Find it. Back in her office, she reread his emails, applying the strategies she taught her undergraduates. First, read like a friend, to understand and respect the argument. Then read like an enemy, to find the flaws. She read his words the way she would read an author she wanted to analyse into annihilation. Salaam my sweet Qabila Today was rough. We finally discussed how challenging it is for unemployed black graduates out there who don’t have the same professional networks and financial support as their white peers. And how disastrous unpaid internships are, especially for young first-generation black graduates who can’t afford to go from one internship to another. Never mind the fees these poor kids are paying now! Who can afford it? It got heated. It is so hard to make someone understand how layered these dynamics are if they have very little experience of exclusion. But then you know this, my sweet, beautiful Qabila. Do you remember how we used to talk into the night about the problems of this country we love? Your fire about the role of the university was so adorable, my feisty little kitten. I am so excited that we’re going to have a new start – and this time we’re wise to the difficulties. I was thinking today how we mention professional costs and challenges, while forgetting the personal costs for academics. We’re both such busy people, with many demands to juggle. When I get home late or have to travel, we forget that we work in an undersupplied system – and you think I want to avoid you. Don’t blame me, my sexy little kitten, blame neoliberalism ☺!

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We need to be conscientised in our marriage so we can avoid being paranoid, my love. It is so unfair, I know. To have a good life we must give up the things that make life good. Like spending lots of time with the people we love. You and I have gone through such difficult times together, we can get through this. I’ve been thinking, maybe we should find someone for you to discuss your fears with, a professional. And your grief now over your mother must be bringing back so many memories. Not that I don’t want to hear them, and reassure you. From now on, I’ll always reassure you that you’re the only woman for me. I’m just a simple man and I don’t know the right words to say to make loving me easier for you. I know I’ve made mistakes, withdrawing instead of pulling you so close that you believe I’ll never let you go. My beautiful love, being paranoid does not allow us to be happy. I’m so glad you’re able to forgive me for being a stupid man who doesn’t know how to make you feel loved. We’re going to have a beautiful life together, inshallah. I promise you I will do everything in my power to give you the life you deserve. I ask Allah SWT every day to keep your heart open and to guide us on the right path to Him and to each other.

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I love you, my darling. Your loving husband (who cannot wait to see you again) Rashid xxxxxx If one only had his emails to tell the tale, Qabila would be a classic case of the hysterical woman who accuses without cause and jumps at shadows. A woman who needs professional help. He, the rational, hard-working, misunderstood man. She saw in his words a portrait of a woman who could be convinced that her interpretations were invalid, and be guided to ‘reason’. He softened the cruellest things with ‘my love’. She was mad at herself for being a cliché, foiled by her own neediness. She replied to Rashid, saying yes, inshallah, Allah will show them the way. That she needed more time to think. She wished him a good trip, and she’d let him know when she was ready to talk. He wrote back, professing love. Gently scolding her for putting distance between them again. Had Thandi not told him about their encounter? She didn’t pick up his calls, and

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Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

changed the locks so he couldn’t leave another note. She sent one more email, asking him to respect her need for space: if he was sincere, he would be patient. She kept up her conversations with God, confronting her forest of bitterness. She walked her way through the years of loneliness and uncertainty, and sat under the trees that had grown in the dark. She moved neither forward nor backward. She was in waiting. And she called Magriet for the number of a reputable detective agency.

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Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

Chapter 11

The detective agency could only see her in a week’s time – clearly it was doing a brisk trade in uncovering deceit. The detective, Mr Fourie, did not suit the upmarket chic of his office with its tasteful cream furniture and vibrant green and orange accessories. She smiled as she sank into a deep armchair with a cheerful orange chenille pillow. He folded himself into the chair opposite her. His skin was burnished from too many hours in the sun and his tight-lipped smile didn’t touch his blue eyes. There was something of the old regime in the dead look that skimmed her face, as well as in his sparse acknowledgement of her – all while overcompensating with a too-hearty tone in his Afrikaans accent. She wondered if he’d been one of the men who’d worked hard to combat the ‘swart gevaar’. Was he floored when the blacks took over, and suddenly the enemy was leading the country? ‘Mrs Fakir, how can I help you?’ he asked. ‘Good afternoon, Mr Fourie.’ She smiled her tight, professional smile. ‘It’s Doctor, actually. Not the medical kind.’ She’d learned to suppress the need to prove her worth and didn’t always have to use her education to extract respect. And yet she wanted to flay this man with her hard-won accomplishments. ‘Sorry, Dr Fakir.’ She watched him settle a notebook and pen on his lap. ‘This is not what I expected,’ she said, looking around. ‘Yes,’ he smiled, ‘it’s not like a Raymond Chandler detective’s office. Every office now must look like a psychologist’s to set the clients at ease. You know, detectives are a bit like psychologists. We bring into the light what people prefer to keep hidden. Or show people that what they believed, what had hurt them, isn’t real.’ This was so unexpected, she couldn’t help the laugh that burst out, and she felt a slight easing. He smiled at her gently. ‘Magriet told me you were going through a divorce. A difficult time.’

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:05:37.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

She nodded. There was a lump in her throat now. He averted his gaze as the tears pooled, giving her the opportunity to breathe and push them away, along with the lump in her throat. ‘My husband. We’ve been together for seventeen years. There is a woman. Her name is Thandiwe Matsego. I think they’ve been having an affair. They were together at university when we started seeing each other. He’s always denied it. Last Thursday I ran into her and she was wearing a pair of earrings I found in his pocket. He never gave them to me. He says he wants me back, that we can start over. I need to know. I need to know if they were together, if they still are. And … anything you can find out.’ She breathed hard at the end of those few words, as if she’d just finished a marathon. She pretended to be absorbed in the swirls of orange and green in the mass-produced abstract print behind Mr Fourie. ‘Right, Dr Fakir, right. I see.’ His voice was brisk. It helped bring her gaze around to his. He was scribbling in his pad. ‘What other details can you give me?’ Rashid’s phone number, work address, home address. How long she’d suspected the affair. The date of the earring purchase, details about Thandi. She had very little for him. ‘Did you not try some detecting yourself? Most wives do. And now with the internet …’ ‘No, I don’t think I really wanted to know. A part of me didn’t believe it. Or maybe I was scared.’ She shrugged. He let her take her time to talk again. ‘Okay, I took a look a few days ago. Thandi’s Facebook isn’t very active – she doesn’t even have a pic up. Rashid’s is just for work, for his big research projects. But she’s on LinkedIn. She’s a successful project manager, one of the tenderpreneurs. She seems busy.’ She gave him the name of the company. When they were done, he told her what his fees were. Expensive, but she had the money. Peace of mind could not be priced. ‘It will take us a few weeks to gather histories of this relationship, Dr Fakir. We will get you the answers. But be warned – sometimes the answers are not what one expects. Be ready for that possibility.’ Talking only to God, she continued to keep Rashid at bay while she waited for her answers. After all, if anyone had to suffer her endless analyses, anger, sorrow and desire, then it should be God. Two weeks later, Mr Fourie called her for an appointment. She arrived at his office uncertain that she wanted to know. As they once again took their

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:05:37.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

places in the plush armchairs, she saw the hesitancy in his eyes, covered up by severe professionalism. A little hopeful part of her crumbled. He could barely hold her gaze. The notes were typed this time and held in a cheerful pink folder. He looked down at his lap, his heavy fingers on the page. ‘Dr Fakir, we have discovered some things about your husband and Thandiwe Matsego. I will ask you now if you are sure you’d like me to proceed?’ Qabila felt that too-familiar lump in her throat. His heavy accent was somehow more solemn than an English one would be. That was the thing about Afrikaans, something the history books don’t talk about when they tell the story of how enforced language classes brought the country to violence: how intimate it was, visceral. It was a language to swear in, to feel and bleed in. A language to fuck to, while English was better for loftily ‘making love’. She nodded. Her eyes on his finger moving down the page. ‘Well, Dr Fakir, it was as you thought. The subjects, Professor Rashid Fakir and Thandiwe Matsego, have been involved with each other romantically for many years. We have only begun our investigation, but we can say this with certainty. We shall not tell you the methods. Unless you wish to know?’ His look enquiring, he waited. Qabila shook her head. She also ignored the arch tone when he used Rashid’s title. ‘The subjects were indeed together at university. They parted briefly when you, when you …’ He cleared his throat, looked up at her from the notes, his eyes flitting uneasily. ‘When you and the subject were having your relationship. They were broken up for a time, but started up the relationship again a few months later.’ He paused and sighed heavily. ‘A little water, Dr Fakir?’ She shook her head, her eyes not straying from his fingers on the page in the pink folder on his lap. ‘Ja-nee. There is a son. Adam. He is fourteen.’ Qabila heard the little noise come out of her mouth. The same year Habib was born. Mr Fourie’s eyes shot up and darted away. ‘Shall I continue?’ he asked, his voice strained. ‘Yes.’ She nodded. She could hear her breath, noisy and too fast in this room that was too beautiful for the seedy truths she was hearing. ‘There’s more?’ she asked. How could there possibly be more? ‘Er, yes, there is. It is all in the file we have prepared for you.’ Mr Fourie stroked the pages, his tense fingers twitching ever so slightly. Qabila sank deeper into the chair, trusting it to hold her together, or maybe hide her just enough as the world shifted around her. A son, she thought. A son. Mr Fourie was wrong. There couldn’t be anything more than a living son.

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:05:37.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

‘The subjects,’ Mr Fourie continued in his evil Afrikaans accent, ‘have a daughter, Nadia. She is now nine years old. The daughter is at Boston Primary School and the boy at Settlers High. The subjects were married in 1997 in a Muslim religious ceremony. They have a home in Boston where Thandiwe Matsego and the children have lived for nine years. Professsor Fakir often visits and stays over for a night or two. We suspect the constant travelling. Always staying a day or two before or after a trip …’ he trailed off with a shrug. ‘Thandiwe Matsego is the CEO of Matsego Ltd, a successful project-management company that specialises in skills auditing and training of government departments and parastatals. ‘According to neighbours, Professor Fakir’s car was always there on Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings. He mostly left late at night and did not sleep there. Sunday mornings for a few hours. In the first months of the separation, he stayed almost every night. The last two months, it’s only been a few nights a week. One of the children’s friends said the parents were fighting. Professor Fakir also visited while we followed him, sometimes spending the night.’ Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays – Rashid’s squash nights. He’d always insisted he had to go to squash. It made him crazy, he said, to miss his workouts. She could see the difference when he did: the irritability, the restlessness. He usually returned late because he had dinner with his gym friends. She’d wanted to follow him once, but changed her mind on the way to the gym, convincing herself that she must learn to trust. To think she’d boasted about her morning swims and his squash nights: such a modern couple with their own pursuits. Not a stuffy little Cape Malay couple. No, they were people who gymmed, ate organic and counted the calories in every samoosa. On Sundays he went to his parents in Lansdowne and she went to see her mother – his suggestion. She’d been happy to not have to endure Mummy Kayna and Boeya. Qabila’s disbelief sucked the breath from her lungs. Somehow she’d thought Thandi would be a party girl. Instead she found a mother. How could he have kept it hidden? Children, he had children. She could never give him children. How could he have kept them hidden? She didn’t know how she got home. The pink folder went into her study drawer. She would read it when her chest stopped squeezing. This secret was so big it could barely be true. He’d lied to her. He and Thandi had a son and a daughter, a pigeon pair. She could almost understand one child, but two was not a mistake. The fights he and Thandi must have had over the years! Had she tried to trap him with the children? Did he

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Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

feel guilty when his secret children lived and Qabila’s died? There was a madness in her as she tried to build their story. Over and over she would lose herself in a detail. What kind of man was he, to have these secret, living children? Who knew about this life of his? Did the children know they were secrets? Did his overly critical, salieg Muslim mother know? Were the secret grandchildren at the heart of her contempt for Qabila? All night, the thoughts careened in her head. The next morning, despite her exhaustion, she went to work as if her life was normal. Except nothing was normal. She no longer knew what was true, who the people in front of her were. When Peter threw one of his fits in a committee meeting, she had very little shock to contribute – she hadn’t been paying attention. If someone had asked her in a court of law what had started his ranting this time, she wouldn’t be able to say. He was screaming, his fingers jabbing the air in front of Busiwe, his pale skin an unbecoming red. ‘You people have no conception of standards, none. I want this to be a world-class university. If you had any idea how a world-class academic behaves, you would not dare make that kind of suggestion. Education is supposed to be hard. What do you think these young people are here for? We make something of them.’ Busiwe leaned back in her chair. ‘And you, Peter, are a world-class academic? This screaming at the black minions is how a world-class academic behaves? How hard was your education, Peter? Learning in your first language? Having everything in your schooling career so familiar? Why would it be such a lowering of our standards to employ a black South African woman? I am very curious.’ Before Peter could begin his customary stomping, Roger, the committee chair, interceded: ‘Yes, both valid positions. Both valid. Perhaps we should take a little break and reconvene in fifteen.’ Qabila didn’t meet anyone’s eyes as she left the room. She didn’t want to be drawn into conversation. Thankfully, the rest of the meeting passed without incident; Roger must have said something to soothe Peter. All he did was glare at Busiwe. She knew if she looked directly at him, he would give her one of those can-you-believe-it looks. If she was inclined to answer, she would say, Yes, actually I can. To hell with your white entitlement, Peter. Your male entitlement. What I can’t believe is that Rashid could have lied for so long, lived this double life for so long. How could she have lived with him and not known? She had suspected Thandi. If the affair had been all there was, she would have felt vindicated. After all, it proved she was not paranoid.

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:05:37.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

But children. It was the children that bothered her. Not only because hers had died, but that she’d never suspected. The birthdays, how many had he had with them? And school vacations and illnesses. Children got ill. How had he managed it? Why? Why not leave their empty house these last few years to be there when they wake in the night with their fears? Or be there in the morning when they wanted to creep into Mommy and Daddy’s bed, because every moment was an adventure and they couldn’t wait to get the new day started? How could he leave his children? She couldn’t understand. All that day and the next, this was the question. He sent her flowers the next day. She didn’t know why, and then she remembered. It was the anniversary of their first son’s birth and death. He remembered every year. She hated him for remembering. For his deceit having caused her to forget. She who never forgot Abdullah. She stared at the extravagant blooms, all different kinds of orange, and the intensity of life they brought into the room. Delicate orchids with deep orange centres and pale edges, offset by hardy daisies and lush roses. It was one of those masterful arrangements where every bloom was exceptional. They were the perfect flowers for bereavement. So bright, and yet one was aware they were fleeting. Just like people. Life. She knew all too well. They’d squandered it, stuck in their unhappy marriage. Forsaking his children. Her phone rang. ‘Ah, there you are!’ her sister said. ‘Salaams, hope you’re home because I’m in your driveway.’ Qabila didn’t really want to deal with Zainab, but didn’t feel like hiding out either. Her sister had also not forgotten Abdullah. Zainab swept in on a gust of wind, stamping her feet to warm up before leaning in for a quick hug. She was cold with patches of warm from the car. ‘Salaam, sweetie, how are you? It’s raining cats and dogs.’ She took her coat off and handed Qabila a green Tupperware container. ‘Firdous baked hertzoggies, your favourite. Where have you been? We haven’t heard from you?’ Her sister had barely paused for breath since she came in. Before Qabila could respond, they were in the lounge. ‘What happened here?’ asked Zainab pointing at the empty shelves. ‘Are you packing up already? It’ll be good for you to leave this house. Ooh, I really want tea. I shukr Allah for bringing me here safely. The roads are really wet. It’s that pounding rain with lots of wind. You know how that gets everywhere, you can barely see? I can’t stay long, I’ll leave after Esha, or else Osman will worry.’

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:05:37.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

Qabila knew her sister was nervous. Few people could sit with grief comfortably, and yet Zainab was here. Qabila’s son had been loved. She was loved. She watched Zainab bustle and take over. The candied apricot jam glittered alongside the coconut in the delicately spiced shortcrust pastry. They were comfortably silent as they poured tea and took their first bites of the sweet confection. ‘So how are things with you and Rashid? Are you speaking to him already? I know you said you wanted space to think about it and make dua to give you guidance.’ Qabila could barely look at her sister. She didn’t know how to tell her. She barely understood it herself. ‘I hired a detective.’ ‘What!’ Zainab’s hand paused, her cup hovering on the way to her mouth. ‘It’s like a movie!’ She shook her head. ‘Trust you to do something like this. Since when do Coloureds do this? Dis wit mense se goetes,’ she laughed. ‘And what did they find out?’ Zainab probed. Qabila’s face must have shown there were detective-worthy things to find out, because the amusement in Zainab’s face faded and her voice softened. ‘What did they find out?’ ‘There’s a file, I haven’t read it yet. The detective told me and showed me pictures. I’ll get it. It’s just so unbelievable, tietie.’ The old childhood term for older sister slipping out as Qabila got up to fetch the ludicrous pink folder. Her sister was fussing with the teapot and cups when she returned. ‘Are you sure you want me to read this?’ Qabila nodded, handed her the folder and curled herself into her corner of the sofa next to her sister. She watched the incredulity spread as Zainab’s brow became furrowed, stopping to look at her as she flipped pages. Every now and then, a ‘Ja Allah’ would break the silence. She poured herself another cup of tea, crouched awkwardly over the folder in her lap. ‘Wat makeer die man?’ she asked, her lip pulled up, a frown marring her usually tranquil face. Qabila didn’t know what the matter with him was, and Zainab didn’t really require an answer anyway; she returned to reading the folder once her cup and cake plate were filled. The tension in Qabila’s stomach pushed her out of the chair. She walked around the room, touching the furniture, watching Zainab’s face. Seeing her incredulity finally made the madness of the situation settle. She knew she was being silly. Why did she always need others to make things real? To make her feelings matter. She was ashamed and relieved at the same time. Was it all her fault? Maybe, just maybe,

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:05:37.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

it was something about her that had caused this. She really shouldn’t have seduced him back then when they were young. ‘You married Daddy,’ Zainab said and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like fuck. Qabila half turned. ‘Maaf, it’s … maaf. I know the psychoanalysing is your thing.’ She could hear the strain as Zainab tried to lighten the mood, make it better. Qabila half expected her to wrap her in one of her famous hugs, but she was just sitting there. Pushed deep into the couch. They stared at each other, overwhelmed and at a loss. For once, she didn’t care about the pity woven into Zainab’s gaze. She was sorry for herself. ‘I don’t know what to do,’ she finally said. ‘What do you mean? You must not take him back. He is Daddy. He is exactly like Daddy with all his los kinders. And … He didn’t hit you, did he? Hit you?’ Zainab asked. Qabila shook her head no. Suddenly her anger was like a physical force in the room. Changing the molecules. Reshaping things. Her sharp voice cut the air. ‘I felt mad, Zainab. All these years I felt crazy. Every time, he convinced me I was the one who was wrong. That I had trust issues because of Daddy. Your abandonment issues are very bad again, Qabila. I am not your father. I wish you would go to therapy. And when he convinced me that it was my problem, it was You should discuss this with a therapist. Just because we don’t spend all our time together doesn’t mean I’m having an affair with an old university girlfriend. God, Qabila, you are so unreasonable, so needy. And: Qabila, jy speel al weer mal. He really said that to me, Zainab. That I was playing mad to get his attention. Oh God, oh God, oh God. I’m ranting. I’m sorry. It’s just, I’m so angry. I’m entitled to be angry.’ ‘Rant if you need to, this is … I don’t know what I would do if I found this out about Osman. I would kill him. Shout and scream. I am here. I will listen. You’ve had a big shock. Especially after he preached deen to you and I was so excited. I ask you maaf. I just wanted you to be happy and have some peace. You almost got back together, ja Allah, you were learning to trust him again.’ Her sister was babbling. Her sister who always had an answer, even if it was wrong, was lost here too. Qabila sunk onto the couch next to her and poured herself into Zainab’s arms and let her stroke her hair. ‘I used to rant at him like this too and he would always respond so reasonably, Zainab. He used to make me feel more out of control. I would see that look of disdain on his face, the slight pull-down of his mouth and his eyes assessing me coolly. He’d be still, his hands in his pockets, barely moving as I begged and screamed and accused. And when he started walking up and down, everything he said would make me doubt myself. Why couldn’t he

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:05:37.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

just have admitted it?’ ‘You’re not ranting, you are telling me what happened. If you can’t rant when you find out your husband has a double life, then when can you rant? Rant, sister, rant.’ ‘I love you,’ she said hugging Zainab closer. ‘What must I do? I’m so glad you came today. It’s like Allah sent you.’ ‘I know what day it is and I didn’t want you to be alone.’ Zainab’s hands were tender as she stroked her hair, mothering her. ‘I didn’t expect this,’ she laughed, short and harsh. ‘You remembered, everyone remembered. I forgot until Rashid’s bouquet. I fucking hate him for that.’ She sat up straight and rubbed her eyes. ‘I wonder how Thandi feels. What kind of woman stays with a man so long, knowing she won’t have all of him?’ ‘Oh, you know, they’re also used to men having more than one wife, just like us, so maybe that’s how. Or who knows? He had you fooled, so you don’t know what lies he told her. In situations like this we like to blame the other woman, but a lot of the time they’re in the same situation as the wife. In love with a man who wants to have his cake and eat it. Can you believe it? That man, I never liked him. You were always walking on eggshells around him. Like a visitor in his life and not a wife.’ The doorbell startled them both. ‘Who is that?’ Zainab asked. ‘Maybe someone asking for food?’ Qabila shook her head and walked to the door. ‘They don’t knock on our door. They just go through the bins on dirt day. The residents’ association is trying to stop that.’ ‘Ja Allah, it’s like that in this country. Areas like this, they begrudge the food out of the bins. Ja Allah. Where I live, they knock on your door all day. We share whatever we can,’ Zainab trailed behind her. ‘Wait, let me look. Do you feel like people?’ she asked, reaching out to stroke Qabila’s arm. Qabila peeked out the window. ‘It’s Rashid,’ she hissed. She froze, her throat tightening. Zainab looked as panicked as she felt. ‘That bastard, lae luis.’ ‘I can’t, ek kannie.’ Qabila turned back to the living room. The Afrikaans of their childhood slipping out, the way it did when the truth could not bear too much translation. She wanted to pretend she wasn’t there, but Rashid would’ve seen their cars. She wasn’t ready to confront him. How do you fight intimately with someone you don’t really know? She heard Zainab at the door, her voice hearty and cheerful. She couldn’t hear what was being said. It was Zainab’s super slamse voice. The religious one with every third word an ‘inshallah’ or ‘ameen’. Qabila hated that voice. She knew Rashid did too. His voice was low. Probably his sanctimonious voice. She was being a coward, hiding in the living room.

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:05:37.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

She should go out there and do something. But what? What was there to fight for? Who would she be fighting? And she knew. She knew he would somehow make this about her. She would be turned into the deficient one, and in some bizarre twist it would all end up being her fault. Her movements as restless as her thoughts, she flitted from one side of the room to another, trying hard to avoid looking at the scattered contents of the file. She heard the door shut and footsteps come towards her. One pair? She couldn’t be sure. She peered around Zainab as she came into the room. ‘I told him you were at our house,’ she said as she saw Qabila’s face. ‘Ek was baie nice.’ She moved her shoulders as if to rid herself of the anger visible in the tense lines of her body. Qabila sank into the nearest chair. ‘What did you tell him?’ ‘Ag, I said we picked you up last night and you ended up sleeping over. I’m here to get some of your things so that you can stay with us for a few days. Ooh, you should’ve seen me play him, girl,’ Zainab laughed. ‘He wanted to come visit you there and I said no, you are tired and it’s a difficult day. You need rest and to be pampered. Daai man kan darem aansit,’ she shook her head. ‘Talk about “aansit”, I was listening to your slamse voice – throwing out inshallahs left, right and centre.’ ‘Ja, I know, it’s him, man. I try to remember Allah when he is trying out his Shaitan’s moves. You should really stay with us for a bit, you know, it will keep him away.’ ‘I have to go to work, I can’t stay away. It’s a busy time for us now.’ ‘There are more important things than work. What are you going to do here? Just brood. Come home with me. The girls are there. It’ll be fun. And we can work through this gemors. You are so alone here. Bring your work with you.’ Qabila didn’t want to be alone. But she really didn’t want to be in Mitchell’s Plain, with all that it implied. She’d worked hard to get out of the closeness of life there, the greyness of the houses. Avoiding her sister’s face, she surveyed the plush luxury of the room – until she got to the squalor of her life spread in pictorial glory across the sofa. Qabila caught Zainab’s sharp, watchful eyes and hastily looked away. Her imminent refusal was throwing up the differences between their lives. Who was she kidding? If one didn’t measure wealth in rands and cents, Zainab was wealthier. Her life was rich, the secrets gentle. She had successes that did not come with certificates and stamps of approval given by committees. Zainab was tidying up the file. ‘I can’t believe Rashid,’ she was saying. ‘How could he

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Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

have done this and with an African girlie nogals. Are the children Muslim?’ Qabila didn’t want to hear that. She wanted Zainab to leave. He’d come to her door, and she didn’t know who he was. Why would he keep coming to her door? ‘How do I live with this?’ she asked Zainab. She saw the tears in Zainab’s eyes. Zainab who would rather order and manage the flow of events than admit she could be hurt. This really was big. Qabila needed something to make her forget, something to remind her there were other ways to live. ‘I’ll go with you,’ she said to Zainab, feeling strangely daring. Zainab’s face lit up and softened. She dropped the file and gathered Qabila into her arms, whispering into her hair, her scarf fragrant against Qabila’s cheek. ‘Allah Kadir, inshallah, Allah will give you shifa. Allah knows best and with Allah’s blessing He will bring healing to you.’ Qabila wanted to cry at the gentleness. She could feel herself coming undone. She shuddered into the tightening of her sister’s embrace and felt her move away. She wanted to demur, to ask her wordlessly to not let go. But her sister didn’t go far. She was just leaning back to cup Qabila’s face in her hands, her eyes a blend of love and concern and comfort. ‘We will get through this. With Allah’s help, we will get through this.’ She smiled, wiping the tears that were dribbling down Qabila’s face. ‘Crying is good. Crying washes you clean so you can start anew. It is Allah’s mercy.’ Her eyes were sad. ‘If you could live with this man for all these years, you can get through leaving him. And who knows, inshallah, we shukr Allah for bringing you this knowledge. For giving you the hidayat to find the truth.’ She pulled Qabila close, tucking her head into her neck, rocking her as she slowly recited the salawat, praising the Prophet in an appeal to ease Qabila’s pain. When they broke apart and Zainab kissed her on her forehead, a little bit of her peace and certainty transferred to Qabila. Zainab sat on Qabila’s bed as she packed her things, enough for a week, although she didn’t know how long she would stay. They talked of easy things: the upcoming wedding, the children’s travel plans, the babies. They closed up the house together, setting the alarm to deter intruders, and packed up the perishables. They prayed together in Habib’s room before they left. They remembered Abdullah. Zainab watched her as she moved around the room, bidding it farewell. She followed Zainab in her car, her few possessions on the back seat. On the long wet drive she sang along to Chris Daughtry as he came home, recovered from a break-up and held on when he should’ve let go. Every time she thought of the past or worried about the

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Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

future, she pulled herself back to the road ahead of her, the song playing and the taste of hertzoggie in her mouth.

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:05:37.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

Intermezzo

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Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

Chapter 12

On her knees, Qabila peered through the gap between the frosted glass panel and wooden frame. The men sitting on the floor below were spread out in a semicircle, their solemn faces pointed at the life drama unfolding near the mosque’s pulpit. The imam was preaching about the importance of marriage. How God had been merciful and created a companion for everyone, and to marry was to complete half one’s deen. She bit her lip so she would not snicker. If only women were allowed to sit on the same floor as their blessed male companions – they wouldn’t develop a crick in the neck, witnessing a bride being passed from the care of the father to the husband. But here she was, in hijab, in the women’s area, getting a crick in her neck. What would her students think if they could see her now? The solemnity was interrupted by Justin Bieber singing, ‘My momma don’t like you’. A man in a grey thaub appeared to be the culprit. ‘Maaf, maaf,’ he was saying, fumbling for his phone as people laughed at the ringtone. Qabila stifled her laughter. The imam smiled. ‘Family is certainly important! Make sure you are good to your wife’s mother so that she likes you. Please can we switch off our phones?’ The man held his hands up in apology as people laughingly complied. He wasn’t going to live this down soon. The familiarity of his outstretched hands and gentle smile shook Qabila. She knew him but couldn’t place him … probably someone’s second cousin. She was surprised at how strong her need to comfort him was. She’d probably remember who he was next week, when her head was less taken up with her niece. Putting the man aside, she turned her attention to Firdous in her wedding finery, flanked by her sister and cousin in their bridesmaids’ turquoise, the skirts of her white morning dress overflowing the chair. A modest Muslim bride, her hair was covered by the elaborate silver midoura, matching the beading on her dress. She looked like a Middle-Eastern princess. Haji Raeefah had done a beautiful job pinning the headpiece into swirls and points that highlighted the bride’s face, and the silver filaments glinted in the mosque’s dim light. A dying art, like learning to wait for men to do the big things in life. Oh my niece, I hope you have more joy than I did, Qabila prayed.

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:05:37.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

This afternoon, the gold midoura would cover Firdous’s head. The scarves appeared in the weddings of every female descendant of Kulthum Samodien. Her grandmother had brought them from Mecca, and her mother and two of her aunts had worn them on their wedding days. Zainab had worn it on hers, and now two of her daughters carried the tradition forward. If they had daughters, then in time they too would cover their heads in the history and hopes and dreams of the women of their blood who’d come before them. Daughters and granddaughters brought their own gold- and silver-encrusted scarves from their haj, but it was Kulthum’s scarves that helmed the heads of the brides. Well, those who didn’t disgrace the family. There was no midoura for pregnant women who had to marry furtively on a Thursday evening. Qabila had never got to wear that precious silver scarf, or the gold one, and she’d had no daughters. A broken link in the line of Samodien women. Qabila lay her face on the cool glass, letting the imam’s words wash over her. The importance of deen and salaah in a marriage. The cycle of life, and back to respect for parents. The gratitude for this moment. She looked at the women on the floor around her, her sister, cousins, aunts and friends, and missed her mother. So many women, and yet the one who wasn’t there left a gaping wound. How would she have felt, seeing her granddaughter sitting there so regally? A few days ago, Zainab had been the one who needed comfort, had needed their mother. We’re all someone’s child, no matter how old and responsible, Qabila mused. We are all still children. Qabila looked at the tight lines of her sister’s body and sent her a prayer for strength. She must’ve heard her because she looked up, her face unmasked. Zainab softened, stretching towards Qabila as they smiled at each other. Qabila prayed desperately as the maskawie was agreed upon and transferred from groom to father. The modest dowry would be given to Firdous later. ‘Qabil-tu nikah haha linafsi biethaalik,’ said the groom, Nieyaaz, as he made Firdous his wife. As they walked down the mosque stairs towards the little hall for a breakfast of Cape Malay sweetmeats, samoosas and pies, Qabila’s cousin Fouzia asked her the question she’d known would come: ‘Is Rashid okay? Is he sick? I didn’t see him downstairs?’ This might have been mere nosiness, but Fouzia couldn’t keep the resentment from her voice when she continued: ‘Or is he overseas, again? He travels a lot mos.’ Qabila pretended the stairs were deadly traps waiting to ensnare her if she didn’t watch them very carefully as she made her way down. ‘I don’t know where he is,’ she said flippantly, hiding her hurt, eyes intent on the maroon carpet just beginning to fray in the centre of the staircase. ‘We aren’t together any more.’

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Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

Fouzia’s gasp and slightly shrill, ‘Noooo, what happened?’ drew attention as they made their way down the corridor. ‘What’s wrong?’ asked Auntie Moenieba, her mother’s sister. ‘Nothing, Auntie,’ Qabila said and bent to kiss her cheek. ‘Salaam, when did Auntie Moenieba get here? I didn’t see you.’ ‘You know that Neefie, always late,’ Auntie Moenieba replied in mock anger at her husband. ‘It was beautiful to see the nikaah. In our day you just waited at home and then the men would come to the house and tell you you’re married.’ She laughed. Qabila could see Fouzia waiting for an opportunity to start her inquisition so she could carry out her duties as the family gossip. Qabila leaned in close to Auntie Moenieba. ‘I think Mummy would’ve liked to have seen her granddaughter’s nikaah,’ she said. Auntie Moenieba patted her hand awkwardly. Her voice thickened: ‘Yes, she would’ve liked it. She always complained about secret societies.’ She smiled. ‘After your wedding at the house, she always said how special it was to hear the imam’s das and see the nikaah.’ Qabila wanted to weep with longing. Her mother always knew how to find beauty, no matter the circumstance. It had been her gift. Seeing Qabila’s face, her aunt said, ‘I miss her too. We always phoned each other if we heard something interesting on the radio, and she always sent that nice Jumuah Mubarak messages every Thursday night. I make dua for her every day. Allah must grant her a high place in Jannah, inshallah.’ Qabila smiled gratefully and said the requisite, ‘Ameen.’ It didn’t hurt, too, that she’d fobbed off Fouzia, who’d found an audience in the courtyard in front of the hall, where the women were starting to mill around. Inside the hall, the long tables were mostly empty, with only a few of the older women sitting. Qabila seated Auntie Moenieba, then wove her way through the tables to Zainab to see if she needed help in any way. On her way to the kitchen, she glimpsed the man whose phone had rung. Why did he seem so familiar? Perhaps he was part of the bridegroom’s family. He was gone when she got back into the hall. Throughout the day, as Qabila watched the young couple with their bridal party, shiny with hope and the assurance of youth, she weaved through the story of her own wedding. The meanness of it. The furtiveness and shame, rubbing along with her sense of triumph that she’d got her man. There’d been no bridal party, just her and Rashid, their parents and her mother’s sister. No stages, no wide, glittering dresses that made her look like a Muslim version of a Disney princess. No flower girls with their little baskets or pageboys with crooks. No cousins in the role of strooimeisies and strooijonkers, attempting to act

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:05:37.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

unconcerned that all eyes were on them. The promises of that day had come to naught. The lawyers had helped them separate their lives in the eyes of the state. Rashid finally realised she wasn’t going to go back to him when Magriet gave Vosloo the documents on Thandi. He gave her the talaq, and she mercifully didn’t have to wait years for her marriage to be dissolved Islamically. If someone had told her, all those years ago, that she’d be relieved to be free of him, she wouldn’t have believed them. Fouzia had done her job well and word of the divorce had spread. Qabila wanted to lie when people asked her about it. To do what she’d always done, manage the façade of her life. She didn’t. She responded honestly. Learning as she did that one could be honest and not say much. She didn’t tell them about the other wife and children. Just the truth she’d lived and had refused to acknowledge. It hadn’t worked for a long time. They’d lived separate lives. When she felt trapped by questions she wasn’t willing to confront, she wriggled and fled. At times it was like being in a pinball game. ‘I didn’t see your husband at the mosque,’ her father’s brother, Uncle Yusuf said. ‘He wasn’t at your mother’s janaazah.’ Qabila gave him a tight smile. ‘He said he was travelling when it was Mommy’s janaazah, Uncle Yusuf. But we are divorced now, it wasn’t working out. We were living past each other.’ Qabila’s chest felt tight, and still the words tumbled out in a rush. Her uncle shook his head and looked at her. His gaze so steady, she could not refuse to meet it. ‘Was he like your father?’ She didn’t respond. He took another breath. ‘We should have been there for you and Zainab after your parents got divorced. We haven’t been close, Allah knows that we haven’t done our duty by you girls. I have daughters, and if anyone did to them what your father did to your mother, I’d kill him. We never knew where he got it, that madness of his. May Allah Subhanahu wa ta’ala have mercy on his soul. Maybe if we, your uncles, had been around more, you would have learned what a good marriage looks like.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m sorry it didn’t work out with Rashid. You deserve a good man. Better than your father.’ She didn’t want to explain that Rashid and her father had sowed different kinds of pain. So she made a tiny sound that let him off the hook for the years that could not be redone. The worst encounter was with Fouzia’s husband, Iedries. He was a sour man who rarely laughed unless it was to celebrate someone’s misfortune, and even then his laughter was harsh and bitter. Eyes watchful, hands in his pockets, he blocked her path. ‘So you and

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:05:37.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

Rashid are done?’ She smiled perfunctorily. ‘All things come to an end.’ She thought he would move, but of course he didn’t. ‘All that glitters is not gold, even if you say it in English to us Afrikaanse slamse,’ he said. His mouth pursed. ‘Julle het julle altyd betere as ons gehou. Kyk nou.’ She watched him as if his words were intended for somebody else. The Afrikaans hard and guttural. He berated her and Rashid for being too high-and-mighty to help them when Fouzia was sick, and for looking down on their small house by not visiting. For not caring when Iedries was unemployed. He mocked Rashid for saying he was broke, even though he wore three-piece suits when he refused to lend them money. His lip curled in relish as he said they got what they deserved for forgetting where they came from. Qabila froze. She wanted to say her pain was not a divine intervention to level their enormous class differences. She pushed past him. She should’ve done that in the first place. Should’ve known better. Or maybe she should have asked him why it had been her and Rashid’s responsibility to help him. If he didn’t do drugs, he probably wouldn’t have lost his job and wouldn’t have needed the help. His wife might not have slipped unnoticed into a diabetic coma and been hospitalised. She could never tell him that Fouzia had begged them never to give him money, or that they never refused any of her requests for help. Qabila was exhausted by the time they got to the bruidskamer. As she drove past looking for parking on the congested street, she shuddered to see the press of people at the door of her niece’s new home. It had been a long day. The morning reception at the mosque after the nikaah, then back to Zainab’s to help Firdous change into the dress for the reception, then getting herself all dressed up in the elaborate rose-gold outfit that conformed to Islamic wear so she wouldn’t embarrass her sister at the groom’s lunch for selected members of the bride’s family. Weddings were all about bringing families together, she thought as she chatted to Zainab’s in-laws at the lunch. They admired how the hall had been decorated, and complimented the caterers on the food. Zainab’s mother-in-law sighed. ‘I miss the weddings we had when we were growing up. Those long trestle tables covered in white paper and scattered with gold stars, and the big plates of food.’ ‘We all did our part, with everyone offering to cover something,’ Qabila said. ‘It was cheaper. But if we did that now, we’d be running back and forth to the kitchen all day today.’ They both laughed.

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:05:37.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

‘I want to see my child’s wedding not put out fires in the kitchen, catering for a thousand people.’ Nieyaaz’s mother smiled ruefully. ‘It’s only three hundred and fifty people now,’ Nieyaaz’ granny, Auntie Badroen, entered the conversation. ‘When my other grandchild got married, I wanted my cousins and their children to be invited. But they said no, only three hundred and fifty people can come from both sides of the family. We used to have such big families. Weddings and funerals were the places where you learned who was who. Nowadays, you young ones could meet people and not know you are related because you’re saving on working in the kitchen. These expensive catering services are forcing families to be smaller.’ A woman who looked like her sister nodded vigorously. ‘Ja, Baddie, en ons kan ook lekker ’n barakat weggevat het. Maar nou met die catering is daar niks om huis toe te neem nie. No doggy bags. Nuthing.’ ‘Ja, foeitog,’ Zainab said. ‘People were poorer then, and everyone would come with a little packet. Mommy used to embarrass me when I was younger, nè, Qabila?’ Qabila laughed. ‘Yes, Mommy would bring her packet and pack in while we were still at the table. I wanted to die.’ ‘You young people,’ Auntie Badroen said. ‘Always embarrassed for nothing. There was barakah in the food then. Now we all posh and we have less to share. All the food at these weddings taste the same. They lekker, but it’s like you eating the same foods. En ons het lekker gesing ook by die bruide. Lekker “Rosa” en die ou liedere. Now you have DJs and speeches like the white people’s weddings in the movies.’ ‘Our traditions are dying,’ Qabila said. Everyone nodded solemnly. ‘It’s true,’ Zainab said. ‘But who of you wants to be in the kitchen now?’ They all laughingly agreed that they were more than happy to leave the new catering tradition be. Zainab continued, ‘And I’m so glad that people don’t lay out their underwear any more for everyone to see. It supposedly showed how well your parents looked after you, right down to providing new underwear. The girls don’t know that having new clothes was special. Not like our generation.’ Auntie Badroen nodded. ‘In our days it was hard to get even those few necessities. Young people now live in an easy world, and to keep things easy you let go of people, like at these weddings. Yes, we made food for a lot of people. But three times as many people would bring gifts to help the couple start their life, and three times as many would make good duas for them. They’d have an entire community who remembered with them through the hard times in their marriage.’

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:05:37.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

Qabila laughed. ‘Maybe that was what was wrong with my marriage.’ Zainab’s motherin-law gave her an enquiring look. Her purple scarf was expertly wrapped and the gold beads on the edge encircled her head in perfect arcs. Her gold earrings swept her mauve shoulders as she shook her head to show she didn’t understand. ‘I just sat out my iddat. I got divorced a few months ago,’ Qabila said softly. ‘It’s been coming on for years.’ Auntie Koelie jerkily patted her hand. Like most older Cape Malay people, her comfort was gruff, practical but deeply sincere. They were a tough people who’d carved out dignified existences, with room for laughter and music and a history that forgot the larger parts of despair. Her people found channels for their creativity in a hostile land that forced them out of their homes, harried and humiliated them. ‘We had a must-marriage,’ Qabila said. The words left her mouth simply, without defensiveness. She was freed of trying to live a romance she’d had to will into existence, of carefully cultivating their story and telling it with bows and frills, while underneath lay emptiness. Auntie Koelie’s brown kohl-lined eyes were soft but keen. ‘Ja, julle mammie het mos nou kort gemaniengal.’ In the homely tones of Auntie Koelie’s Afrikaans, Qabila felt the sadness of this new life without her mother. How different her words were from Iedries’s maliciousness. ‘Ja, Auntie Koelie, Mommy has been gone for a good few months now.’ ‘Your mother and I had long conversations when I used to visit Osman and Zainab. She was a good woman. She loved you very much. She’d always praise you and tell me what a good child you were. She was so proud of you, both of you. I’m going to miss her.’ Auntie Koelie looked at Zainab and smiled. ‘Ja, you must come visit me when you have time. I have lots of wedding pictures, the children’s, my sister’s and now the grandchildren.’ They looked at the young couple, together in the bower that decorated the stage. ‘Allah must protect them and guide them,’ Auntie Koelie said, and rubbed her hand again. Zainab always said her husband’s family was the largest blessing in their marriage. Qabila wanted to lay her face against Auntie Koelie’s wrinkled honey skin. She was hungry for this, she realised: the wisdom of older women who’d lost children and husbands, survived poverty or handled wealth amidst poverty, and still could see younger women with their hearts. She missed her mother, yes, but she also missed this. The way it felt to be at home even when things were not perfect. She looked around the room at the people who would become her niece’s family – strangers to her, and yet Qabila knew them. She knew what most of them would sound like.

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:05:37.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

Knew what responses they’d make to certain questions, where most of them had bought their glittering hijab and where they went to buy pins for their scarves. She and her university colleagues of all hues often pretended to have a sophisticated disdain for the provincialism of whatever communities they came from. But they were cutting themselves off from the good too, from the rhythms that soothed when there were few words, from the foods that demanded they remember. Even at this wedding, which was so different from the ones she went to as a young woman, with so many people she didn’t know and people she rarely spent time with, she felt at home. She wondered if Erna would admit this: that to make herself part of this supposed ‘thinking community’, she’d needed to erase the noticeably Afrikaner parts of herself, deny herself the comfort of being someone who belonged in a community. She knew that Vusi felt this way sometimes. He’d confessed it after a few drinks at the annual conference dinner – how much he missed just being one of the brasse from the lokshin. Qabila sometimes just wanted to be a slamse tietie, not worrying about problems of identity or the anti-feminist signs her scarf broadcast. What would her feminist conference pals say if they saw her today, in the flowing rose-gold thaub, her hair completely covered by the carefully pinned scarf? She looked like an elegant Muslim matron, not like the Doctor Fakir they knew, with her loose hair, pants and uncovered arms. When she was at the university, one couldn’t tell she was Muslim. She dressed like her female colleagues in their secular uniforms. That her brown skin gave her fewer privileges, no matter the dress, was another matter. But there were also women who chose to carry their histories with them, who wore their scarves and prayed in their offices. Who held Shabbat and spoke about it, went to the NG, Roman Catholic or Pentecostal Church every Sunday; who worried aloud about their sons at initiation schools or were pleased that the bris was successful; who sent their kids to madrasah, Sunday school or shul. And so the day went; everyone trading memories. She didn’t care much about managing her reputation now – everything had fallen apart anyway. She’d lived a lie. Been lied to. Was surrounded by secrets. She was beginning to accept that the shame had never been hers. She might’ve been the veil covering Rashid’s lies, but she’d never had much to be ashamed of. And no matter what the start of their marriage had been, she hadn’t deserved years of deception. Who was this man, who gave his children less than all of himself? She’d made him into a man who deserved to be a father, but what kind of father could lie his children out of existence?

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:05:37.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

At the bruidskamer, the bride’s new home had been beautifully decorated. The place was full. Firdous’s new in-laws had turned the little flatlet attached to the house into the young couple’s new home. One couldn’t tell, looking at the dark mahogany furniture, expensive drapes, and shiny refitted kitchen with cherrywood cupboards and a top-of-the-line fitted stove, that this would be a temporary space. Apparently they were going to rent it out while they were abroad. With the lack of living space in the city, it would soon be snapped up by another young couple or small family desperate for affordable, decent housing. Qabila made her way to the room so she could hear the imam’s blessing and the messages the parents would give the new couple on starting their lives. The room had been luxuriously decorated in the softest green, offset by pearlescent fawn bedding and curtains. It was too small for the number of people; the passage leading to the room was no better, as relatives thronged to see what kind of life Nieyaaz would provide for his new bride. Some would genuinely wish the couple well. Others would feel inadequate, thinking of the lack in their own lives. And then there were those who’d mock what Firdous’s new husband could provide – not good enough, too small, too close and dependent on his folks, too somethingor-other; anything that said the derider was better than the couple. The air was steamy with too much breath and body heat. The imam invoked God’s blessing on the couple. Everyone was still as the Arabic enfolded them. Few of them could speak the language, but they understood the sentiments being invoked. The imam translated the prayer, reminding them of their place in the larger global community and their relationship to God. Qabila felt tears well. It was her brother-in-law’s turn to speak. He informed his new son-in-law that he was now his son, and told him that he’d raised a good daughter. It was a brave speech. Anyone conversant with the extremely high rates of divorce, cheating and domestic violence would hear the desperate plea beneath the measured words. I love this young woman, he was saying, please please don’t hurt her. Then Firdous’s new in-laws welcomed her into their family, saying that she was their child now too. They’d learned in their long years together that the best way to preserve a marriage was through close family ties, which would help the couple stay on the right path. There were more euphemisms for cheating and violations of trust. Firdous was sitting on the bed decorously, her new husband behind her with his hand on her shoulder. How many times had Qabila seen this scene? Every young couple she knew who had their families come and look at their new home on their wedding night had stood just so, bride’s dress fanned out around her, with the photos to prove it. They usually looked tired. At the end of a long day of posing for families and friends, having photos

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:05:37.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

taken in the gardens or at Rhodes Memorial or the beach, being driven around like celebrities in fancy cars with their bridal entourage, the girl probably just wanted to take off her pinching shoes, and the helmet-like midoura that had grown too tight and heavy during the day. And if she was unfortunate and the metal-encrusted scarf had not been pinned well, she’d desperately want to free the fast-numbing sections of her head from its scratching. Qabila could feel beads of sweat on her brow and damp between her breasts. She wanted to get home; it had been a tiring few weeks. As she was making her escape, greeting people absent-mindedly in the now-thinning passage, she heard her name being called. She wanted to pretend she hadn’t heard so she could get to her car, kick off her shoes and drive home to the blissful solitude of her empty house. But she turned, and saw the familiar man from before. Face to face, she knew him instantly. ‘Salaam! Fuad Slamang, my word!’ she said, returning his smile. They’d been at school together a hundred years ago, and had even met at the library a few times, the way boys and girls who liked each other had done in those days. ‘How many years has it been? You’re completely grey,’ she smiled, and watched as he ran his hands over his salt-and-pepper hair. The flush was almost imperceptible on his dark skin. ‘It suits you, you look all sophisticated. Like you should be in The Bold and the Beautiful.’ He laughed. The endearing shyness of a good-looking man. ‘Qabila, you haven’t changed,’ he said. ‘Jy maak nog altyd so gaai.’ The idea of her being exactly the same was laughable. ‘Me? You’re the person who plays funny music in the mosque.’ He groaned, covering his face with both hands. The rush of memories made something fizz inside her. The quiet way he joked had taught her about gentleness, all those years ago. When her father mocked her or when there was another fight at home, just hanging out with him had made it all bearable. ‘Oh Fuad, it is good to see you. Why are you at the wedding?’ ‘Nieyaaz is my cousin’s son.’ ‘Oh yes,’ Qabila said, ‘I didn’t make the connection.’ ‘She’s older than us. When her mother still worked in the factory, my mother used to look after her and her sister and brothers in the school holidays sometimes.’ ‘I remember now. You always hid from them. Said the house was too full. You should have come to say salaam at the reception.’ ‘I didn’t know it was you at the table. I saw you with the bride’s family – you’re Firdous’s aunt, right? – but I only realised it was you as you were leaving the hall. I was

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:05:37.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

hoping to see you at the bruidskamer.’ They smiled at each other, remembering a happy part of the past. Fuad broke the silence. ‘Joh, it’s been so many years. Did you go back to the old neighbourhood? Is your Mommy still in Portlands?’ ‘No. She maniengald a few months ago,’ she said. ‘Mommy moved to Westridge with Zainab years ago. She didn’t like it where I was, too quiet, she used to say. She liked helping with the kids, and she and Zainab used to bak en brou together.’ ‘So what’s happening with you? I heard you are married and a lecturer now.’ He smiled. ‘Coming up in the world.’ She laughed. ‘I’m even a doctor – but not the useful kind. If you gonna have toe cramps, I can’t help.’ ‘Would you want to? I damn well wouldn’t want to help anyone with their toes,’ he chuckled. ‘I’m divorced, my iddat has just finished,’ she said abruptly. His eyes widened. ‘Divorce is hectic, I’m sorry.’ Qabila nodded, looked away. Hadn’t his wife died of cancer, years ago? She’d run into one of their old schoolfriends, who’d told her. She knew what it was like to lose someone to cancer. Divorce was nothing. She almost felt guilty about his sympathy for her situation. When she looked at him again, there was a mischievous smile on his face. ‘But you know what, Qabila, sjoe I’m glad you’re single.’ ‘What?’ She stared. He laughed. ‘I’m single too. And I already know you think I’m Bold and Beautiful handsome.’ ‘You’re crazy,’ she said. ‘What are you going on about?’ She wasn’t sure if she should laugh or ask questions. ‘It’s you, Qabila. After all this time, it’s you, right here in front of me.’ His smile was infectious. ‘It’s so good to see you. You were always the one that got away. The most beautiful, funny girl that made me feel amazing when she looked at me. Don’t look so surprised. Life is too short to not say what you mean and mean what you say.’ ‘It was a long time ago,’ she said, laughing. ‘We were so young. My divorced friends have warned me about men like you – flattering newly single women, hoping for an easy time.’ He ran a hand over his hair again. ‘I’m not flattering you, Qabila.’ His voice was soft, no mirth this time. ‘I’m sorry about your divorce. Losing someone is hard, no matter the

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:05:37.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

circumstances.’ She held his eyes, then looked down. She’d promised she wouldn’t cry today. His hand was on her arm, soft, tentative, speaking to her. She wanted to lift her face and gift him with a smile, saying, I’m okay, I might be jagged but I’m not broken. She wanted to leave him with the story of her as a strong woman who took on the world and won. She breathed deeply, trying to pull the tears back. He just stood there, with his hand stroking her arm. ‘I have to go,’ she said. She turned her face up to his like a swimmer coming up for a breath before ducking underwater again. ‘It was good to see you.’ ‘Qabila?’ She took another breath and looked at him again. He nodded. ‘Do you want to meet my kids?’ ‘What?’ ‘My kids, they’re outside somewhere. Before you go, do you want to meet them?’ ‘I just have to let Zainab’s daughter know I’m leaving,’ she said, pointing out her niece to him. He trailed her as she manoeuvred through the guests. She hugged Saleigha. ‘I’m going home now. Tell your mommy I say salaam. I’ll phone her tomorrow.’ Saleigha nodded, looking inquiringly at Fuad. Qabila composed herself. ‘Oookay,’ she said to Fuad, smiled conspiratorially, and motioned to him to lead on. ‘How many kids do you have?’ he asked as they made their way out the door. People were starting to leave, but there were still clusters of relatives catching up. Qabila was not surprised by the question: it was assumed every married woman in the world was a mother – every woman over thirty. As if all women’s lives were the same. ‘My son died,’ she said, ‘leukemia.’ He stopped walking and moved closer to her. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said simply. His hand stroked her arm as he moved to stand by her side. His face was tight, paler now. It was clear he didn’t quite know what to say; people rarely did. She could tell a lot about a person, she’d found, based on their first response to hearing about Habib. People who rushed to fill the silence with some vapid rambling were usually avoiding their own feelings. Some people would immediately stuff the hole her son had made with God, or with a universe that tortures you for your own good. Some would bring out their laundry list of pain, but completely misunderstand hers. Not that she wanted them to understand. Sometimes, she admitted, she wanted to shock them into leaving her alone. The people she liked best were the ones who acknowledged they didn’t understand the senselessness of the world, nor her loss, and yet were willing to sit with her if she wanted to

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:05:37.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

tell them about it. There was an honesty in their not knowing. An acknowledgement that they, too, had not been able to extract a grand lesson when their lives were derailed. Yet they still continued and weren’t afraid to live with uncertainty. These people were easy to be with. They didn’t expect her to have become some kind of Buddha through suffering. He still had not responded. He was leading her through the door, his hand steady on her arm. Had he heard her? ‘Do you want to meet my children?’ he asked. ‘Will it be hard?’ His face was scrunched up as if it couldn’t decide what it needed to do. ‘Yes, I want to meet them.’ He waited for her to meet his eyes. He swallowed. ‘My wife, Saida, had cancer. Saida maniengald eight years ago. Losing her was hard. I can’t imagine what losing one of the children would be like.’ He laid the words in front of her with great care. ‘They’re just there,’ he said pointing to a group of glamorous teens. ‘I don’t know what to say, Qabila.’ ‘It’s okay. Let’s meet your kids.’ She smiled ruefully, wanting to move the moment forward, letting him off the hook. ‘I do that too,’ he said. She looked at him and raised an eyebrow. ‘Make it easy for people. I don’t need you to make it easy for me, Qabila.’ She was about to respond; she felt exposed, but not quite sure why. ‘‘We will talk about this,’ he smiled. ‘That’s why we have to have coffee.’ She wanted to protest but instead allowed herself to be charmed. They’d reached the kids, so her demurrals would have come at the wrong time. ‘Say salaam alaykum to the auntie,’ Fuad instructed. The two teenagers looked remarkably alike. ‘Twins,’ she said, awed. He grinned. ‘Twin stoute kabouters. They put that song on my phone.’ He squinted his eyes in mock menace at the two, who laughed at him. ‘Daddy!’ the girls chorused. ‘These two are Insaaf and Ansaaf. Say salaam to the auntie.’ She returned their greeting and smiled. They were tall, wearing those impossibly high heels that were all the rage. Their sleek brown hair was pinned up in complicated chignons that were supposed to look artless, but had probably taken a good portion of their morning to perfect, and they wore modest, flowy dresses that were both Islamically appropriate and elegant. They were beautiful. ‘You two must have a lot of fun confusing people,’ she said.

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:10:04.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

They laughed. ‘No, Auntie, we would never do that,’ the girl on the right said, their facial expressions revealing unapologetically they did exactly that all the time. She laughed with them. ‘You’ll have to tell me the stories sometime.’ The girl on the left nodded and said, ‘We have really good ones,’ then looked at her dad with mock seriousness: ‘None of them true.’ Fuad wagged his finger at them. ‘Ooh, you two will be the death of me. Stories,’ he said, turning to Qabila, ‘I have grey hairs from all the stories.’ A young boy dressed in navy pants and a smoky blue shirt rubbed tiredly against Fuad’s legs. ‘Double trouble,’ he said. He was about ten. ‘This handsome young man is Anwar,’ said Fuad. ‘Salaam alaykum, pleased to meet you,’ said Qabila, reaching for a handshake. Anwar giggled as he shook her hand; if it hadn’t been dark, Qabila was certain she would’ve seen him blush. The girls had lost interest, the way kids do when they are brought out for adult show-andtell. ‘Wow, they’re so beautiful,’ Qabila said to Fuad. ‘Yeah, I like them.’ ‘He looks tired.’ She pointed her chin at Anwar. ‘We’re going home now.’ The kids sagged in relief. ‘Girls, take your brother to the car. But first say salaam to Mamma and Auntie Noorie, I saw them in the house. I’ll meet you at the car.’ He handed over a set of car keys. ‘You’ve done a good job with them,’ she said. ‘Thanks. I can’t believe how big they are. The twins started varsity this year. Insaaf is doing law and Ansaaf wants to be a nuclear physicist. She wants to work out how to produce environmentally friendly energy so everyone can have electricity without killing the earth.’ Pride and perplexity interwove in his voice. ‘It’s fantastic that you’ve raised your girls to dream big.’ ‘Yes, you have to, with girls. They must be able to take care of themselves. The men nowadays …’ He shook his head. Qabila nodded. ‘Even if you can take care of yourself, it still happens.’ He ran his hands through his hair. ‘Some of us are good,’ he said softly. ‘Want some advice?’ She nodded her yes. ‘Don’t let me get away this time.’ He winked. She laughed. ‘Are you flirting with me?’ ‘Ye-es. And trying to impress you. You only noticing now?’

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:10:04.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

She felt heat on her cheeks. ‘One has to ask these things, you know.’ Suddenly serious, she said, ‘It’s been a long time. I’m not sure what people do any more.’ ‘Me either. After their mother died, I had to be both a father and mother to the children. Time passes. The children grow up and you don’t know where the years have gone.’ He smiled at her. ‘But you are Qabila. The girl who stole my heart when I was a laaitie. Then moved away with it. And here you are. Young, free and single. And your iddat is over, so you are free to go out now. Allah loves me.’ Qabila wasn’t sure what to do with his flattery. It was just nice speaking to him. When he asked for her number, she figured that she wanted to keep on speaking to him, and willingly punched it into his cellphone. She didn’t know what to make of everything he’d said as he walked her to her car and waited while she got in. ‘Shukran,’ she said. ‘It was good to see you.’ ‘Drive safe,’ he said, closing the door. She raised her hand to him as she drove off. In the rearview mirror, she saw him standing there with his hands in his pockets a little while longer. Flirting wasn’t so bad, she thought. She might learn to like being single if there was more flirting in the future.

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:10:04.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

Chapter 13

Qabila stretched to relieve the stiffness of four hours of sitting. Another morning answering an endless array of emails asking for more of her time. Some days, she wished she had a formula that let her say yes to a tenth of what she was asked to do – and even then she’d have too much to do. There were far too many yeses. What she and everyone in her faculty needed was to share their workloads with another nine people. Neo-bloody-liberal economies, she thought. While the few lucky-to-be-employed were reeling under their everexpanding workloads, there were people looking for jobs who were more than adequately trained to do the work. Too much work, too few jobs. She walked over to the window, stretching again before laying her head on the glass. Students were sitting on the patch of grass outside. One of the boys, his body in motion, was illustrating a story – it looked like he was being chased by something huge. Whatever it was, it made his friends laugh. They were all dressed in jeans and emblazoned T-shirts, carelessly throwing themselves about on the lawn as they guffawed. She smiled. They seemed carefree. She had consultations for the next few hours and would try to get some writing done afterwards. Very few students sought her exclusive company to talk about the coursework. When they did come, it was usually to get out of some deadline; but there were no deadlines coming up soon and no exam or assignment marks to contest. Qabila yawned. She wished she could’ve taken the day off after her late night. At least her exhaustion would silence the writing demons and she could get a few good paragraphs down. She laughed – scratch ‘good’; she’d be pleased with just ‘paragraphs’. She needed to submit her book this year, she’d decided. Her promotion depended on it. She’d focus more on work now that she was no longer brooding about Rashid. When she returned to her chair, she leaned back and envisioned a sparkling future. She would work hard and be a powerful woman in the world. And if any patriarchal colleagues like Peter got in her way, well, she’d make sure that the boys’ table contained her, so she could pave the way for other women. Everyone would see she was someone to be reckoned

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:10:04.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

with. So she didn’t have the husband and the children, but she would leave a legacy. A rich legacy that would benefit millions of students. She was going to write books about adequately understanding power that the most important thinkers would read. Her arguments would change the world. She’d started reading positive-thinking books and they all said you must have a vision and see yourself living this new life – though, to be honest, sometimes she felt a little oppressed by having to be positive all the time. Maybe she needed a vision board to help her carve out her new, powerful future. Her phone buzzed, interrupting her vision of walking across a stage to accept an award. It was a message from Fuad. Salaams. It was gud 2 c u @ the wedding. I’m so moeg, I cnt do the l8 nights anymore, lol. ☺. Wanna have coffee … soon? It’ll help me wake up ☺. Fuad Qabila couldn’t stand text abbreviations. He was a grown man who wrote messages like a teenager. Why did she give him her number? Now she’d have to decipher this text-speak. They were living in a world where the more connected you were, the more the art of communication deteriorated. Whatever happened to beautiful letters and slowing down to communicate? Was she going to have coffee with him? Her inner grammar snob did not approve. She did not approve at all. Maybe he thought she was vulnerable and on the rebound. Since word of her divorce started making the rounds, she’d had some less than savoury propositions. Well, only one way to find out what his intentions were. If she found out something she didn’t like, though, it might destroy a good memory. She laughed. What was it that Erna had said to her? The ‘what-ifs’ are what kill you and keep you trapped. Before she changed her mind, she typed: Lol, you text like a teenager. It was good to see you too ☺. Good memories. When did you want to meet up? He responded swiftly: Tonight? I’ll pick you up after Maghrib, around 7? Send me the address. She couldn’t believe he imagined she’d be free at such short notice. She was a very busy person, after all. She wanted to delay, but then she’d probably blow him off forever. She needed to do this. She’d be able to tell Zainab she went on a coffee date, and hopefully end all that fussing about her meeting someone new. Yes. She typed in her address with a smiley at the end. Those vapid icons were wonderful to hide behind, she thought, snickering. What was she going to wear?

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:10:04.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

She looked around at the book-lined walls, all the files like soldiers on a march to knowledge. Her book was going to join this little library one day. What did it matter what she wore? Would a man who wrote teenage texts understand the importance of books? She hadn’t even asked him what he did. You’re a snob, Qabila, she sighed. And if you’re going to fight to be a woman who writes books like her life depends on it, then you’d better lay down some words. Fuad. She smiled. They used to sit at the corner table at the library for hours. She’d do her homework, read her Nancy Drew and Hardy Boys and folk tales from all over the world. He’d copy out of drawing books. For hours, line after line. He’d drawn her portrait a few times. She’d kept it in a box under her bed. Daddy found it. Qabila clenched her fists. They’d laugh and talk while they walked to and from the library. Not about everything. She never told him how every part of her would get really tight as soon as she walked up the path to her house. That she wouldn’t unwind until she could leave again and see him waiting on the corner for her. Some days, he’d ask her why she was so quiet, and she’d tell a joke to keep him from digging deeper. Or maybe the joke was so she wouldn’t have to remember. Daddy had pulled and pushed her by the back of the neck into the yard and made her tear up the portraits. Then he burned them. Qabila bit her lip. She’d put that behind her. Time to get some writing done. She didn’t have all day to moon over a man. When she got home that evening, she reluctantly changed out of her work clothes for her coffee date. She carefully slicked her lips with a nude gloss, then slowly pirouetted in the mirror. She liked the way the red top skimmed her denim-clad thighs without sacrificing modesty. She wrapped the blue scarf Zainab had brought from Mecca around her neck. He’d just have to deal with it. She might’ve been dressed like a proper Muslim woman yesterday for the wedding, in her fancy thaub and decoratively wrapped scarf, but today she was back to normal. He had to accept her as she was. Trying to be someone a man would want had not brought her much love. During the three long months of her iddat, not being able to go anywhere except work had given her lots of time to think. Picking through the debris of her marriage, she realised the person she’d lost, and mourned most, was herself. She would never know who she could’ve been, had she been loved differently.

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:10:04.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

She fluttered around the house as she waited. Perched on the edges of chairs. Jumped up to smooth things that required no smoothing. Looked around the house to imagine what he’d see. The half-packed boxes. Rooms with uneven bites taken out of them. A life in messy transition. She tried to pretend it didn’t matter. Where was he? Was he still going to come? Why was he making her wait and deal with her nerves? His car in the driveway startled her. She moved to the door, wanting to get there before he sounded the horn. Opening the door, she saw her own surprise reflected in his face as he stood there, hand raised to ring the bell. They laughed nervously. ‘Salaams, I was coming out!’ She waited for him to move out of the way so she could get to his serviceable 4x4 in the driveway. ‘So this is where you live,’ he said. ‘It’s far from everything.’ ‘Yes, everyone says that. But I’ve learned that you can live up the road and it might as well be on the moon. It’s only as far as someone’s willingness to travel. And it’s not too far when I have to drive to the southern suburbs.’ His eyebrows lifted. ‘It sounds like you’ve said that quite a bit.’ She nodded. ‘Shall we go?’ ‘Oh, aren’t you going to invite me in? I haven’t done this in a while. I never know what the rules are.’ She hesitated. ‘Usually you ladies have some last-minute things to do,’ he persisted. ‘We aren’t twelve any more. I don’t have to wait for you on the corner so your father doesn’t know.’ She laughed with him, even though she wasn’t sure if it was nostalgia or if he was asking her why she had never invited him in, all those years ago. ‘I don’t know how it works either. The last time I went on a date was with my husband. He’d hoot and I’d have to come running.’ His eyebrows rose again before he looked down at the ground, his hand reaching out to gently turn her back into the house. ‘Then that’s a good reason to have our own traditions, new traditions. I’ll come in and sit in the lounge and I’ll wait until you’re ready. No need to come out running.’ She felt tears prick, but gave a short laugh instead. She’d need a few minutes in the bathroom after all. She kept her head down as she led him to the lounge. ‘You moving?’ ‘Yes.’ She was proud her voice didn’t shake. ‘Make yourself comfortable, I have to go to the ladies.’

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:10:04.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

He laughed. ‘I knew it!’ She took her time in the bathroom. This was unfamiliar territory. She looked at her tearbruised eyes and softly invoked the maxim attributed to Einstein: The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. Unfamiliar is good. Unfamiliar is good. Unfamiliar is good. New traditions. Breathe, you can do this. He was sitting on the edge of the striped sofa, head swivelling. He seemed uncertain. She’d seen that look on guests’ faces before – uneasiness because of the easy wealth on display. ‘Everything had a place?’ he asked, his hand sweeping the room. ‘Not now,’ she shrugged. She patted one of the carefully labelled boxes filled with the small things that made a room homely. ‘New traditions,’ she said, trying to lighten the atmosphere. His eyes crinkled. ‘My place is messy. You know with the kids, nothing stays in place.’ ‘You like that?’ ‘Ja. It’s the kids’ home, and I can either be a good father and provider or keep a tidy house.’ ‘If I could choose, I would’ve chosen a noisy, untidy house.’ ‘Wait until you see my place.’ ‘Mmm, so you think there will be visits to your place.’ ‘A guy has to be optimistic, especially when he runs into the one who got away and she’s single.’ He winked. ‘You’re impossible,’ she laughed. ‘Let’s go.’ They walked towards the door. ‘When are you moving?’ he asked. ‘At the end of next month. We put the house on the market just before the divorce was finalised. I was worried, I thought I wasn’t going to find a place I liked before the house got sold. We were here for a long time.’ ‘Moving is hard. And a house this size, lots of packing,’ he said as he waited for her to lock up. ‘If you need help, moving stuff or packing up, just shout.’ She smiled her thanks at him. ‘Zainab’s girls are going to come over and help with the big packing. And Osman is really handy.’ ‘The more the merrier. Let me know. I’ll bring the kids and we’ll all pitch in. It’ll go quicker.’ ‘Where are we having coffee?’ she asked as they drove off. ‘This is your side of the world, you decide.’ ‘We can go to Willowbridge or Tygervalley. I haven’t eaten yet. Do you mind if we get

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:10:04.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

pizza instead?’ ‘Okay. Pizza would be perfect. Direct me, navigator.’ He laughed. ‘I spend a lot of time with children. Stop me if the cheesy jokes get too over the top.’ ‘Don’t worry, I will. Get onto Durban Road. So where do you live?’ she asked. ‘Rondebosch East,’ he said. She nodded. ‘It’s nice there. The property values are going through the roof.’ ‘Yeah. It has everything we need and it’s close to the mosque. Is there a mosque here?’ ‘They just started one recently.’ She usually ignored the slight frown from other Muslims who asked how one lived a good life without the sound of the athaan five times a day. And how does one maintain a relationship with a community without a mosque? ‘It’s good that you’re moving,’ he said. ‘I know just the area for you.’ She laughed, ‘Oh you do, do you?’ ‘Oh yes.’ ‘I got a smaller place not far from here. Everything’s so expensive. It doesn’t matter where you look. The housing market is insane. And all the decent areas require millionaire buyers. The new place is tiny, two rooms. It’s in a complex, so nice and safe.’ ‘It’s the housing shortage,’ he said. ‘And especially in the white areas. It’s how they keep the areas white. Not a lot of blacks have the financial security to get home loans for these big houses. To think, some of these areas used to be mixed until all the black people were removed and their properties taken for next to nothing. That’s if they were paid. Now the whites must be compensated. Everyone goes on about District Six. It is easier than making a fuss about places like Claremont and Simon’s Town, where so many families had to make way for whites – and now those properties are worth millions.’ ‘I know, it’s so sad. And the memories are fading. All the people who remember living in Claremont are dying, like my mommy. All we have left are fragments of stories. Playing kennetjie in Denver Road. How the poor families were helped by those with more money. The men who played cricket on the green. I can barely remember some of the stories my mother told. I wish I’d listened better. That’s how our histories slip away. I only wanted to read my romances and international spy thrillers and fantasies.’ She laughed ruefully. He groaned. Graceless. Heartfelt. ‘They were all scattered afterwards. Mitchell’s Plain, Heideveld, Manenberg. So many families broken up, and not everybody landed on their feet again. How many have we lost to drugs, poverty and violence? Now there are not enough houses, and these matchbox houses the government is building our people are disgraceful.

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:10:04.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

It’s as if, instead of reaching for the best, they’ve taken the worst and made it normal. Tiny cramped houses that look like shacks. Sorry,’ he sighed. ‘I went to take a cousin food in Blikkiesdorp on Saturday. I’m shocked every time I go. It makes me mad.’ ‘I know,’ she said. ‘And we aren’t allowed to get mad. We somehow have to forgive. It’s like an abusive marriage, where you’re constantly expected to be sensitive to their feelings while living in the hell they create for you without complaint. And it doesn’t matter how much education you have. This shit just changes how it lands on you.’ She sighed. ‘Let’s change the subject.’ He nodded. ‘Keep going,’ she said, as he was about to turn into Tygervalley shopping centre. ‘I want to be outside. Let’s go to Willowbridge.’ Her tummy was tightening, the large shopping centre on her right starting to blur as she looked away from the little muscle dancing on his jaw. What had she said? Maybe he wanted to keep talking politics. In this country, who didn’t? She tried to pull her face into a smile as she guided him to turn right, then left, so that the tension didn’t spoil his mood further. ‘I’ve never been here,’ he said, giving her a quick glance as he manoeuvred the car into the parking bay. ‘It’s one of my favourite places,’ she said as they walked into the lifestyle shopping centre. ‘It’s a little oasis.’ She laughed. ‘Zainab hates it. She says it’s too white and nothing is halaal. Except on Saturday mornings, when there are some Muslim vendors bringing the exotic taste of slamse kos behind the boerewors curtain.’ He laughed. She felt a slight easing. ‘The middle-class search for authenticity,’ she said. He nodded, his eyes watchful. Her stomach tugged at her again. She took him to one of her favourite spots – outside on the balcony, with its view of the tranquil stream and luxury houses dotting a terraced hill. The greenness always brought a feeling of serenity. ‘Joh,’ he said, ‘this is gorgeous. You’d never know this was here. This is what you laanies are paying for in these areas. Expensive, peaceful places.’ She accompanied his short laugh with a snort of her own as they settled on the narrow balcony. She didn’t quite meet his eyes as they talked through their order. Once the necessaries had been dispensed with, she focused on the yellow flowers interrupting the greenery on the hill. ‘Qabila?’ The softness of his voice pulled her face into his direction. ‘Mm?’

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:10:04.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

‘Did he abuse you? Your husband?’ She had no breath to answer. When she shifted away from the intensity of his look, his hand reached out to touch hers. ‘No,’ she shook her head. ‘He didn’t hit me. It would’ve been easier if he had. I could’ve left him years ago. I would’ve had bruises to show, you know? He just, I don’t know … I still can’t make sense of it,’ she said. She was shifting the condiment holder around, picking up the bottles and moving them on the table. Looking down. ‘He has two children. With someone he used to date at university. They have a boy and a girl. I always suspected there was someone else.’ She sighed. ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’ His eyes were gentle. The way he was looking at her made her uneasy, and started a different kind of tummy tightening. ‘What a gemors,’ he said, releasing her from his gaze. ‘I want to moer him.’ ‘No violence here,’ she said. ‘No, no violence.’ Qabila looked at the view, trying to think of something, anything, to change the subject. ‘Tell me about your wife?’ she asked. ‘They say you mustn’t talk about past relationships on your first date,’ he said. ‘I googled what to do. All the websites say that.’ She burst out laughing. ‘You googled what to do?’ ‘Yes, I’m nervous as hell here. This is the first time in I can’t even remember how long that I’ve gone out with a woman. You know, people are always setting me up, but after the last one …’ He rubbed his forehead, shaking his head, eyes large. ‘That bad?’ ‘She brought me curtains for the lounge on the second date and told me the children needed discipline.’ ‘What?’ ‘Oh yeah, and she’d send texts all day, some of them with photos. You know what kind. She wasn’t a bad person, just a little too much.’ ‘This is my first date since Rashid. I’m winging it,’ she laughed. ‘You’re Qabila,’ he said softly. She raised her eyebrows at the hopeful yearning. ‘I don’t want to mess this up.’ ‘I don’t know what to say to that. I don’t know if I’m ready yet. Rashid messed me up. I didn’t google but I do know I’m on the rebound. I can’t promise anything.’ ‘Okay, that’s honest.’ She watched his eyes dart blankly across the view before coming to

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:10:04.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

rest on her. ‘Divorce is like death. That’s what Gamiet, one of my best friends, said after his divorce. It’s like you’re free, but someone very important has died – except they’re still alive and they don’t disappear. You aren’t allowed to fall apart in the same way, like with a death. My wife died a long time ago and I wasn’t really ready for a new relationship until now.’ His eyes were searching her face. ‘I will wait,’ he said. ‘We can take it slow and learn and maybe google together.’ She smiled. ‘Let’s hope we don’t have to google. If we’re googling, we aren’t talking to each other.’ ‘That’s true.’ ‘I googled a lot with my ex and it didn’t do much good. I should have spent less time googling and more just trusting that it wasn’t working.’ ‘Okay,’ he said. They were both quiet for a few moments. ‘I want you to promise me something,’ he said. ‘What?’ ‘If you feel like something I did needs advice from Google, promise to talk to me first – and I’ll do the same with you. No matter what it is, we’ll talk first, and just be honest.’ She opened her mouth to say yes, but the words couldn’t come. Talking rarely changed anything, and honesty only made the deceptions more sophisticated. He frowned at her hesitancy and looked away again. She remembered then: ‘Einstein.’ ‘What,’ he laughed, clearly confused. ‘Einstein?’ ‘Doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results is the definition of insanity. He was supposed to have said that.’ ‘Oh,’ he said uncertainly. The waiter brought their designer pizzas, and as they busied themselves eating, the respite allowed her emotions to catch up with her thoughts. ‘I don’t know how to be honest and have it mean something. It’s just talking. Rashid would always say we were going to talk honestly – and then it would just be me. He used to say I needed therapy. That I was imagining things when I tried to talk to him about something that worried me. I’m not used to honesty. When he said we needed honesty, it was usually to get me to allow him to do whatever he wanted.’ Her students would’ve been surprised to hear her voice as it thickened in the wrong places, snagging on simple words. ‘I’m not perfect. I won’t always get things right. I will try and I will listen. I promise I’ll be honest.’

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:10:04.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

Qabila didn’t know how to respond. She sawed through her pizza, quickly turning the roasted butternut into mush. She released a breath she’d held too tightly, feeling a little dizzy. She put on a bright smile and said with exaggerated cheeriness, ‘Yessirree. Only honesty henceforth, insanity avoided.’ He laughed uneasily. ‘Wanna change the subject?’ ‘Yes please.’ She relaxed her aching smile as she begged him with her eyes to let go of the intensity of the moment. ‘Okay.’ He breathed deeply. His eyes roamed the landscape again, coming to rest on the stream. Probably better to watch than her pizza-hacking skills. She made a comment about how delicious the caramelised butternut was, and he turned back to her, murmuring in appreciation about the sweetness of the beet offset by the feta. The gentle way he was looking at her, with his warm half-smile, reached into the knot in her stomach, helping her to breathe and let the tightness go. She smiled at him. He put down his knife and fork, steepled his hands and leaned his chin on them, his gaze moving over her face. Every spot his eyes fell on felt caressed. Her hands dropped to the table, the knife and fork held in a relaxed grip as she looked at him in turn. He was honey-coloured, like he spent a lot of time in the sun. His cropped hair was grey, but she could still see the boy in the man. He had the same warm brown eyes even though they were now looking out of silver-framed spectacles. The dimple on his left cheek had deepened as he’d grown. He was wearing an open-necked, short-sleeved white shirt that showed the ropy strength of his arms. He didn’t have Rashid’s long leanness or patrician nose or sleek sophistication. She frowned away the comparison. She was here because she didn’t want to be with Rashid. The deep silence between them made her feel more seen and heard than she had in years. She breathed out deeply, looked down at her mangled pizza and slowly started to eat again, smiling up at him shyly. He grinned as they allowed time to start again. ‘What do you do?’ she asked. ‘Ek is ’n gebouman. Construction, plumbing.’ She nodded. ‘Like your daddy.’ ‘Yes, he taught me the trade, sent me to college to get my certificates. He retired a few years ago, but he still helps out when I have big contracts sometimes.’ His lips compressed a little, eyes squinting as he watched her reaction. Qabila was used to people looking to see just how stuck-up she was. She nodded. ‘The world needs good plumbers. I wish some of my students had become plumbers or

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:10:04.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

carpenters and taken on the trades, instead of sitting in university classrooms being taught things they’re not interested in, just because having a degree supposedly has higher status.’ ‘Yes, but still, I want Anwar to go to university. Get the opportunities I didn’t get. My parents couldn’t afford the fees to go and we didn’t know all the options. He wants to be an engineer.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘I wanted to go into graphic design.’ She knew, just looking at him, that he expected her to mock this dream. She smiled and touched his hand. ‘You still can,’ she said. He laughed, shook his head. ‘Ah no, it’s too late and I’m happy with the job, you know. It’s busy if you have your own business, especially when people contact you with emergencies – but it lets me take care of the children and have a good life.’ He paused, seemed to collect his words. ‘Is it a problem for you that I’m a plumber?’ She shook her head. ‘I just meant we tend to be haunted by the things we didn’t do.’ He nodded slowly. ‘People with degrees sometimes act as if they’re better than people without. Start talking slowly, as if there’s only one way of being clever in the world. Even in families you can see it. The kids who have degrees talking that way to parents who worked their hands to the bone to give them education. My cousin Kashief sent his three kids to university by driving a truck up and down the country. It made him so moeg. Now the kids, all with their high-flying jobs, sit and laugh at him when he speaks. It doesn’t matter who’s there, always jakking him af. It makes me befok. The girls better not do that with me.’ ‘I used to do that,’ she said softly. He wanted honesty. She would give it to him even if he didn’t like it. He looked at her with a frown of disbelief. ‘No, why? C’mon, you? I don’t believe it.’ She shrugged. ‘I used to. Education opens the world, changes how you see things. And it used to irritate me when people said things that were narrow-minded or when they expected a slamse tietie. Sometimes people say things that are so racist, using the language of apartheid to insult other black people – the same racial slurs, or stupid stuff about how the apartheid government was better. Or the stupid crap about women. And if you tell them that, then they act as if you think you’re better than them because of education. It has nothing to do with education. I used to do it too. Even when I knew better.’ Her hands clenched. Holding her knife and fork became uncomfortable and she carefully laid it on her plate. ‘There are lots of racists with doctorates. Racism smothers me. All that hatred. We are so focused on hating other black people and ignoring that white people’s lives have actually

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:10:04.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

gotten better after apartheid. We still put white people on a pedestal. Why? They dislocated families, threw schoolchildren in jail, dumped people far away from the beautiful places, imposed curfews. Who would prefer the violent people who thought you were only good enough to clean their homes and do the jobs that would keep their workforce efficient, like being teachers and nurses, to our own?’ ‘I understand that. It’s hectic on the building sites. People can be really rude, racist – it makes me angry too. You’d never say it’s a new South Africa. I always remind them that Bilal was a black man and our Nabi and our deen do not discriminate based on race but on iman. It’s your faith that matters and how you serve Allah SWT.’ Qabila released a breath. ‘Thank goodness.’ ‘What? ‘I was worried you were one of those racist geboumanne. It made me so angry when I was younger to hear how my uncles and the ambagsmanne who worked on the geboue talked. Every time they said “the darkies” I wanted to scream; every time, I’d try to conscientise them. They’d say, “Ja, julle met geleerentheid dink julle weet alles.” They felt it their duty to warn me that even us educated ones would one day be murdered in our beds by the socalled “darkies”.’ He laughed. ‘What they tell me is: wait until your daughter comes home with a “darkie”, dan sal ons sien.’ She laughed, and then remembered. ‘She’s black,’ she said. ‘The mother of my husband’s children.’ His eyes widened as she waited for his response. Then he shrugged slightly and with a little smirk said, ‘Okay, so maybe the racist idiots aren’t always wrong.’ That made her laugh. ‘Hectic,’ he said. She nodded. ‘I wonder how much of him never just leaving me for her had to do with that racist crap.’ His face was serious again. ‘Wouldn’t surprise me. A few guys I grew up with had white girls, but I don’t know anyone who came home with a black girl. Not that it didn’t happen, it did. It just wasn’t what they boasted and pronked about, you know. I mean, you could walk with a white girlie and feel kwaai, like you’re a laanie, but a black girl …’ He shrugged. She nodded and sighed. ‘We haven’t come so far. What would you do if Anwar or one of the girls came home with a black lover?’

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:10:04.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

He barked out a laugh. ‘The heart wants what the heart wants. But my kids are still Muslims, hey, so none of this lover nonsense.’ He wagged a playful finger before turning serious. ‘I would want to know if they will come into the deen. That’s the most important. If they will be Muslims and raise their children as Muslims.’ ‘Why? It’s not like we always live as Muslims. For a long time after Habib died, Rashid and I only put on our Islam for functions. Janaazahs and weddings and … you know what I mean. But otherwise, our religion was the university and work.’ ‘What do you mean the university?’ ‘It’s hard to explain.’ She thought for a minute, playing with her glass, widening the wet ring it made on the table. He was watching her hands when she looked up. ‘The university has its own language, its own rules. Some people wear their religions visibly, but most of us just blend in. We don’t wear our hijab or yarmulkes or ZCC badges or bindis. We dress like Westerners. Most of us Muslim women academics wear our scarves around the neck, if at all. There are a few who cover their hair and are in hijab, but mostly not. And we speak the language of the university – we don’t say “inshallah” when we’re making plans or “algamdulillah” when things work out. We don’t start a new class or event with a dua. It’s understood that those are private expressions. We thank human ingenuity and we don’t believe in fate.’ She shrugged. ‘Although, there were times after Habib died when I wanted to hide under full hijab. Go to work with my hair uncombed and face haggard under a scarf without anyone knowing. Wear pyjamas under a thaub.’ He looked at her thoughtfully, face squinted up a little, and nodded. ‘Do you like your job?’ She was surprised. ‘Why would you ask that?’ He shrugged slightly. ‘You haven’t said anything you like about it yet. Every time you speak about it, you look stressed and angry.’ ‘If we aren’t complaining about busyness, then we’re assumed to be unproductive and undeserving,’ she laughed. ‘I do love my job. I admit there are things I don’t love, even though I understand the necessity of some of them. But there’s a lot more I love than don’t. I love the students and watching them learn and change. I love when they come back a few years later and they’ve accomplished goals, walking with their backs straight and new dreams to strive for. I love sitting in a room with old colleagues and strangers, talking about complex ideas. I love reading books that connect me to people all over the world from different times. We keep ideas alive or kill them off, change them a little here, a little there, try putting unlikely ideas together, see what happens. It’s hard and fun and very, very

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:10:04.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

serious. We teach the different arts of thinking. I love writing my way through ideas I’m trying to understand.’ He rubbed his cheek. ‘I’m a practical guy. We need to do things in the world. Just thinking doesn’t get stuff done.’ She nodded. ‘Ja, but thinking is an action. It’s very active. The entire world is organised because of how we think; all action is through thought. You can’t have one without the other. If your thinking is racist, for example, then your actions will reflect that racism. Change how you think, your behaviour will shift.’ She shrugged. He smiled at her. She smiled at him. The words hardly mattered. Most of what they said was in the way their eyes lit up, and mellowed shyly. The way their necks curved and how they followed each other’s every movement with curiosity and tenderness. After dinner, they took a walk along the meandering path. Their hands touched, voices softer as they marvelled at the moon and the houses’ lights glinting off the stream. On the drive back to her place, they arranged to meet on the weekend. When he came up to the door with her, he leaned over and kissed her cheek. She was glad the dark entryway hid her blush. Afterwards, she felt tired and wound up at the same time. She didn’t think she would sleep, but she fell asleep with her pad in her hand, without having put a single thing on her list for the next day.

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:10:04.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

Chapter 14

Qabila watched Zainab put up the Bon Voyage banner, the gaudy red and silver absorbed into the lounge’s clutter. ‘I can’t believe they’re leaving already. The wedding feels like yesterday.’ Zainab turned to look at Qabila, her body contorting on the chair she was perched on. ‘You should use a ladder, tietie, not a chair,’ Qabila said as she navigated her way through the furniture to catch her sister if she fell. ‘Hey, you people, there must be a different thing for everything. A knife for potatoes, a knife for fish, for meat and ai jinne.’ ‘What do you mean you people?’ Qabila asked, annoyed. ‘Why do you always have to make as if my life is so different to yours?’ They’d worn this conversation thin over the years. ‘Tutut,’ her sister responded, waving her hand imperiously from her elevated position as she arranged the banner to her satisfaction. ‘Bring me the Prestik. And tell me about Fuad. How are things with you two?’ Qabila frowned, shook her head as she handed her sister the sticky stuff. ‘There are no “things”. We go for coffee. We talk. I tell him about my life. He tells me about his. We’re becoming friends.’ ‘Friends se voet,’ Zainab countered. ‘That man is after you. If you’re clever,’ she leaned heavily on Qabila’s shoulder as she dismounted from her perch, ‘you’ll let him catch you. He’s a good one.’ ‘How do you know? You barely know him.’ Zainab gave her that look, the one that had made Qabila stomp on her sandcastles when they were younger. ‘Did you invite him today?’ She countered. ‘No, why? This is a family affair. Maybe his cousin invited him.’ ‘Jy darem,’ Zainab responded. ‘Come help me with the tables,’ she ordered, walking off to the kitchen. Qabila flipped her the bird behind her back, then felt guilty. Zainab was having a tough

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:10:04.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

time. She had to remember that. She’d been saying it to herself all week. ‘You’re going to miss her,’ Qabila said softly. Maybe if they actually talked about Firdous leaving, Zainab wouldn’t be like a rabid general trying to control everything, smothering the hell out of her. ‘Yes, but it is their rizq. We can’t stand in the way of them going after their rizq,’ she said in that pious I’ve-practised-this-so-many-times-I’ve-browbeaten-myself-into-believingit voice, and you-better-not-say-anything-otherwise. ‘I know,’ Qabila said, stroking her sister’s industrious back. She was surprised to feel Zainab lean into her hand, and then let Qabila catch up so they could embrace. Qabila held on just as tightly when she heard the first hard sob. ‘Ja Allah, I hope nothing happens to them there. They’ll be so far away,’ Zainab said. ‘And things are mad in the world now. They’re killing Muslims everywhere. And they act as if we deserve it.’ ‘They’ll be safe,’ Qabila said, and repeated it over and over, as much in comfort as in prayer. Qabila could feel Zainab’s scarf on her neck as her stalwart sister burrowed into her, her sobs sounding like water clearing a rusty pipe. ‘I know, Allah Kadir, but ja Allah, she’s so young and they’ll be so far. Why can this bloody government not see that there’s work for them here? The classrooms are overcrowded, we need teachers. Why must they go so far for their rizq?’ Zainab pulled away, her face scrunched in the orange scarf as she righted folds that didn’t need righting. She patted Qabila on the shoulder. ‘Shukran, I’m okay now,’ she said, and clattered down the narrow passage. Qabila let a breath go. ‘Afwan,’ she muttered, knowing Zainab would hate having a fuss made about her vulnerability. For the rest of the morning, she helped pack platters with savouries and cut-up fruit, moving where she was told. When her niece Saleigha got back from the store with supplies, she was also commandeered into Zainab’s army as they prepared the house for the goingaway party. The house gradually filled as family and friends arrived to bid the couple farewell, most of them with gifts of food that perfumed the air with spice. Qabila was in the kitchen with Ariefa, Zainab’s oldest, seeing to it that the food kept flowing. She was lost in the rich spicy smell wafting up as she sliced a moist date loaf. She popped a thin slice in her mouth and gave a tiny little moan of appreciation as the cinnamon, cloves and thick sweetness melted on her tongue. ‘Do you want a piece before it all disappears?’ she asked Ariefa, turning to look at her niece. And froze: Rashid was

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:10:04.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

leaning in the doorway, watching her. ‘Salaam, Uncle Rashid,’ Ariefa’s voice rang out; she’d always been his favourite niece. Then she looked guiltily at Qabila. ‘I’m going to see if Fahiem is okay.’ ‘Salaam. Your son is so big now,’ Rashid said, the patrician lines of his face softening. ‘I saw him outside with Riedwaan. I still can’t believe you two have a child.’ He shook his head and smiled, his face not quite holding the shape of it. ‘We’re getting old now,’ he said to Qabila. Ariefa murmured something on her way out of the door. ‘What are you doing here?’ Qabila heard the shrillness of her voice and winced. She’d been training herself for the last few months to greet him with nonchalance. He pulled in a shaky breath. She watched his mouth open as he tried for a devil-may-care stance he must’ve been practising too. ‘I’ve come to see Firdous off.’ ‘Why? They’re nothing to you any more.’ He flinched, his hand running restively from his forehead to the back of his head, then rubbing his cheek. ‘I’ve known her all her life.’ He threw his arm out to encompass the kitchen. ‘All of this doesn’t disappear just because we got it wrong. They were my family too,’ he said. ‘The girls were my nieces too.’ ‘No, they were not. They are mine. What would you know about family? You with your secret children? And we didn’t “get it wrong”. You did. With your pathological lying. Your double life.’ Though she kept her voice down so as not to draw attention, she enunciated every word, her voice hard and cold. She wanted to cut him and watch him bleed. He swallowed, drew in a ragged breath and straightened, hands in his pockets. His mouth puckered slightly as he chewed whatever words wanted to come, his eyes floating over her head. ‘I,’ he started, shook his head, ‘I can never make this right.’ He pointed to the space between them. ‘I don’t know what happened. The last few months I’ve been … I don’t know how it happened. You start something and it feels like a matter of life and death to keep going.’ She watched him struggle. ‘Good old Rashid,’ she said. ‘Justify. Justify and the rest of us be damned.’ ‘Qabila,’ he begged. ‘It was life and death. My life, your children’s lives, your children’s deaths, Thandi’s life. So many lives that you played with. You must have felt like a god, making us all dance to the mad lies in your head,’ she hissed. Body bent forward, she flicked her fingers and threw her disdain at him. ‘What are you doing here? Go, I want you to go.’ ‘Qabila, please. You’re overreacting. I did wrong. I know I did wrong by everyone. I’m a

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:10:04.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

bad person, bad husband, bad father, bad man. Bad bad bad – I know.’ His voice had a singsong quality. He loomed, seeming to close the arc their bodies were creating. ‘Yes, you are,’ she said, ‘and you’re mocking me. I can’t fucking believe you’re mocking me. It’s like something doesn’t work in you. Look at you, your face all scrunched up, leaking fucking anger. What right do you have to be angry? What right?’ She took in the rigid lines of his body, his expression that said he would crush her. For a moment, she wanted to beg him not to look at her like that. She wanted to take back whatever it was she’d done to make him look at her like that. Old habits. Why had she thought what she felt for him was love? She couldn’t look at him any more. She turned to grip the counter, breathing in the smells of the cake, letting the treats blur into a multihued haze as her eyes filled. She’d been given a vision of herself as if for the first time and it made her dizzy. She was stunned by her desire to accede to his anger, to give way so she could appease him. Was that who she was? Someone who let herself be browbeaten. ‘Fuck, fuck,’ he was saying. Then he took the coddling tone, the one he used after she’d been browbeaten: ‘I don’t want to fight, Qabila.’ He was closing in. He would touch her soon, like a horse whisperer soothing a nervous mare. He’d stroke her shoulders and his voice would slip into an opening in her defences. The awareness of his approach felt like an out-of-body experience. The world around her slowed, every nanosecond demanding to be felt and recorded. She heard the kitchen door open. When had it closed? In his charming voice Rashid said, ‘Salaam, we’re just busy here quickly. We just want to sort out something.’ She wanted to turn her frozen body to beg the person to come in but she didn’t want them to see her tears. ‘Oh salaam,’ Fuad greeted heartily as the door opened wider. ‘Hoe faa? You must be Rashid.’ Her mouth curved in a little smile as she felt herself unwind a bit, her breath coming easier. I don’t need rescuing, was her next thought. She felt a twinge of anger. ‘Yes, algamdulillah.’ Rashid sounded vexed. ‘We just have something to talk about quickly,’ he repeated. ‘Oh yes, I just must ask Qabila something quickly too. It’s urgent,’ Fuad said, his voice low and calm. ‘Qabila?’ She took a deep breath, plastered a smile on her face and turned to him. His eyes narrowed in concern before he smiled. ‘You must come out, Firdous wants you urgently.’

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:10:04.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

‘We’re talking here,’ Rashid said. Firmer, more assertive. ‘I know, but it’s a crisis. The guests of honour and all that. Can’t you talk after?’ ‘Who are you?’ Rashid asked in that plummy accent cultivated on the hill of higher learning. ‘Oh, maaf.’ With exaggerated politeness he reached out to shake Rashid’s hand. ‘I’m Fuad. Nieyaaz is my cousin’s son. Firdous really needs her.’ His hand reached past Rashid to beckon to Qabila. ‘Why, what’s the matter?’ Rashid asked. ‘I don’t know. I’m just the messenger and it’s their day. They said it was urgent. Come, Qabila – auntie duty.’ She made a sound that was supposed to be laughter but which wouldn’t have fooled anyone. ‘I better go, uhm, and see what it is,’ she said, not caring that her voice caught as she squeezed past Rashid in the narrow kitchen to follow Fuad out the door. The gossip queen Fouzia was leaning against the wall in the passage, fingers tap-tapping on her phone. She looked up and smiled as Qabila emerged, sandwiched between the two men. ‘Uitgesort?’ she asked Qabila, her eyebrows waggling towards Rashid at her back. ‘Ja, shukran,’ Qabila responded perfunctorily. Fuad waited till she was abreast of him, his hand cupping her back directing her down the passage to the front door. With a forced smile, she looked her thanks at him, and saw his face tighten. ‘This way,’ he said, between salaams, as he helped her navigate between family and friends. He didn’t stop as he greeted and smiled and moved her through the people. ‘Haai, shame, they’re going to miss her,’ Qabila heard one of her cousins say. She kept moving. She was relieved her strained, teary face was attributed to the sadness of the farewell. She felt another burst of anger. How dare Rashid come here and make this about him? She glared over her shoulder. Why was he still following her? He couldn’t even leave her in peace to be sad about her niece leaving. Fouzia was trailing behind Rashid, her avid eyes taking in every detail like a social detective, alert to the slightest nuances. A sprite of mischief made Qabila pause, turn and say loudly to Rashid: ‘Fouzia knows, you must ask her!’ His eyes widened before his mouth tightened into that unforgiving line. Fouzia beamed at her and asked, right on cue, ‘What?’ Her delighted anticipation was palpable as she moved to intercept Rashid. ‘Oh no, it’s nothing,’ Rashid spluttered. Qabila chuckled and whispered to Fuad, ‘He can’t stand her.’

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:10:04.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

‘Good move,’ he smiled. ‘She has him trapped.’ They smiled conspiratorially, blinking as they reached the sunlight outside. ‘Come, let’s go to my car for now. We can say we’re picking up something or other,’ he said. His pace was more leisurely now on the less crowded garden path. They were quiet as he drove a few blocks and parked in front of the shop. The parking lot was full of people from the nearby sports bar, milling about buying boerewors and smoking, some with beers in their hands, talking animatedly. ‘It didn’t used to be like this,’ she said, pushing her chin out at the clumps of men standing around. ‘I remember,’ he said. ‘I had a friend who lived in Dagbreek.’ He pointed to the road. ‘The shacks on the hill are new too.’ They didn’t look at each other. ‘Why do so many poor areas have lots of churches and places where people congregate around alcohol?’ she asked, her voice dull. ‘The residents are really angry about the shacks affecting their property values. They pride themselves on being one of the best areas in Mitchell’s Plain.’ He shrugged. ‘Are you okay?’ ‘It’s the first time I’ve been alone with him since I found out about the children.’ He took her hand. She looked out the window at the gaily painted vibracrete fences and the little maisonettes that in a leafy suburb would be called townhouses. Her eyes caught on a patch of grey where the turquoise paint had completely faded. She could feel his eyes on her. He squeezed her hand, gently running his thumb over the back of it, the steady rhythm soothing. ‘I don’t need to be rescued.’ She swallowed. ‘I could’ve dealt with him.’ She sounded unnecessarily harsh. His eyebrows rose, and he lifted a hand to her cheek and smiled sadly. ‘I know.’ His eyes were running over her face as if checking for bruises. ‘I looked for you. When they said you were in the kitchen, I came to find you.’ She bit her lip. The encounter with Rashid, the release of tension, the closeness of the car, the softness of his voice and the gentleness of his stroking hands were loosening tears. She let them drop. ‘When your cousin said you were inside with Rashid and that she was sure you had business to discuss …’ He shook his head. ‘I couldn’t leave you there without checking to see that you were okay. What should I have done? This man, everything I learn about this man …’ She nodded. She was being unreasonable, chiding him for helping her escape. He leaned forward and put his forehead on hers. Eyes closed, she rested for a few minutes.

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:10:04.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

She moved back to look at him. She felt naked, vulnerable, small, and something else she couldn’t quite name. He was reaching her in places she didn’t know were wounded. The tears receded. The silence loud. The crash of a bottle smashing startled them both. They laughed, softly, shyly. Fuad moved back to his side of the car, stretching as he righted his body from the awkward position he’d held, bent over the gears. His hand tapped the steering wheel. ‘What do you want to do?’ ‘Stay here forever,’ she said. He looked at her, eyebrows cocked enquiringly. ‘We should go back,’ she said. ‘I won’t let him spoil this day and push me out of my family. Today is about Zainab and her children.’ He was quiet as he drove them back through the streets with fruit names. ‘Just tell me what you want me to do,’ he said. ‘Okay,’ she replied as they pulled up in Zainab’s street, parking on a little bit of pavement across from the house. Rashid was talking to her uncle and cousin. His eyes narrowed as he watched them get out of the car, and he raised his hand in greeting. Everyone was looking at her and Fuad. ‘The skindering is going to begin soon.’ She looked at Fuad, trying for amusement and not quite getting it right. ‘Who cares, let them fitnah. We don’t have anything to hide from the gossips.’ He paused. ‘I should kiss you and give them something to really talk about.’ ‘You wouldn’t!’ His eyes narrowed as he leaned forward, lips pursed. ‘Ooh, is the pretty girl daring me?’ His mock creepy voice made her laugh. ‘I’ll run away!’ ‘I would chase you. You won’t get away from me that easily.’ She hoped Rashid was taking a good look at her not giving a damn. ‘Ah, but I’d want you to catch me.’ She arched her eyebrows lasciviously. ‘I knew it.’ They were abreast with the men now. She leaned forward to kiss her uncle on his cheek, her skin brushing the soft folds on his face. ‘Hoe faa?’ she asked, slipping into the gentle cadence of Cape Malay Afrikaans. ‘Algamdulillah, all praises to God,’ he responded, touching her face with a hand roughened by years of laying bricks. ‘How are you?’ he asked. The English thickened with unfamiliarity.

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:10:04.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

‘Algamdulillah,’ she smiled. Fuad was greeting the other men, shaking their hands, touching his chest. ‘Rashid says you don’t want anything to do with him,’ her uncle said. His directness made her stomach tighten. She glared at Rashid, who had clearly taken the opportunity to tell his side of the story. He always wanted people to think highly of him. His lips twitched slightly, eyes narrowing. He knew she hated people knowing her business. ‘Ja,’ she said. ‘He lied for too long,’ she continued in Afrikaans, looking at Rashid, ‘He was living a secret double life for years. He has a daughter and an older son. It’s better for both of us.’ ‘Qabila,’ Rashid warned. But she’d finally learned that she’d never had anything to hide. The lies and secrets were his. She was going to speak the truth. Her uncle’s concerned look turned to a frown. ‘What children?’ he asked Rashid. ‘Moenie vir haar luister nie, sy speel al weer mal,’ Rashid said, giving her another warning look. She couldn’t believe his gall. Fuad laughed. ‘Joh, do you really expect Qabila to keep your secrets? You’re the person that’s crazy.’ Rashid’s hands balled into fists. Eyes sparking, he hissed at Fuad, ‘Who are you? Where do you come from? This is my wife you are fucking around with.’ ‘Ex-wife,’ both Qabila and Fuad said at the same time. ‘Hey, ouens,’ her cousin Isgak said jokingly. ‘Let’s not fight. We are lovers, not fighters.’ He spread his hands between them as if he were damping a fire, watching them closely in case the attempt to lighten the atmosphere didn’t work. She looked an appeal at Fuad, tilting her head towards the house. She ignored Rashid. ‘Okay,’ Fuad said. He nodded at the men, greeted and walked toward the front door. She watched his back for a minute, smiled and said to her uncle, ‘I’ll come and visit one night in the week. It’s been too long since I visited you and Auntie Moenieba.’ He nodded, pointing his chin at Fuad, who was now talking to someone Qabila didn’t recognise. His voice hard, he asked, ‘Het hy in jou lewe gekom?’ ‘No, Boeta, I didn’t have an affair with Fuad. My marriage didn’t break up because I was unfaithful.’ She saw Rashid’s smug expression. ‘You’re enjoying this,’ she said to him. ‘Qabila, this is not the time or place for this conversation,’ Rashid said. ‘We’re here for Firdous and Nieyaaz.’ He gave her uncle and cousin a comradely look, shrugged his shoulders and shook his head so they could participate in turning her into an unreasonable

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:10:04.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

woman. Her uncle sighed and looked at her. ‘I miss your mother.’ She felt tears prick her eyes. ‘Me too.’ Her uncle rubbed her arm. ‘Ja, as ’n mens treur dan doen ons enige iets om beter te voel,’ he said. ‘Ons hoop net die mense om ons verstaan.’ With disbelief she listened to his reasoning that her grief had caused her to stray from her marriage. He nodded and looked at Rashid, seeming to agree with something that Qabila could not see. He touched her hand again. ‘We’ll sort this out, don’t worry.’ ‘Sort what out, Boeta?’ He pointed at her and Rashid. Isgak looked awkward, shuffling and giving her sheepish looks when he wasn’t focused on whatever was so interesting on the ground. Rashid looked at her uncle like a dutiful student. ‘I don’t believe this,’ she muttered. Then, her voice slow and deliberate, she said: ‘His son’s name is Adam, he’s fourteen, and his daughter Nadia is nine.’ ‘Qabila,’ Rashid warned again. She ignored him. ‘I found out about them just before the divorce. I had to hire a private investigator because he’s a liar and I wanted to finally know the truth.’ Shock transformed her uncle’s face. Isgak looked disgusted. ‘Joh. Jy’s mos vuil. Van dieselfde vrou?’ ‘Yes,’ she looked at him, ‘from the same woman. He was married to her. I never knew.’ ‘Ooooh,’ her uncle exhaled. ‘Die deen gee vir hom die reg vir ’n nogge vrou.’ She could hardly believe her ears. Her mouth opened but no words came out. How could he say Rashid was entitled to another wife? The stupid tears wanted to fall again. Her uncle asked Rashid to confirm the children were halaal. Rashid’s Adam’s apple bobbed. ‘Yes,’ he nodded. Isgak put his hand on her shoulder. ‘Maaf Qabila, this is bad,’ he muttered. ‘A person never knows what’s going on behind closed doors.’ ‘Shukran.’ At least he understood. Her uncle was looking at her sympathetically now, but there was also a resolve on his face. ‘Is jy nog lief vir hom?’ She shook her head, no. She felt a lot of things for Rashid, some of them not yet explored, but there was very little love now. ‘Ek is klaar met hom,’ she said. ‘He lied too much, Boeta.’ ‘Ja. Die deen gee vir hom die reg vir ’n nogge vrou,’ he repeated, ‘maar sonder honesty,

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:10:04.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

there is no marriage.’ He addressed Rashid, ‘Haai, my klong, dié is ’n gemors.’ ‘I can explain, Boeta Neefie,’ Rashid said. ‘I’m going inside,’ Qabila said to her uncle and cousin. To Rashid, she said, ‘There’s nothing for you here.’ He breathed out heavily, running his hand over the back of his head. ‘You know that’s not true. You’re angry now, but I should be here too. I have a right to be here.’ ‘Don’t bother me again today. If you want to play your rights by deen, you are haram to me now. We are strangers, you have no business cornering me in kitchens or anywhere any more, ever again. And badmouthing me.’ ‘Qabila, you’re angry …’ ‘She doesn’t want to talk to you. Can’t you hear? Leave her alone,’ Isgak said. Fists clenched, he stood in front of Rashid. Qabila gave him a grateful look. He smiled at her reassuringly and nodded towards the house. She took the signal and went inside, giving Fuad a sober smile as she passed him. She didn’t relax until Isgak let her know Rashid had left. Then she let herself unwind, sinking into the couch next to Auntie Moenieba. ‘What’s wrong?’ Auntie Moenieba asked. ‘Dit klink asof die kinders se planne sal uitwerk.’ ‘It’s not worry about Firdous and Nieyaaz, Auntie. It’s also that, but this is the best plan for them, for now.’ She put her head on her aunt’s shoulder. It was rigid. Not like her mother’s. But it was the closest she was going to get. ‘Rashid was here. He was lying to Uncle Neefie.’ Auntie Moenieba shook her head. ‘That man was always sly. Zainab just told me the whole story. Shame, this business with you and Rashid was also hard for her. You could’ve come to me. Now that your mummy isn’t here any more …’ Auntie Moenieba patted Qabila’s leg. There was no rhythm to this touch that tried to be tender – but was more so for its gracelessness. Her auntie’s generation was not a touching or hugging one. ‘Shukran,’ she said softly, simply. Sometimes, ‘thank you’ was more than sufficient. ‘Uncle Neefie said he’s entitled to another wife.’ Her aunt nodded. ‘Yes, but you have rights too. He should have told you. Both wives must be treated equally. And the lying is haram. Ja Allah, it’s so sinful what this man did. These men, sometimes they just hide behind the deen. Yes, he can take another wife, but there are conditions and Neefie knows that. That man, really.’ Her aunt shook her head, the gold beads on her red scarf dancing rainbows on the wall.

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:10:04.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

Uncle Neefie chose that moment to arrive in their corner of the room, dragging a chair with him. His wife gave him an angry look. ‘What is this about rights to take another wife?’ she asked him as he lowered himself into his seat. Qabila sat up, her legs and torso at perfect ninety-degree angles. His eyes widened at Auntie Moenieba’s tone. ‘Moenie worry nie, ek sal nie vir jou intrade nie,’ he drawled, waggling his eyebrows. They all laughed. ‘One wife is enough headaches,’ he shook his head. ‘To want to have two …’ His face sobered as he looked at her, sighing deeply. ‘My kind, dié is ’n lelike storie.’ She nodded. ‘It wasn’t the story I wanted to live.’ She looked him full in the face, daring him to say something hurtful. ‘Are you completely kaput with him?’ he asked. His broken English let her know he was trying to connect with her. ‘Yes,’ she nodded. ‘I always suspected, but I didn’t know he was married to her. I think he was even with her during Mommy’s janaazah.’ Uncle Neefie and Auntie Moenieba gasped and looked at each other, shaking their heads. ‘Ag, my child,’ Auntie Moenieba said. ‘Even this Allah puts out for us. There is something better for you.’ Uncle Neefie nodded. ‘You must make dua, istikharah salaah and ask Allah to send the right person to you.’ ‘What right person?’ Auntie Moenieba asked. ‘This child has been with this man her whole life. She must first get her life sorted. She’s independent, algamdulillah. She doesn’t need a man now.’ ‘Marriage is a half completion –’ ‘Yes, yes,’ Auntie Moenieba interrupted him. ‘But the men of today …’ Uncle Neefie frowned and looked at Qabila, the worry plain on his face. ‘Ja, the men can be full of tricks. You can maar listen to your Auntie Moenieba.’ Auntie Moenieba leaned back and gave him a look of approval. Qabila watched as they smiled at each other. ‘How did you do it?’ she asked waving at the space between them. ‘Respect,’ Uncle Neefie said. ‘We understand each other,’ Auntie Moenieba said. The thick awkward English almost unhinging the graceful sentiment. They held hands and smiled at each other. Their brown faces creasing into soft folds. ‘Sy is nog altyd my bokkie,’ Uncle Neefie said, waggling his eyebrows lustily.

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:10:04.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

Auntie Moenieba laughed, the years rolling off her as she slapped the air in front of him. ‘Hey, jy.’ Her eyes lit up as she shook her head at Qabila. ‘This man,’ she said in mock exasperation. Qabila laughed with them. ‘Zainab told me she’s a black girlie,’ Auntie Moenieba said suddenly. Uncle Neefie gasped. ‘Wat? It can’t be true. Rashid and a black girlie? Ja Allah.’ Qabila stiffened. Auntie Moenieba leaned towards Uncle Neefie and pinched his thigh. Qabila’s lips twitched with amusement as she saw the furtive movement. Her aunt shook her head to warn her not to encourage him. He frowned at his wife, shook his head and straightened, drawing his shoulders back, then set his face inquisitorially. ‘Neefie,’ her aunt pleaded softly. But he admonished her, telling her that this type of thing should not be hidden. ‘Dis hoe ons sulke moelikheid in die eerste plek kry.’ Qabila wanted to fold in on herself, but forced herself to straighten her hunched shoulders. ‘Yes, Uncle Neefie,’ she admitted. He shook his head. ‘Ai, man, this is democracy for you. Everyone mixes now. This wouldn’t have happened in the old days. Have you gone for tests, for the Aids? They have lots of Aids there.’ Qabila blinked and drew in a quick breath as her shoulders pulled forward again. She didn’t want to hear this. This easy racism was one of the reasons she and Rashid had avoided family gatherings. They’d become tired of defending the right of every person to be equal, and often felt baited as some of the older family members started conversations about some or other daily violent atrocity in the country, hoping to win an argument about apartheid racial hierarchies. So she and Rashid stayed away, preferring the mixed, middleclass bubble they lived in. Rashid had been so much better than she was at these conversations. The same words coming from her were perceived by her family as hysterical, while from the big-man professor they carried more weight. When she saw the expectant look on her aunt’s face, Qabila reminded herself to breathe. ‘Ag shame,’ her aunt said. ‘Dit is so swaar.’ ‘Yes, it is difficult,’ Qabila murmured. Her aunt gave her a tight, sympathetic smile. ‘It’s a lot when a man cheats with your own kind, his own type – but when it’s one of them! I don’t know anyone who did that.’ She looked at Neefie, her eyebrows asking him to delve into his memory. He shook his head. Qabila could see him sifting through his extensive social network.

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:10:04.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

‘There’s that Dramat child who married that white girl.’ He smiled at Auntie Moenieba. ‘She looks so nice in her scarf. A person can even forget she’s white, she’s just like a real slamse girlie.’ ‘Ja,’ Auntie Moenieba said, ‘and Legha’s girl has that German husband. They live in Camps Bay, very posh, nè.’ Uncle Neefie nodded. ‘Yes, he also came into the deen. But those ones are different to this.’ They both frowned before turning to Qabila, their eyes sharp. ‘Is she Muslim? Do you know?’ Uncle Neefie asked. She shook her head. ‘Ja Allah,’ Uncle Neefie said. ‘If she was made a Muslim girl, then it won’t be such bad happenings.’ Auntie Moenieba nodded. ‘Bilal was ’n swart man.’ A black slave could rise to prominence during Prophet Muhammad’s time because of his acceptance of Islam, Qabila thought. But here in Cape Town, citizens go out of their way to keep other citizens below them. Why did a spouse or partner have to have the same religion anyway? They were struggling to make sense of the relationship. Even though she knew they were trying, Qabila couldn’t find the sympathy to absolve them. They didn’t have to hold onto a legacy of hate to evaluate her personal tragedy. She squirmed, the seat all hard angles. Had she not said similar things all those years ago? She wanted to go home, or rather to the place she’d once thought was home. Away from their eyes. The only relief was that they wouldn’t be so crass as to ask why she wasn’t enough; why she drove her husband to love a black woman. ‘Maybe this is why,’ she croaked, ‘why he hid it all the years.’ ‘What?’ they asked in near unison. ‘This, this racism.’ She pushed the words out as if they were boulders in the aridness of her throat. ‘If he’d fallen in love with a white woman, people would’ve understood that. Been proud. But a Xhosa woman …’ Uncle Neefie’s jaw was clenched, lips pulled down. ‘You people. Anything goes. When gemors happens you cry. I’m telling you now, they are not like us. You can still understand and reason with a white person, but the darkies are not like us. Ja Allah, and to sleep with them! Not all of them even believe in God. He must have Aids. You must do the tests. If she was a slamse meisie, this secret would not have been kept for so many years.’ His vehemence stunned Qabila. Even though she knew some people had internalised

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:10:04.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

apartheid’s racism, accepting their own ‘inferiority’ if in turn they could be ‘superior’ to others, she was still stunned. Uncle Neefie was daring her to launch into an argument, but she’d learned over far too many years that her pleas for democracy sometimes further entrenched racism. Rashid’s secrets and lies had given them more ammunition for their cesspit of racial hatred. Qabila wanted to rebut and refute and marshal her righteous indignation, but all her emotions were twisted inside her. She was scalded by shame, and ashamed of her humiliation. She felt a sharp pang of sorrow for herself, for the shape of the pity that would be coming her way: Shame, Rashid left her for a black girlie, can you imagine that? She wanted to find Rashid and hold him tight, just hold him, to comfort him, to comfort herself. Instead she just sagged at the middle. She looked at her aunt’s hands, the gold rings on her fingers glittering. The knuckles thick and broad with thousands of hours kneading spicy koesister dough. She looked at Uncle Neefie’s gnarled hands. How many white people’s houses did he build with those? How many times saying Ja Baas, and smiling at any kindness, absolving them of any cruelty, mimicking the racial hierarchies he was trained into? ‘Qabila,’ her aunt said, ‘don’t worry, we’ll make dua for Allah to give you shifa inshallah.’ Qabila nodded her thanks. ‘Yes, I need God’s healing comfort,’ she murmured. Her gaze skittered off her aunt’s face and skimmed the noisy room full of people. Everyone there would once have shared the same classification: Coloured. It was because their worlds were still so segregated in this city that Rashid’s double life was only revealed by occasional sightings, by rumour and happenstance. Her bones creaked as she lifted herself, kissed her aunt and uncle and murmured about finding Zainab. She escaped their corner. The rest of the farewell passed in a blur of family and friends. Firdous and Nieyaaz are loved, Qabila thought, over and over. That is also true. The love. And it wasn’t everyone who’d internalised apartheid’s lessons of hatred. Some of her cousins rolled their eyes when these lessons were faithfully mimicked, and the younger generation guffawed with disbelief in corners. They even sometimes broke the pact of peace-above-all-else. Maybe she and Rashid should’ve stayed and done the work of changing conversations all those years. Instead they’d unburdened themselves of the complication of trying. All those missed years.

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:10:04.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

Chapter 15

Fuad was standing in the gloom, waiting to order at the famous Kalky’s. The queue was moving quickly. Qabila had been lucky and secured one of the hardwood tables right up against the little bay. A seal was playing in the sun, its sleek brown body glistening as it dipped in and out of the murky green water. Just as she wondered why the table was still littered with the tangy fish debris of the previous occupants, a waitress chirped a greeting. Her brown hands were a blur as she cleared the fish-bone graveyard, making way for Qabila and Fuad’s greasy, salty, vinegary meal. Qabila smiled at her. ‘It’s busy again today.’ ‘Always busy,’ she replied. ‘This is nothing. Sometimes the lines go around the building.’ ‘The price of being famous.’ Qabila watched her add to the stack on her tray. ‘Better famous than empty,’ she quipped back, ‘especially now there isn’t so much fish, nè, and everything is expensive.’ Qabila nodded. ‘Wonder how long it’s going to last …’ ‘Ai, only God knows,’ she said as she gave the table a quick spray and wipe. ‘Today the sun shines and the seals are playing and we thank God.’ She gave a gap-toothed smile in approval of the gleaming wood, lifted her heavy tray and wished Qabila an airy, ‘Enjoy!’ Qabila watched her bustle about a tourist group’s table. Fuad slid into the bench opposite her, his white shirt reflecting sunlight. ‘Ordered?’ she asked. ‘Yes,’ he nodded. ‘I’m lekker hungry.’ Qabila’s stomach grumbled agreement. They both laughed. ‘I might be hungry too!’ ‘What are you looking at?’ he asked, his nose wrinkling. He twisted to look. ‘The waitress, there.’ ‘Everyone knows Sharon at Kalky’s. She’s always funny.’ ‘Makes the tourists feel like they’re having a taste of “the real Cape Town”.’ He laughed. ‘A Disney version maybe. They should go and see where the fishermen and women live.’ Qabila sighed heavily. ‘Let’s not talk about politics today. The sun is shining and I’m

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Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

tired of anger and pain. Makes me feel helpless,’ her eyes searched the scratched woodgrain before looking at his. His brow furrowed at her expression. Then, waggling his eyebrows, he said, ‘So no talking about Rashid then, too?’ She shook her head at the dark humour, her smile halfhearted. ‘No politics, religion or Rashid. No hopeless, painful topics today.’ ‘Fair enough,’ he said. ‘What will we talk about then?’ She was startled. Her pretense at mirth dissipated. ‘We talk about other things.’ It was his turn to shrug. He looked slightly sad. ‘It’s okay if you do want to talk about him,’ he said, ‘I understand. When my wife died, she was all I talked about for years.’ He looked away, tracking a seagull over the small bay. ‘Grief is … you’re grieving.’ ‘Rashid isn’t dead.’ He nodded. ‘Your marriage is, and the dreams you had. And he’s tied up with your mother and children.’ ‘So that would make you the rebound guy,’ she said, trying to shake the mood. Her effort failed. Fuad gave a lopsided smile. ‘A sunny day should have sunny conversation,’ she tried again. He looked away from her, his fingers picking at the worn wood. ‘Have you heard from your niece and Nieyaaz?’ he asked at last. A careful cheeriness plastered his face. This time Qabila looked away. ‘I’ve done this,’ she said, ‘except I was on the other side.’ ‘What? I don’t understand.’ ‘With Rashid. I did this, I was you. Wanting him to see me, connect, while his thoughts were elsewhere. With her. Except with him, I didn’t know the reason. He didn’t expect me to soothe his wound and longing. He just wasn’t there with me.’ She searched his face, unpicking the cheerful façade to find the little wounds she was causing. ‘It’s okay,’ he said. ‘I know. It’s just timing. This will pass for you. And when it does …’ He shrugged. ‘And you’re waiting for that?’ He nodded, his mouth pursed in a tight little smile. ‘Being with someone who is not really present with you chips away at you,’ she said. ‘Like you’re disappearing, and it wouldn’t take much for you to crack and shatter. You’re always almost there. In shards on the ground. You tiptoe around the neglect and abandonment because you know any careless moves will have you broken in so many

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:10:04.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

colourless pieces, which you don’t know how you’re going to reconstruct. When you are see-through and colourless, there’s nothing to guide you when putting the puzzle back together.’ He barked a laugh. ‘That’s very dramatic.’ She watched his hands worry the table, adding to the network of scratches. She reached over and covered his hand, squeezing. He traced the lines of her palm. ‘And what does the future hold?’ she asked. ‘Me.’ She knew she was supposed to laugh. Instead, she lifted his hand to her mouth and gently laid a kiss in his palm. ‘Grilled hake and calamari?’ the waitress interrupted. ‘That’s hers,’ Rashid said extracting his hand so the food could be set down between them. ‘And the fried fish and chips must be yours then,’ the waitress said. ‘Like it traditional, nè, man’s man?’ They laughed. ‘A lot of the ladies are watching their figures,’ she shook her head in mock exasperation. ‘Ja,’ Qabila said. ‘You know these Cape Malay hips. If they aren’t watched they will take over.’ They all laughed. The tangy smell of the fish and chips captured their attention as they relieved their hunger, pausing only to make noises of appreciation. ‘I can taste the sea,’ Qabila smiled. She ignored the pangs of sadness, watching how hard he was working to make her laugh. They were drowning out the conversation they needed to have. When the discards of their meal was spread across the table, oil glistening on paper, she excused herself and got up to go to the basin to wash her hands. Was this what Rashid had felt in the face of her desire for him? This guilty weight of not being able to meet her expectations of requited love. Redamancy, it was called: loving someone who loved you back. She wove her way through the tables of tourists and locals out for a treat, their hubbub soothing. She didn’t like where her thoughts were heading. Fuad brought a little light to the drudgery of her life. Relieved the sameness of days that were too short. She enjoyed his admiration. It was much like the kind that people gave her when she listed her achievements as evidence of a life well lived. Little stamps of paper gluing closed crevices of the soul. She slowly wiped her washed hands on the rough paper towel. What was wrong with her? For years, she’d wanted Rashid to look at her with the easy admiration that Fuad gave her. He didn’t expect her to jump through hoops to impress

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:10:04.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

him. He didn’t expect her to humiliate herself begging him to love her in all those ways that had become normal. She watched him as she made her way back. He’d stood up from the table and was leaning over the railing, back bent. He looked around and saw her approaching, and his face broke into a welcoming smile. ‘You should see the fat seal on the side here,’ he beckoned. She walked to the railing and leaned over. An enormous seal was heaving itself around, trying to find a comfortable spot to sun in. She laughed at its antics. ‘That’s how I feel after this huge lunch,’ she said. He lifted his hands. ‘My turn to wash up.’ She nodded and he headed to the washbasin. She wondered what he was thinking, then leaned over the railing again. She wasn’t sure what to do, but she knew she had to do something. How many years had she ignored the instinct that told her to leave Rashid? She laughed as the seal gave another mighty heave before flopping down onto a big tyre that was secured to the harbor wall. Maybe she wanted to run from Fuad when she should stay. But then how many times had she convinced herself to stay with Rashid? Maybe she was more like a fish out of water than a seal. When Fuad returned they left and walked along the dock, past the bright-eyed fish laid out on plastic sheets. A fisherwoman, her rough apron covered in the blood of that morning’s fish, called to them: ‘Lekker kabeljou, lekker yellowtail!’ ‘Hoeveel?’ Fuad asked. ‘How much?’ Qabila asked, their words colliding. They laughed. ‘Touch wood,’ Qabila said and tapped the side of her head. ‘A little bit of fish, tietie, will put the wood in the mood,’ the fisherwoman said, making them all laugh. Both Qabila and Fuad flushed at her saltiness. ‘Then I should buy a whole lot of fish,’ Fuad joked. ‘Hey, behave,’ Qabila said, poking him in the side. ‘How much?’ They started to haggle a fat shiny yellowtail down from R250. ‘That’s tourist prices,’ he said. ‘Hoeveel vir ’n boeta van die Bo-Kaap?’ ‘Die vis is min nou, boeta,’ the woman said. Her face creased with worry, she muttered that with the quotas the fishermen didn’t get that much fish any more. Qabila watched as he charmed her, loosening the worry from her face. His unaffected patois made her feel a pang of longing. She wanted to join in, but knew the moment her words hung in the air they would lose their homegrown advantage. Her English was

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:10:04.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

practised, her Afrikaans sanded away to remove any traces of home. She had turned it into that thing called ‘suiwer Afrikaans’ – the kind of Afrikaans people had died to avoid. When the negotiations were concluded, both parties looked pleased with themselves. They walked over to a concrete block. The fisherwoman used a razor-sharp knife to surgically clean and portion their fish before wrapping it in paper. ‘I thought you were married,’ she said when Fuad asked for the fish to be bagged separately. The woman looked up briefly, her hands not stopping as she started on the second fish. ‘Not yet,’ Fuad said easily. ‘I’ve baited the hook. I’m not sure if she’s going to bite yet.’ Qabila laughed. ‘The problem with being a caught fish is if you don’t get thrown back in, you die. And, well, there’s the nasty business of having a hook in one’s mouth.’ ‘Ja-nee,’ the fisherwoman said, ‘that is the problem.’ Her English, light and crisp, surprised Qabila. ‘To get hooked, you gotta be willing to die and be eaten.’ This time there was no mock lasciviousness. ‘Maybe all the other fish in the sea are the lucky ones, they aren’t being dragged out of their homes against their will to suffocate in the fisherman’s air. Better not be a fish,’ she said, looking up from her artistry to give them a woman’s look. A look that said love was not a thing of the movies with its violins and soppy sentiment. There was no room for metaphor in her face. ‘Better not be a fish,’ Qabila repeated, and smiled at her. Past the clothes and the place and the cadence of words and the roughened hands and the dark blade bloodied on far too many fish. ‘No. All woman, sister,’ the fisherwoman said, closing the circle. Her hazel eyes dark with warmth. Qabila and Fuad walked down the pier, peering at the fishing boats. One could write a history just looking at them. Not the grand kind, celebrating one group’s war with another, condensed into the tale of this man or that. But the everyday kind. There were boats whose cheerful colours were worn and speckled with rust, named after wives and lovers and daughters and dreams. The new ones gleaming white, silver trim shining in the sunlight – and still named after wives and lovers and daughters and dreams. ‘This fish is going to be lekker,’ Fuad said into her reverie. ‘Yes, I can’t wait. I’m going to make pickled fish,’ Qabila said. ‘Ja, and we got it for a good price.’ She knew he wanted to be praised, and yet she let the tiny seed of resentment bloom. When he was charming the fisherwoman to arrange things to his satisfaction, he’d reminded

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:10:04.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

her of Rashid. ‘I wouldn’t have minded paying full price,’ she said. ‘What? That’s tourist prices.’ ‘It’s also how they make their living. And it’s not like an extra R80 is going to wipe out my budget.’ ‘Maybe not yours,’ he said, ‘but for some of us, it all adds up.’ ‘What does that mean?’ She didn’t hide her annoyance. ‘Nothing, nothing.’ He grasped her hand and squeezed. Qabila gave him a startled look and pulled her hand out of his grasp. ‘Ek wil ’n bietjie handjies vashou,’ he grinned suggestively. ‘Well, no holding my hand in public. You know how people talk. If someone sees us, tomorrow we’ll hear that I’m your houvrou and we’re sexing it up all over town.’ He stopped. ‘What?’ His face was frozen, the naughty glint slowly replaced by a furrowed brow as he peered at her. ‘People talk,’ she repeated, smoothing the barely contained shrillness out of her voice. What on earth was she doing here with this man? She tucked away her free hand in her pants pocket and pressed her bag tightly into her side. Fuad hurried to catch up with her. ‘I didn’t think you’d care about what people say.’ She just shook her head. She didn’t want to talk about it. ‘People talk. What do you want from me?’ she asked before he could follow up. ‘What? What’s going on with you? Did I say something to upset you?’ She turned towards him, then back to the bustle of the pier. He was looking at her as if an answer could be found in the compressed lines of her face. She shook her head. They were at the end of the pier now. A man with loose, lanky limbs was fishing with two miniature versions of himself. The boys looked to be about six and nine. Their companionable silence almost calmed the agitation that had been growing in Qabila. Fuad touched her arm. ‘I can’t do this,’ she said. She didn’t look at him. She followed the fishing line from the tip of the youngest boy’s rod to where it disappeared in the water. Casting her eyes over the water, skipping from one point to another, feeling ripples of something she couldn’t identify. She could feel the weight of his eyes on her face joining the salty breeze making contact with her skin. She bit her lip, chewing down words she didn’t want rushing out. He let out a breath into the harbour, to be blown off to who knows where our breath lands up. They stood there on the pier, not speaking into the fragile silence. Listening to the waves lap up against the tyres

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:10:04.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

and the seals bellowing. The people marvelling at the seals as part of their Sundayafternoon respite from everyday life; the cawing gulls cavorting overhead, landing and flurrying off. Qabila found a gull to focus on. She watched white-and-grey wings gracefully spread to ride the air currents, dipping and rising in an intricate dance. As if drawn by her attention, the gull came to rest on the pier a few short steps away. In a lopsided hobble, it made its way to something peckworthy. ‘Oh no, the poor bird’s leg.’ She pointed. ‘Look.’ ‘What?’ Fuad asked. ‘His leg, there’s no foot.’ ‘Ja,’ Fuad responded. ‘They get caught in the fishing lines or net, and the only way they can get away is to rip their foot off.’ She nodded. ‘I know. I just didn’t expect it. She was so graceful in the air.’ ‘Qabila,’ he said, ‘we need to talk. We promised to be honest.’ His voice was soft, as if he was afraid to startle her. She nodded and let him lead her to a concrete bench. A faded turquoise boat called Hawa gently bobbed on the water. She laid her white plastic bag with the paper-wrapped butchered fish between them. ‘I like you,’ she said, still not looking at him. ‘Good.’ She heard the smile in his voice. ‘No. I’m not done yet. I like you. You make me feel,’ she pushed out a weird sound that she’d wanted to be a light laugh, ‘beautiful.’ She gave him a quick look. ‘You are beautiful,’ he said. She made another version of the sound that was supposed to be rueful, unaffected laughter and shook her head. ‘It feels like a lie and, no, please don’t –’ She stopped him before he could soothe her. ‘Just listen, I need you to just listen.’ He was looking at Hawa now as if he needed the boat to anchor him. ‘I like you,’ she started again. ‘I liked Rashid. I didn’t like myself. Liking him made me someone I didn’t like.’ She ignored the strangled sound he made and continued. She needed to say this even though it felt as if she had to make words anew to do so. She needed to explain the twists in her tummy and the tightening in her back that accompanied them on their outings, and the dark musings that nibbled at the borders of her determined cheerfulness. ‘When I’m with you, I know I’m trying to be someone you will like.’ ‘Qabila,’ he pleaded. She shook her head. She had to be ruthless now. ‘I met Rashid when I was fifteen, and

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Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

everything I became from that moment on was someone who could be loved by him. Not even him, but the fantasy of who he was, what he would like.’ She sighed heavily as the humiliating truth left her mouth. ‘A woman who smiled when she wanted to cry. And softened her voice when she wanted to scream. And spent a whole lifetime becoming a “very important person”. But that wasn’t who he wanted after all. I don’t know who I am without a longing for Rashid.’ She could feel her eyes fill as her voice thickened. She sucked in a mouthful of salty air to dislodge the tears. ‘I don’t want to replace a woman who Rashid could love with a woman Fuad could love.’ ‘Qabila, what are you saying? I don’t need you to be anyone except who you are,’ he said. Something in his voice gave her that familiar feeling of being little and unreasonable. That what made sense was to laugh and grab his hand and rush over to Hawa to get a closer look at the deck of a working fishing boat and ask endless chatty questions about the increasingly difficult lives of fisherfolk and crippled seagulls and predatory tourism and a host of other topics that one could safely be enraged by. ‘I want to know who Qabila is,’ she said. ‘If you meet her, please let me know. I’m not ready for this,’ she said pointing to the space between them. ‘I’m not ready.’ She leaned back into the hard, unforgiving concrete, her eyes lifting from Hawa and the people passing by to another group of floating seagulls – or maybe the same group, she couldn’t tell. ‘Life is short, Qabila. You think too much. Being alone is lonely,’ Fuad said. The words rushing out and floating away. ‘So what is it you want? What can I do?’ She flinched from the hurt he was trying to conceal. ‘I don’t know,’ she said, ‘and that’s the problem. I don’t know what I want. I’m the person who should, not you. I want to find out what I want, I want that chance.’ He sagged in the middle, then pulled away to lean back alongside her. His voice slow and low, he said, ‘After Saida died, I had a lot of women who wanted to help me grieve. Most of them I just wanted to leave me alone. About four months after I put Saida in the ground, I met Ragmat. She was … there was something about her. She was a good woman and she wasn’t like the others, pushy and too loud and you know, uitgelaat. She was a good woman. I was lonely and scared of taking care of the kids alone and she would, she was just easy to have around. She’d drop off food and offer to help with the kids’ homework and when she came by, the place was cleaner. She made me laugh. And then one day after I called her Saida for the third time, I really looked at her and watched her act as if it was okay.’ He shrugged. ‘I realised I didn’t know anything about this woman who I was just letting take Saida’s place because it was easier than learning to be alone.’

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:10:04.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

For a while Qabila felt like they were the only two people time was not touching while they quietly watched the people pass. ‘I need time,’ she said and looked at him. There was a yielding in his eyes. She felt really close to him in that moment when he gracefully let her go.

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:10:04.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

Chapter 16

Qabila surveyed the debris as she walked through the emptied house. The cleaning service would be here soon to remove the last traces of their life in this place. Crumpled receipts, dust bunnies and scatterings of sand. She stood at the window overlooking the dark green pool and overgrown backyard. An army of people had been required to maintain rooms, rooms that were sometimes unbearable. Manufactured serenity. It had taken her months to finish packing. The last time the whole house had shown any semblance of being cared for was when the estate agent arranged the open days. It was a good thing they’d received a successful offer so quickly, before a parade of potential buyers could see her disregard for the things that had weighted the lie of her life. She laughed. They would probably have said black people didn’t know how to care for good and beautiful things. The house had been bought by investors who were planning to subdivide the house to rent to three families. Who else could afford to buy in these areas now? Certainly not a young couple or a single-income family. Unless their families dissolved their inheritances. Very few young black families inherited that kind of wealth. Her new apartment was walking distance from Tygervalley Mall. The complex was set in park-like tranquillity, with all the things necessary for modern South Africa: gym, pool and round-the-clock security. Her old yard was four times the size of her new apartment. She’d walked into the place and felt comforted by its compactness. Luckily she could afford the rent. All this space, she mused. Memories tumbling as she trailed her hand along the walls. Rashid’s study and then hers, his bedroom and the lonely bedroom in which she’d spent so many years of her life. Packing, she’d come across a box labelled Way Back Playback!!! It was underneath a box of decades-old bills in the room they stored all the things that didn’t have a place to go. In it were her teenage journals, the little treasures she’d measured her happiness and sorrows by in the time before Rashid. She’d paged through the journals, eager to rediscover that version of herself. Instead, the journals loosed too many memories

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:10:04.

of when she first stopped being tender in this world, when she was subject to the whims of another man – her father. Written between the lines were the moments she stopped expressing sadness or hurt or fear or worry. Tucked away her softness. Stopped desiring big-hearted things. 02 July 1986 Wham! is no more!!! George Michael and Andrew Ridgeley have broken up!!!!!! How? Why? It must be one of those women that throw themselves at them! I bet it’s one of them that caused the trouble. It is sad, sad, sad. Poor George, his heart must be broken broken broken. I know. I’m going to write them a song and if they sing it, they will get back together and they’ll be happy again. I love George so so much. If he was mine, I would never ever ever ever break up with him.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

Chorus of my song for George and Andrew: In the rat-race A friendship easily ends And it takes long To make real friends Qabila laughed at first when she read the journal entry. The rest of the song was nowhere to be found. The melody returned to her and she hummed the chorus, lost words notwithstanding. She’d been so careful with the thin blue writing paper when she wrote the letter to George. Was I ever that young? She never received a response. It should’ve been her first inkling that she went cuckoo for unavailable men. Her parents’ laughter when she told them she’d written a song for George and Andrew was not in the journals. There was a lot that wasn’t in her younger self’s loops and strokes. Her father’s rages; the broken things that littered the house, and then disappeared. Her mother’s bruises. Her father’s glittering smile that dared you to challenge his mood. Zainab’s incessant prayers. Her own refuge in invisibility. ‘You’re such a strange child, Qabila,’ her mother laughed when she told her she hadn’t received a response. It had been a hot day. Qabila was sitting at the battered grey-and-white melamine kitchen table that pretended to be marble, with the matching chairs that but for the colour were just like the brown chairs at school. She’d just dunked her sandwich, peanut

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Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

butter and jam on brown bread, in her condensed-milk-sweetened Ricoffy. ‘Wherever did you hear of a child writing songs?’ Her mother reached over and gently tugged Qabila’s plait. ‘Don’t worry about them not writing back, it’s just how the world is.’ That night in the lounge, her mother’s voice, high the way it got when she was speaking to her father, recounted the events of the afternoon: ‘Manie, hoor wat Qabila nou gedoen het. Sy het vir George Michael ’n song geskryf. Kan jy nou meer?’ She laughed, her voice just a little too shrill. ‘Wat?’ Her father turned to look at her, shrinking into the dull-brown couch. ‘Is jy jas? Why are you writing songs to grown men? Songs? Jy verbeel vir jou. Verbeel jy vir jou? Do you think George Michael wants anything from a slamse girlie from the Flats?’ He laughed. ‘Focus on your schoolwork, forget about writing songs for men. Do you hear me?’ Qabila had answered him, her mouth dry: ‘Yes, Daddy.’ She tried as hard as she could to drown out the sound of her mother and father laughing. ‘Wrote a song for George Michael. For George Michael!’ – over and over. For days, sometimes when she least expected it, they’d look at her and say, ‘Wrote a song for George Michael!’ and laugh. The way her father looked at her made her want to run and hide under the bed, like when she was very young. They told her aunts and uncles about their ‘little songwriter’, inviting them to laugh too. ‘Toughen up,’ they said to her through the laughter. Qabila started laughing too. It was easier. Never let them see you hurt, she’d written over and over in her journal a few weeks later. Just that one line. She never learned how to write music. Stopped looking for the world’s rhythms. Stopped surrounding herself with a soothing hum to banish the fear. And when her life ended up larger than she’d dared to dream, she never quite believed it. She didn’t know what she’d done to deserve any of it. Many times, she used her good fortune as a weapon to stop the laughter before it started. She learned to endure. And endure she had: her father’s rages, her mother’s tough sorrow. The scandal of her lost virtue. The loss of her children. Habib’s room was the hardest to leave. This room in which he’d lived his entire life, and which contained most of her memories of him. She looked at the powder-blue walls and wanted her prayer mat. She’d spent so much time on her knees in this room in the last few months, that it was no longer his room. Gently and lovingly, she’d folded the clothes that had caressed his body and placed them in brown boxes which she carefully taped up. Some of the clothes, with their slightly dated superheroes, still had price tags. She kept some of his favourite things: one pair of pyjamas, one T-shirt, one pair of pants, one pair of shoes, one sweatshirt, one vest and underpants set,

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:10:04.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

his favourite Barney doll. One full outfit. Another outfit went to Rashid, care of his mother. She ignored his calls and messages, didn’t open his emails. He was no longer in Walmer Estate. His very concerned cousin told her he’d moved in with Thandi – or rather, ‘a black woman’. Qabila had still not responded with her bit of grist for the gossip mill. She had packed up the whole room by herself. Clothes, toys, bedding. She’d used lavender sachets to keep everything smelling the same, as if the room was just waiting for him to walk in and perfume the air with little-boy sweat and mud and chlorine and the dripping juices of fruits hastily eaten. But that tired old-lady scent had dissipated in the room’s emptiness. She’d done a little bit every day. For a few weeks, it had been her routine to come home from work, go into the room and pray. After the midday prayer and lateafternoon prayer, she’d fold and fill a box until it was time for the early-evening prayer. After a light supper, she’d return to the room for the last prayer of the day. She’d continue removing each item slowly and carefully, trying to catch the faded memories woven into the fibres. And she prayed. For his sinless soul, and her and his father’s sinful ones. For his grandmothers and his aunts and even his grandfathers. She prayed for every person who touched his life, his nurses and doctors. They said that when she died, Habib would plead with Allah on behalf of her soul. She’d make sure he didn’t have too much pleading to do. Some days she wore herself out, railing and reconciling with God, and the box would not get filled. Other days the clothes were light, the memories close to the surface, the packing swift. On those days, she’d sit on her prayer mat and thank her God for mercy, her face upturned as if she could feel the blessings rain down. When the room was packed and stripped, the brown cubes neatly stacked against the powder-blue wall, she closed the door and moved her prayer mat into her bedroom. It took her three weeks after she closed the door on Habib’s room to call the orphanage. The two men who arrived were kindly and efficient. She was brisk in her thanks, and refused to hold the older man’s compassionate gaze. Just an empty room now, for another family to fill with their hearts and dreams. She prayed they’d never have to face the kind of emptiness she and Rashid had known. She’d expected to be bereft without his things anchoring her to the house. Instead, she felt buoyant and free. She went to work, came home and prayed. On Sundays she had lunch at Zainab’s place. The rhythm of the routine gently rocking her away from her life with Rashid. Her new apartment overlooked the water. She could begin to care for herself without drowning in time lost. There was a little balcony where she could have coffee and read, just

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:10:04.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

because she wanted to read and not because she had to read for work to keep up with whatever new trendy theorist was being talked about. In truth it was a bland place, everything careful creams and fittings that couldn’t offend. Just the kind of place to disappear in for a while. The kind of place to slowly colour in, as she found out who this new Qabila was.

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Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

Adagio

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:10:04.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

Chapter 17

Qabila stretched her legs, rubbing sand off her calves. It was a futile task. The blanket was covered in sand and her legs were sticky with sunscreen lotion. She laughed ruefully, let out a contented sigh and made a quick scan of the beach for her sister and nieces, before leaning back to soak up the sun and the relative quiet on her blanket. Zainab was playing with her grandson at the water’s edge while his parents swam. They’d arrived in Langebaan last night for the weekend. The popular coastal village had not yet filled up, and they had most of the beach to themselves. In two weeks, the beach would be full of holidaymakers from all parts of the country. Qabila had rented a friend’s holiday apartment for the family. They’d laughed and joked as they made themselves comfortable in the snug apartment. She was sharing the tiny guest room with Saleigha. Ariefa, Riedwaan and little Fahiem were on the sleeper couch in the lounge, and Zainab and Osman were in the main bedroom. They braaied and played dominoes, the dominoes slamming on the table accompanied by laughter as they teased each other in mock competitiveness. She hadn’t wanted to go away for the weekend. Habib was a toddler the last time she’d been on a holiday with her sister’s family. Rashid’s dislike of road trips had soured the experience for all of them. He complained incessantly, called Osman and Zainab ‘provincial’ every chance he got, and refused to help with any of the chores. She sighed her way back into the present. Zainab had insisted they all needed time away. Soaking up the summer sun, Qabila conceded that maybe family holidays were a necessary part of her new life. Frowning at the shadow cutting her off from the sun, she looked up to see Zainab preparing to plop down next to her. ‘I’m lekker hungry,’ she said, rummaging through the mountain of snacks she’d prepared before they left Cape Town. Nearly everyone baked out of the Cape Malay cookbooks that had become a staple of most kitchens. But not Zainab. She made everything from scratch, using their old family recipes. As always, there was enough to feed six families on a two-week vacation to the moon. Qabila had been pleased

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Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

with the snacks on the two-hour drive, though. Every savoury delight took her on a journey to the past, putting her right into the holiday mood. The smell of Auntie Ruwayda’s kitchen, Eid mornings at Auntie Moenieba’s, Auntie Galima’s laughter, their granny’s faded overall. The perfect balance of meat, spice, cloves and sago in the pastei condensed years of happy memories of their mother into a feeling of well-lovedness. ‘Have you heard from Fuad?’ Zainab disrupted her thoughts. ‘Uh-uh.’ Qabila shook her head. ‘I asked for space and he’s giving me space.’ ‘Do you like your space?’ It took Qabila a few moments to think about it. ‘Yes and no. It was nice to have someone who made me feel not rejected, you know? But it was also, I can’t explain it, difficult to know that he had expectations and I just don’t have anything to give. I’m so tired, Zainab. I’m just too tired.’ ‘Look,’ Zainab pointed. Saleigha and Osman were screaming dares and splashing each other. ‘Those two,’ with a faint smile and shake of her head. ‘Just the three of us still in the house. Hulle maak my mal. I don’t know what I’d do without them. But I make them crazy too, and they wouldn’t know what to do without me either.’ She gave Qabila a gentle smile. ‘Inshallah, when the time is right, Allah will send you someone. Whether it’s Fuad or someone else, Allah alone knows.’ Qabila was about to tell her that she wasn’t sure that she wanted someone sent her way when Zainab said, ‘You don’t know what you want yet. You must grieve, and what is it the people say now? Closure, you must find closure first. You and Rashid had a lot of years together. Don’t be like Mommy, who stayed single after Daddy. It’s not always easy, Allah knows, but a good man is a real blessing.’ She loosened one of the hands hugging her knees and squeezed Qabila’s hand. The hurt was trickling back with every word. ‘Zainab,’ she asked, ‘can we not talk about it for the weekend? Not talk about Rashid and Fuad. I just want to forget for a little bit.’ Her voice was slightly thick and she reached for her water bottle. ‘Okay, sis.’ Zainab made herself comfortable, moving around and rearranging things just so. ‘I’ve been thinking, you should join our gadat jamaa.’ Qabila stretched to rid herself of the sudden tightening in her shoulders. ‘We get together every Thursday night,’ Zainab continued. ‘It’s lekker, we’re just ladies and we make gadat.’ Her voice was deceptively light, but Qabila knew that if she didn’t say yes, her sister would ask again and again until Qabila did the thing Zainab had decided she should do. ‘Cooldrink?’ Zainab asked innocently as she poured some Fanta into a bright red

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:10:04.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

plastic tumbler. ‘Thanks,’ Qabila said. ‘Making gadat is like singing. To praise Allah.’ Zainab frowned as if to say there is a difference between singing and melodious praise to God. Qabila continued speaking before Zainab could begin educating her on how making gadat was not singing. ‘That reminds me. Do you remember that time when Mommy and Daddy made fun of me for wanting to write songs?’ Qabila was surprised at the wobble in her voice. ‘I found one of my old journals. I didn’t write about the part when they laughed at me almost every day.’ Zainab’s hand jerked, nearly dropping the cup. When Qabila had taken the cup firmly from her, Zainab slowly closed the bottle. She straightened her purple sunhat over the slippery fabric of her scarf, her face pensive as she looked at her family playing in the surf. ‘I remember,’ she said. She reached over and softly stroked Qabila’s arm, once, twice; then folded her hands over her pulled-up knees. ‘I never had that, wanting to be something that no one understood. I just wanted to get it right, the things that were wrong in our lives. Be a wife with a good, kind husband. A mother who never let her children down. I wanted to create the kind of home for my family that I wished we had. Loving and calm. No fighting. We were so scared all the time.’ Her voice was so soft, Qabila had to strain to hear her over the sound of the ocean. ‘Why do you think I made sure my girls could do whatever they wanted? When Saleigha said engineer and Osman wanted to laugh, I pulled him out of the room immediately and gave him the kind of talking-to he’ll never forget. When Firdous wanted to leave and it broke my heart, I said go, it’s your rizq. I remember. I made dua that I would never laugh away my children’s dreams. She didn’t know better.’ Qabila reached out and stroked Zainab’s shoulder. ‘You did a good job,’ she whispered into her sister’s scarf as she lightly tapped her head against Zainab’s. They sat in silence until Fahiem’s delighted shrieks dispelled the sombre mood. Fahiem was perched on his grandfather’s shoulders. Osman waded in until the water came to his waist and splashed them both. His grandson pretended to try to escape as each new wave reached them. ‘He’s so cute,’ said Qabila. ‘He’s the apple of our eye,’ Zainab responded. ‘Hy is te oulik, ’n mens wil hom opeet. Daai lekker stewige boudjies. His grandfather spoils him too much.’ ‘And so does his grandmother,’ Qabila said, relieved that Zainab was burbling again. ‘He loves the water.’ ‘Yes, he’s like his mommy. Where are they? Oh, there they are.’ Ariefa and Riedwaan were swimming back to the shore. ‘Look, Saleigha’s made a new friend.’

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:10:04.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

Zainab gestured with her head and Qabila saw a tall young man with a mop of brown curls chatting to Saleigha. ‘You know, that girl, everywhere we go, in no time she’ll have made a new friend,’ Zainab said. The lanky man was gesticulating out to sea with hands that were just a bit too broad for his long, lean arms. Saleigha responded by throwing her hands out to sea, weaving a fast, complicated set of movements. They smiled at each other in what looked to be approval, then sat together on the beach, giving Zainab and Qabila their bent backs to look at. Zainab looked at Qabila and shook her head. ‘That child is like a magnet, I tell you. I don’t know what I’m going to do when she’s also out of the house,’ Zainab said. ‘What do you mean? She’s still young,’ Qabila responded, feeling suddenly angry. ‘What is it with you and Osman marrying the children off so young? The world doesn’t need everyone to be part of a pair.’ ‘Marriage is a sunnah. It is half the completion of your deen,’ her sister threw out the rote response. ‘But she must finish her studies first. The girls need to be educated so they can look after themselves. Like you, you can look after yourself now. It’s what they wanted. We never forced them,’ she said, her voice strained. She wasn’t watching Saleigha any more, but Ariefa and Riedwaan. They were coming out of the water, Ariefa a few steps behind Riedwaan. ‘What is it?’ Qabila asked. ‘I don’t know. I had a dream about those two,’ Zainab said. ‘Ariefa was running down the street and her hair was falling out. Huge chunks of hair, just falling in the dirty, muddy street. It was such a filthy place, with the dirt and papers flying around in the road. Riedwaan ran behind her picking it up and stuffing it into the pockets of an old, threadbare black suit.’ ‘Hair is scandal.’ ‘That child doesn’t talk.’ Zainab sighed heavily. ‘The other two are all right. I don’t have to worry about them – but my oldest … She reminds me of you.’ She gave Qabila a quick, almost accusing look. ‘Uh-uh. I tried to discourage her from marrying so young. She should have studied after Matric. Remember, I told you it was a mistake, especially when she said she only wanted to take care of him. If anything, she’s like you,’ Qabila added dryly. ‘Like me se voet. I had Osman wrapped around my little finger from day one,’ she

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responded sharply. ‘She can still go and study. Fahiem is big enough now, he’s starting school next year. We’re trying to talk to her.’ ‘You don’t need to convince her,’ Qabila said. ‘Convince Riedwaan.’ Zainab made a strangled noise. ‘Allah must give me patience. Subhanallah.’ Exasperated, she shook her head.

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The day and weekend passed, flowing easily from lounging on the beach and swimming in the cool ocean to companionable evenings around the braai, reminiscing about other family holidays. In the way of most Cape Malay families, they acknowledged Firdous’s absence, and then plastered over the pain of missing her with another funny story when the mood became too sombre. Recollections of holidays with Rashid and Habib were hastily swallowed away, and awkward silences were not allowed to linger.

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Chapter 18

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

The dark cave was alive with furtive whispers. Sonorous chants bounced off walls, dripped down stalactites and spun up stalagmites. To live is to be free of the spell. To be free of the spell is to claim a spell of your own. To spell is to bespell. And to bespell is to unmake the world. Unspell. Bespell. Spell. Qabila crouched on a promontory overlooking a chasm, its depths so far below they disappeared into an ever-narrowing arrow of darkness. There was no light. Just what could be seen in the dark: words writhing against the cave walls, inky dark against pulsating black. The textured gloom was filled with them, dancing and crawling and singing and sighing and laughing and moaning. Echoes overlay echoes until all sound was one and up was down. To live is to be free of the spell to be free of the spell is to claim a spell of your own to spell is to bespell and to bespell is to unmake the world unspell bespell spell. There was nowhere to hide from the words caressing her skin, moving into her body, flowing into her veins. She breathed them in and breathed them out. When she breathed out, the cave came alive with the words dancing from her mouth. The cave was magnificent, with a cathedral-tall ceiling and sentinel stone formations. She laughed – long and deep and hearty. Every word lit up and flooded the cathedral cavern. She stood on the edge of the cliff, spread her arms wide and sang the words. Leaned back into the void and floated down into the deepest darkness, holding on to the lit-up words on her way down. All that week and the next, as she plodded through her new routine, the words called her and prickled her skin. A gnawing sensation grew in her. She chafed at pat responses, mindless busy-making activities – all her tried and trusted methods of getting from dawn till dusk. Where once the garden-variety liberal solidarity that a few of her historically advantaged colleagues displayed would just have raised an irritable itch, she was now roused to roiling rage. She allowed her distaste to bloom at the barely concealed racism encapsulated in the contemporary ‘civilising mission’ of tertiary education. Her fossilised male colleague’s gendered expectations, which had him offer her services for tasks he thought beneath him,

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Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

made her want to scream and throw the nearest stapler at him. The rude administrators, who spoke to students as if they were diseased supplicants at a temple whose rules shifted according to the daily horoscope, made her want to use her position in the pecking order against them. If they were all trapped in a game of hierarchies where you could impose yourself on those with less power, then she wanted to say to them: See what it feels like when you treat human beings as if they’re beneath you on some arbitrary rung. All the little compromises that made up her days, the yeses when she meant no, her small tight smiles that hid a wounded contempt, started to chafe her raw. She despised the way she laboured at putting pedestrian publishable thoughts together to tick a box that said ‘satisfactory performance’ for one more year. She looked at some of her students – obviously disinterested, just chasing a piece of paper to get a job – and felt as bored as they did with the things they had to read. Things like coursework she’d inherited from her predecessor and had, like many of her colleagues, only updated lackadaisically when something too big or fashionable to ignore came along. She hated the mean little meals she ate, the extra-brisk steps to keep her body from softening the way her mother’s had. The way Zainab’s had, and all the women whose shared history was enfolded in the shape of her hips. When she zipped up her oh-so-smart pants in the morning, she felt caged and pushed and pulled upright; she longed for the freedom of loose, flowing robes and couldn’t-care-less hair under a scarf. But when she encased herself in robes and tucked away her hair, she resented the requirement to hide herself away in order to commune with her God. Her life had changed. She hadn’t changed. And somehow she knew what was needed was a metamorphosis. But what? How? She didn’t know. She’d spent so many years trying to be someone that Rashid could love and the world could admire that she’d ignored the signs that said: This is who Qabila is. Or rather, this is what makes Qabila flood with grace. And anyway, she’d tell herself on another bleak morning filled with disquiet and tamped-down fury, going off to ‘find oneself’ is such an elitist thing to do. The kind of thing that ladieswho-lunch had the luxury to pursue. There would be no Eat, Pray, Love for her. In those days of discontinuity, the only new routine that didn’t make her feel flayed was the relationship she was building on her prayer mat. She told her God about the petty angers and deep-seated furies she wasn’t allowed to mention. She named the thousand cuts that had bled her. Somehow, in the catalogue of little losses and big wounds, in the midst of this chaos, she could discern glimmers of the unnamed wishes she might be carrying. Her evenings were spent in a punishing routine of work and gym. Some evenings, she

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avoided Zainab’s calls; ignored messages from people who wanted to care. And when she was too tired for work or sleep, she scoured the internet for advice for the newly divorced woman, adding to her list of must-do newly-divorced-woman things. Possibilities for a new Qabila:

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Pray Find support Make vision boards Volunteer Find a hobby Read self-help books Learn to love yourself Be brave Put one foot in front of the other Laugh when you feel like it Look in the mirror, say nice things Talk, talk, talk – but be careful who you talk to Be strong Rediscover yourself Grieve Date Though the list kept growing, she was listless about getting things ticked off. She felt trapped. It was not the trap her marriage had been; this trap had no purpose or meaning. She didn’t know how to be any of the things her list asked her to be. She missed Fuad and the excitement of seeing herself through the eyes of someone new. She was tempted, some nights, to start something with him. And then she remembered that his desire was a trap too. And she missed Rashid, the rhythm of their life, the centredness of it. Every morning, she woke with a faint sense of panic that couldn’t be named; it followed and surprised her throughout the day. She still reached for him on the new bed in the same way her hands had stroked absent space when they lived under the same roof. She still started recipes to tantalise his taste buds, and then felt like a fool when she remembered the only taste to satisfy was her own. She still collected jokes and stories to retell. She still

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Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

stroked clothes onto her body that he loved or had bought. Her life with Rashid, the herness of being with him, trailed her like the scent of yesterday, yoking her to the past. She berated herself with visions of him and Thandi. She’d pose him in family portraits with Thandi and the kids, all dressed in serene white, running on the beach, in the mall, on Eid mornings and family vacations. She drew pictures of lazy Sunday afternoons, and rambunctious Sunday mornings when the children crowded their parents’ bed and basked in finally being a full-time family. Sometimes she imagined them laughing at her, or bouncing her righteous anger back at her. When she spoke to Zainab or her concerned friends, she always told them she was okay. After the first few days of talking, she’d grown tired of their advice and the burden of their concern. She peppered her conversations with little indicators of a woman in control of her days and nights. The internet searches had given her just the right words to say: Sure, this is a tough time, but I have a handle on it. She flaunted this unpractised knowledge, using it to build a moat and draw up the drawbridge. And all the while, the dream’s minute ministrations haunted her, a prod and a poultice.

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Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

Chapter 19

Qabila couldn’t wait to escape the stuffy room. She looked longingly at the slivers of light coming through the narrow windows. The Chicago air outside looked brisk. The speaker didn’t deviate from the text in his bland PowerPoint presentation. He was droning on about the wounds of oppression that led men to hurt other men and terrorise the women and children whose lives they shared. As if those men were not accountable, and their hurt entitled them to hurt others. Why, instead of reproducing pain, could they not choose to reach for joy? Why were models of hatred and cruelty so successful – these wrongheaded, wronghearted ideas of power? Qabila sighed. She hadn’t done much better. She may not have become like her father, but her life had certainly mimicked her mother’s. Not in all aspects, but her inner world embodied so much of her mother’s yearning and sorrow. How does that happen? She’d been so determined not to let it, and yet she’d ended up with a man not so different to her father. Dishonest, contemptuous, absent. A man who often made her feel like a guest in the life they shared. She hadn’t been without fault. The small spiteful scenes, her injured martyrdom wielded like a weapon to wrest a small concession or two. And all the other ways in which the space between them made each of them less. She wondered whether, if she’d chosen a different man, a different way to love, she would have discovered new faults, rather than honing the faults she inherited from her mother. But maybe that’s why we reproduce our nightmares. We become attached to the flaws we know. She covered a yawn just as the speaker looked right at her. She really needed to get out of this stifling hall. It had been packed this morning, but now there were only a few of the annual conference attendees left. Off to the side, Caroline, Rashid’s sister’s wife, rolled her eyes at Qabila. Qabila bit down on her lip so as not to laugh. The speaker’s presentation style was a running joke, though none of them would tease him directly. He was a very kind young man. Caroline sneezed. She and Qabila had foregone the first conference dinner to catch up. Caroline apologised

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Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

for the distance that had grown between them since the divorce. They missed her, and invited Qabila to stay with them again when she was in Joburg. Apparently, Faghria and Rashid’s relationship had been strained since he admitted to his double life. They were both shocked that he could’ve hidden his children. Caroline sounded embarrassed when she asked Qabila to understand that he was still the only member of their family in Faghria’s life and reminded her he’d also kept his relationship with Faghria secret from his parents. Her eyes begged Qabila to forgive them for this betrayal. She’d wanted to be petty and refuse, but they were all reacting to events none of them could fully control. So she’d let Caroline off the hook. It felt good. When Caroline began to tell her about Rashid’s new life with Thandi, though, she stopped her. She’d spent enough years in the space between Rashid and Thandi. She would not live there any more. Now she gave Caroline a huge smile, then signalled to Nyameka that she should be ready to leave as soon as it was polite to do so. In the middle of a yawn, Nyameka nodded, eyelids drooping. At last the speaker stopped and the chair opened the floor for questions. Everyone seemed worn down. Qabila surreptitiously gathered her things and stood as the obligatory clapping ended, the boisterous applause much heartier than the preceding hour had portended. She and Caroline blew kisses at each other in a goodbye – she hoped it wasn’t noticeable that she was grateful Caroline wanted an early night to recover from her cold. Bypassing the dining hall where the other conferees were congregating, she met Nyameka at the hotel door. Bundled up in coats, caps and gloves, they made their way out into the chilly Chicago afternoon. Nyameka was a gender scholar at Caroline’s university. Caroline had introduced them at a conference in Buenos Aires almost a decade ago. Whenever they found themselves together in a foreign country, they’d sneak away for an afternoon. They joined the throng on the long sidewalks, heading towards Michigan Avenue and the Magnificent Mile, Chicago’s paean to American consumerism. ‘The buildings make me feel tiny,’ Nyameka said, her voice hushed despite the hubbub. ‘It’s a man-made canyon,’ Qabila said, linking arms with her friend so they could hug each other close. The buildings covered the streets in sun-dappled shadow, channelling the wind. They reached a tall neo-Gothic building that proclaimed itself to be the Tribune. ‘This is a very phallic city,’ Nyameka said, mock sternly. Raising her eyebrow at Qabila’s laugh, she threw out her arm and pointed from one building to another. ‘Phallus!’ she sang, craning her neck at Tribune Tower. Motioning to the Wrigley Building with its intricate street-level archways leading to two tall towers, and across the river to include the famous corncob-shaped Marina City Towers, she crooned, ‘Phallus, phallus, phallus,

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Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

phallus!’ Qabila’s laughter captured a few smiles from passers-by. There was a man sitting behind a clear-glass window under the WGN Radio sign, broadcasting the topical events of the day. Wagging a finger at him, Nyameka leaned in close to Qabila and whispered, ‘Phallic,’ before she too erupted into laughter. They crossed the bridge over the Chicago River, adorned with flags floating in the cold breeze off Lake Michigan. Heads swivelling to take in the mixture of concrete and glass and steel, they walked down the long block, pausing to peer at an impressive building with a tilted diamond-shaped roof on the other side of the road. There was a sign that made passers-by glance up fearfully, and scurry by as quickly as the icy sidewalk allowed. ‘What are they so scared of?’ Nyameka asked, pointing her camera at the red-and-white sign. She burst out laughing and handed the camera to Qabila so she could also zoom in on the sign. Caution: falling ice, the sign warned. ‘What dangerous phalluses these are,’ Nyameka laughed. ‘Murderous patriarchy!’ ‘It’s not enough they freeze you out, they will fling deadly icicles at you from dizzying heights,’ Qabila responded. ‘Patriarchy will kill you every time,’ Nyameka said, the laughter leaching out of her voice. ‘Yes,’ Qabila murmured. ‘If it doesn’t destroy your body, it’ll have a go at everything else. And then they blame the social structure, as if rich men don’t kill and maim too. And ignore that most poor, black women don’t go around violating men because of their circumstances.’ They looked at each other sadly, and touched their heads together. ‘We’re getting close,’ Qabila said, pointing at the lion statues flanking the deep, wide stairs of the Art Institute. ‘And still we survive and thrive,’ said Nyameka, pulling her closer. ‘Fuck the patriarchy! Let’s go and see the plunder.’ ‘Yeah, fuck the patriarchy!’ They spent the next few hours in a daze of colour and genteel elegance. The large upstairs rooms showcased carefully selected canvasses from the most celebrated artists. Luminous Van Goghs and enormous, wild Picassos and softly seductive Monets and luscious O’Keefes, and on and on they took in the curated explosions of colour and form. Downstairs, strange collections of artefacts from uncelebrated places sat in glass cases, the labels lauding the plunderers who’d gifted these countless nameless works of art. In other rooms, rich Renaissance colours depicted children with strange, adult-sized heads. Violent

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Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

scenes of angry gods. Rapacious men on boats and in fields of slaughter, celebrating histories of cruelty and greed, the exchange of power and the right to violence between one man and another. The pornographies of bygone times, showcasing naked female bodies for the gaze of all. An impressive collection of armour in a downstairs gallery, rendered beautiful by its time-worn distance from bloodstained battlefields where men sought to end the lives of other men. Nyameka and Qabila shuffled along slowly, pausing entranced to drink in stories told in a cornucopia of colours. In between, they sat on benches and spoke in hushed voices in this cathedral to art. They knew the violence places like this masked, and still they were awed by the sheer scale of human creativity and ingenuity. Qabila’s body quivered and stilled, her senses alight, dancing to meet or repel the colourful refractions that beamed at her from the walls. The smallness of her place in time, and the possibility of creating something for someone hundreds of years hence, called up all manner of feelings: despair and unfettered joy, and a vague longing to be larger than the life in which she was contained. By the time they left through the massive doors, the gifts of prints and notebooks tucked into their briefcases, they were exhausted. They meandered towards Millennium Park. The guidebooks had called it a must-see, and conference run-aways should be dutiful tourists. They took the requisite playful photos at the Cloud Gate, watching themselves and the tourists around them recede and grow in the silver bean-shaped sculpture. By mutual agreement, they skipped a walk in the park and chose to rest their weary feet at the restaurant next to the outdoor skating rink. A few people were going around in circles. A woman did a slow graceful spin, gently bent at the waist, arms and a leg flung out, red coat flaring. A soft smile playing across her face as she resumed skating alongside a man, her hand slipping into his. He wobbled and smiled, every line of his body taut with the concentration needed to keep himself upright. Qabila felt herself warming up as she and Nyameka talked over the menu. ‘When temperatures get below freezing in South Africa, we better have central heating,’ she muttered. Nyameka snorted. ‘You know our country. Fifteen percent or so won’t be troubled by temperature fluctuations, while the rest will freeze or die of heat exhaustion. Too many people are already dying for want of adequate housing. Murders, just long and drawn out. We’ve left generations to fend off the elements so a few can be in control of their atmosphere. Our country makes me mad. But now we’re here in the land of the free and the brave, where the whites are free and the blacks are brave.’ ‘Say it again, sister,’ Qabila laughed. ‘They went through my panties again, and leafed

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Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

through every one of my books at the airport.’ ‘Great! That might be your friendly TSA official’s only reading matter.’ Then Nyameka’s face grew solemn, her voice taking on a lecturing tone: ‘Beware Muslims carrying books. The knowledge is likely to leap off the page and poke parochial Americans in the eye. Better make the world a safer place – and check the bookmark doesn’t carry traces of anticolonialism. And don’t get me started on the role of Muslim panties in the revolution against neo-imperialist tyranny.’ Qabila laughed. ‘I’ve missed you. Zurich was too long ago. I always feel so light with you.’ ‘Mmm, obviously sisterhood brightens the world.’ ‘Yes, it does. I need more of that. It’s been such a … not a bad time, but grey. It’s been grey.’ ‘I’m sorry,’ Nyameka said, covering Qabila’s hand with hers and squeezing. The waiter arrived with their food and they sampled and savoured. ‘This is what they’re protecting,’ Nyameka muttered, waving a hand at the portions, huge enough to feed a family of six. They both sighed. ‘How’s Stella?’ Qabila asked. ‘Are things good between you?’ Nyameka looked up from her burger, lettuce and tomato spilling out of a hand-sized bun. She nodded. ‘Things are great. But do you really want to hear that? Caroline told me about your divorce.’ ‘Yes. I need to believe. And if your favourite people are not witnesses to your joy, then …’ She shrugged. ‘Witnessing is important. I don’t get the people who treat you like an audience to their lives and aren’t interested in witnessing yours.’ She frowned. ‘Sharing your joy and being positive is important. But so is sharing your sorrow. We are all so busy acting positive and removing negativity that we forget that pain is political. What happened with you and Rashid?’ Qabila nodded. She didn’t look at Nyameka or at the food on her plate. She watched a graceless young woman wobble on the ice, her green-and-blue tartan scarf flailing behind her. She sighed and said, ‘He lied to me for most of our marriage. Every day. I think a part of me knew – and yet I kept hoping he would choose me. He’s living with them now. It floors me, knowing that. I feel so humiliated. Everyone knows. All the years I spent pretending and masquerading were for nothing. My life feels like a waste. I wake up every day, wondering what the point is.’

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Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

‘If you want my advice – do one new thing, that’s all. Add one thing to your life. And find a great therapist or a great friend, and talk. Endlessly.’ Qabila nodded. ‘The loneliness is different. I always felt lonely, but not alone. I feel alone now, with lots of time to fill, and nothing is meaningful. And he’s not alone. Do you think he felt alone when he was with me?’ ‘I’m so sorry you’re going through this,’ Nyameka said. ‘If I could, I’d take this pain from you. I don’t know what Rashid is feeling. But maybe he’s also adjusting to not living a lie any more? You said it’s humiliating that people know. Why? You didn’t lie.’ Qabila squirmed. ‘Our country is messed up. I feel guilty that I’m embarrassed that she’s not Cape Malay or Indian or Coloured or even, even white. I don’t believe in race. We know race is not real, that it’s socially constructed to create power relations.’ Qabila paused to eat a forkful of pasta. ‘I want a world where it doesn’t matter who we love. Where we’re all just people. But it does matter. Knowing it shouldn’t, doesn’t change that. This is what history feels like when it’s crushing your ideals. ‘Every time I run into someone eager to share sightings of Rashid and his new family, I feel a flare of shame when they say in that arch way, She’s nice for a black woman or Smart for a black woman or whichever crass way they choose to humiliate me with race. I feel angry at them, and then at myself for my response. And I walk away swallowing guilt and anger on his behalf, which doesn’t allow me to just feel wronged and betrayed that my husband cheated on me. Lied to me and almost everyone who was part of our lives. I don’t get to just judge him and be angry at him for the children who are only now being publicly acknowledged. And then I feel sorry for them and wonder what bitter pills they’re being made to swallow.’ She sighed. ‘When we used to fight, all those years ago, I was no better. I used race like a weapon, said the vilest racist things to wound him even though I knew better. I carry that shame.’ She took a deep, shaky breath. ‘I want a clean rage, the kind that just pits one woman against another. That’s enough guilt right there. It’s easier to fault the other woman, rather than rage at society.’ ‘I can’t believe this is still going on,’ said Nyameka. ‘It’s everywhere. When people see Stella and me together, sheesh it makes me mad when they stare sometimes. But you learn to let it go. On the good days. And you know with Stella’s leg, they’ll say, Yes, maybe it’s because her leg is not right that she’s with a black woman. As if we were second prizes. All they can see is a white woman with a disability being too friendly with a black butch lesbian from the townships. But even between us, we can’t escape race. There are moments when our histories are so far apart, we remember we were never supposed to be together.’

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Nyameka reached out and touched Qabila’s arm. ‘You feel guilty. That’s something. There are still far too many people who aren’t even aware that they see the world through a compact with evil.’ Nyameka shook her head. ‘My friend, this is heavy stuff. Sometimes being socially conscious just adds more guilt. You’re entitled to be angry. Rage tells you that things are fucked up. The first step to becoming flesh and blood and leaving the ghosts to the dead is to accept your right to feel things, and then deal with it in the moment. And lots of therapy.’ She laughed. ‘My mum says this therapy is a thing for white people and shakes her head. I should make right with my ancestors, she says. I tell her this is one way of doing that.’ Qabila smiled. ‘I think you’re trying to tell me to go to therapy. I’ll see if I can find someone. I have to start somewhere. And maybe you should listen to your mom, too.’ Nyameka grinned. ‘I have listened to my mother. Part of healing is honouring all the parts of who we are.’

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They spent the evening at the Green Mill. Nyameka dragged her onto the dance floor and swung her to the jazz beats. Her body creaked and popped and shrunk and resisted for the first two dances. Catching their breath at the table, Qabila declined another dance. ‘I’m too old for this, I don’t know when last I danced or listened to music.’ ‘That’s your problem, sisi,’ Nyameka said. ‘I’m dragging you back there until your body remembers that you always knew how to dance.’ And they did, and she did. Her muscles loosened, her feet stopped protesting, her hair swung, and her legs flew where the beat demanded. She gave herself up to the tempo, surrendered to the saxophone as Nyameka swung her back and forth across the little dance floor. They left in the early hours of the morning – it was the latest she’d been out in years – tired and satiated. Sprawled in the back of a yellow taxi, her limbs intertwined with Nyameka’s, she felt free.

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Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

Chapter 20

Back in the humdrum of everyday life, the routine of too much to do and too little time and too much time and too little love, the memory of her limbs flying free in a Chicago bar would catch her unawares and make her smile. She’d forgotten she once liked to dance, and forget herself in the movement of legs and arms and twisting torso. When had she stopped dancing? She couldn’t remember. One night, driven by a Chicago smile, she turned on the radio – and slowly, as if there were unseen witnesses, she danced. Forgetting her list and shedding the feeling of foolishness, she danced and danced. The next night, she bought some music online. And every night for an hour, she danced. In her diary, 21:00 to 22:00, she penned in Dancing as a daily task. She danced until she forgot herself. Until the distance between her and the music disappeared. Until the beat animated and claimed her. And when she was done, glowing with exertion, every sinew and nerve awakened, she’d lie in her one-couch living room, swimming in aliveness. She exulted in that feeling during her mundane days, as if it were a secret lover. Some nights, she danced to slow, slow music. And still she found a beat, a rhythm to move to. The movements of her hands and legs got smaller and time trickled like molasses, leaving her heavy and throbbing. The languorous thrum thrilled and terrified her. She wondered what Rashid would make of this sinuous self. They’d rarely danced – he had two left feet, he said. Her feet were for going somewhere, her body for moving productively into a tightly decided future. What would God make of her running her hands over her body? Would He disapprove of the trail of hot longing her hands traced? Would He be angered at her panting on her couch, on the edge of something she didn’t know how to get to? Would He be vengeful when she finally found her way? Stretching herself on her prayer mat in obeisance – covered from head to toe, keeping legs and arms close to her body so as not to invite Shaitan – she started asking Him these questions. Asking Him how much of her body she owned, and why and

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:10:04.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

when and how she was to use it to find her way to the other side of despair. She beseeched Him to show her how – no, permit her – to revel in the joy she found after the dance, to relax into the sticky, sensuous bliss that weighted her. And when the fighting tired her, and her sexual desire was sated by her own hands, she declared boldly that she was as clean and as good as the next woman whose juiciness was reserved only for a lawful man. She wanted to ask her friends: the fierce women whose ranks she had drifted into so long ago. But to do so would be to unveil herself, would be to declare that what she’d spelled for others with her fighting words had not seeped into her own bones. She wanted to ask Zainab if she ever felt the urge to let her hands linger, to pull herself through liquid longing to glistening satiation. Her aunts, her cousins. She wanted to say, I’m over forty, and when I dance I sense universes of feeling. She asked her children, some nights lying spent on her couch, if they begrudged her her small acts of wantonness. Would they lead her in dances full of life, to courageous beats? Would they forgive her for living with longing cunningly disguised as love for so long, using them to hold their father hostage while he missed his hidden children’s birthdays? Had they left to release their parents from a love not meant to abide? And one night, after she’d experienced small passions and satisfactions, dying to awaken anew, she asked if they forgave her for feeling relieved at her aloneness. She danced with them at every age, every birthday. She danced with them at their twentyfirst birthday parties and at her eldest son’s graduation. She grabbed Habib and Abdullah into the lounge and danced and danced with them. She played them the music their grandmother loved and she danced with her dead, her feet striking a path to a new life. She sang along with the songs of her childhood, and boogied and did the langarm with her mother, and watched her mother dance with her children. She pressed her face close to her mother’s, smelling Moondrops and spice and the longings she’d inherited. On a few nights, she daringly invited her father to dance with them. Not all of him. Not the wild and cruel man who’d fling a fist and hold his household hostage with his rages, but the one whose wit showed her that the whole world, the condition of their lives, was a joke. She gazed at him with love, with a vulnerability his anger had obliterated in life. And he, he held her fast as she stood on his shoes, held firm in an embrace that didn’t falter, didn’t fail. Some nights she cried as her arms flung and her feet flew and she twisted and twirled with her ghosts. She hoped, wherever her deceased loved ones were, there was a lot of dancing and singing. With a new eye, a new heart, a beat that declared itself for life, she started to reread the academic treatises and literature on being a modern woman that she dealt with every day. She read them not as ideas to battle with, but routes to a daring dance. How to live, truly

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:10:04.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

live, despite the voices that told her to be small, to be less, to be invisible. A dance that demanded she suckle on ideas to thrive and flourish, and not to merely survive. Dusting off copies that had been read and reread, she began to build a library for life. She’d used many of these books to teach a generation of young women – and a few young men, and some who were both and neither – to own their lives. And now it was her turn to be what she taught. One by one, the writings of brave women found their way to her bedside table. After her list for the day had been reckoned with, and the list for the next day had parcelled out her few hours for far too many tasks, she read. She read until her eyes drooped and her body sagged in exhaustion. Every night, she made sure to carry a warrior woman’s words into her dreams. They teetered on her bedside table, an oasis of clutter in the pristine room. Bessie Head, Tsitsi Dangarembga, bell hooks, Zukiswa Wanner, Pregs Govender, Audre Lorde, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, Grace Musila, Nawal El Saadawi, Fatima Meer, Sindiwe Magona, Octavia Butler, Maya Angelou, Miriam Tlali, Alice Walker, Pumla Dineo Gqola, Desiree Lewis, Elaine Salo, Fatema Mernissi, Amina Wadud, Noni Jabavu, Amina Mama, Barbara Boswell, Gloria E Anzaldúa, Kagiso Lesego Molope, Buchi Emecheta, Ama Ata Aidoo, Mariama Bâ, Danai Mupotsa. The sight of the growing pile weighted her as she woke and prepared for work. Wise women’s words rolled off her tongue; the richness, the complex denseness wove a litany of needful lessons. How to love after despair. How to look in the mirror, and be more than history had decreed for her. How to love herself when everything she knew, everything she’d been taught and shown, told her she was not deserving. To understand fully how she came to be mired in her contradictions. And to know a way existed to steer herself into uncharted waters. She gleaned from their words glimmering balm for scars she’d refused to recognise. Scars she’d patched with awards and applause from strangers who passed in the night. She’d thought that if she moved fast enough, if she never had enough time to schedule hurting, the pain would not catch up. After Habib died, she’d read a cacophony of self-help books. Turn inward, they said. Manage how you feel and what you think. Be relentless at replacing the pain with a positive smile. Focus on this moment and know that you, only you, can remake your life. You attract what you think. At all times, you’re a victim of your own secret thoughts, and so you always get what’s coming to you. Forgive the unforgiveable and be free. Except she could never find a way to forgive herself. They taught her that she’d manifested the pain in her life: the death, the loss, the betrayal. It was her negativity that created a barren reality that

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:10:04.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

welcomed death. But now there were these books, these voices of women who’d suffered and won through longing for a different world, a just world. They freed her from the tyranny of her own thoughts and feelings. Their words brought her into sisterhood, across time and space. We have suffered and found strength to fight the whole wide world with our words, Qabila thought. It’s not the magic we’ve wrought with our thoughts that attracts harm. Harm is done to our thoughts by a world in which a woman – black, Muslim, African, any woman born into a life where her people have little power – is expected to take the kicks for kith and kin. And say please and thank you while she’s being strangled, inch by cruel inch. One Saturday morning, when the pile of books and papers looked set to topple, Qabila went out to look for a bookcase. It was time to house her library for life. On her way to one of the expensive furniture stores that she and Rashid had used to glue their life together, she found herself seized by tightening shoulders and a back spasm that brought her efficient stride to a standstill. She ignored the flow of people around her as she stood and took stock. She turned away from the store, every step unlocking a knot. By the time she was back in her car, the short distance felt like a victory of a million miles. A new life called for new habits. She did need a bookcase, though. She pointed the car towards Durbanville and kept going all the way to Wellington Street. Deciding to browse at the second-hand store first, she parked at Checkers and kept walking up the main road, soaking up the sun, feeling free and relaxed. She must have passed an invisible line, because suddenly the faces around her went from pale to dark. Around a corner, she found a little second-hand store with a jumble of junk and treasure. A spare woman jumped out from behind the tiny counter. ‘Kan ek help?’ she asked. ‘I need a bookcase,’ Qabila said. She was unsure why she was in this store with its unwanted things when the first four bookcases were pointed out. But the fifth one was going home with her. The minute she saw it, she knew it had been waiting for her. Its lines were so beautiful. Her hands touched its curved corners, the three shelves set in what seemed a Buddha’s hollowed-out stomach. It’d had quite a life, if the tiny scratches on the dull mahogany were anything to go by. The bookcase glowed with possibility. Back at her apartment, after the books had been placed in the bookcase with room to spare for more, she put a photograph of herself with her mother and son on top. Every time her hand stroked the newly buffed mahogany, a low contented hum settled in her belly. Singing along with Nina Simone to ‘For All We Know’ as she moved around her apartment,

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:10:04.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

she looked in all the nooks and crannies where she’d stuffed the things she didn’t want in storage but had not yet found a place for. As the day wound down, she unearthed the little treasures that made her feel solid, loved and seen, and placed them carefully on top of the bookcase. A cartography of loves and losses. Habib’s hospital wristband and hers, her wedding ring, a childhood family photo taken on Eid. Her parents’ young bodies with old eyes; she and Zainab scrubbed, eyes shiny with tears they were commanded not to shed. There’d been too much salt in the pastei. Their father had punished their mother for this gustatory insult. Except for those in their eyes, no bruises were visible. She arranged the little things from her nieces: the wobbly clay ashtray that never matched her décor, the stones with faces that Firdous obsessively created, a plastic tea kettle from Ariefa. She would fetch her mother’s quilt out of storage tomorrow. She had hidden her memories away and plastered over the cracks. Now she brought them into her bedroom. She found a thumb ring in her jewellery box that her son had chosen with his father one Mother’s Day. The silver ring had a dragonfly over an eternity symbol. Dragonflies were about transformation. She’d put the ring away after he died. Now she carefully slipped it onto her thumb, the weight strange and full of promise. She would use it as her totem, to remind her that she’d chosen to change, to embrace uncertainty. She’d bring her fears into the light, spend time with them, honour the woman they’d woven into possibility. All the big things that had changed her: she would use them to create a new life, wild and open.

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:10:04.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

Chapter 21

The smell of breyani, roasted sweet potatoes and Robertson roasted chicken greeted Qabila at Zainab’s front door. ‘Salaam,’ Zainab said as she opened the door, giving Qabila a quick kiss on the cheek. ‘What’s wrong?’ Qabila asked immediately. Zainab looked tired and frail. As if someone had scrubbed her skin down until it was paper-thin. Zainab directed her to the kitchen before she answered. ‘Ariefa left Riedwaan last night. She’s in the back, sleeping.’ Qabila’s belly tightened. ‘What happened?’ Zainab squinted at her and walked over to the kitchen counter, lifted a spoon and put it down as if she’d never seen a spoon before. She shook her head, took a deep breath. ‘Osman took Fahiem to the shop for cooldrink. Saleigha’s friend Kobus is here for lunch, they also went with Osman.’ Her words were slow and leaden. She was fidgeting with the end of her black scarf. Qabila put her arms around Zainab, felt her body stiffen in protest, but held on until Zainab leaned into her. Sobbing, her anguish muffled by the folds of fabric, Zainab trembled in her sister’s arms. Then she took a few shaky breaths in Qabila’s neck, wiped away the tears with her scarf, stiffened and pushed away. Qabila let her go, wiping her own tears. ‘He hit her,’ Zainab said, her voice hoarse and thick. ‘He hit her. She finally told us last night.’ It was Qabila’s turn to take a deep, shuddery breath. She closed her eyes. Forced herself to look at Zainab, even though she couldn’t bear to see the new lines on her face and darkness in her eyes. ‘Osman wanted to kill him. How could he hurt my child? She’s my baby. How? I don’t understand. Ja Allah. I never wanted that for them, for any of them. I made sure they learned how to be strong women. From the start. We know, ja Allah, we know what it’s like to be in a house like that.’ They were both crying again. Zainab scrubbed away the tears that

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:10:04.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

had begun to fall. Qabila reached out and held her once more. She’d known something wasn’t right, but she hadn’t realised just how wrong her niece’s marriage was. ‘She’s home now,’ she said. ‘She came home.’ Repeating it like a mantra. They stood like that for a long while until Zainab pulled away, wiping her tears. ‘I’m all right, Allah Kadir,’ she said. ‘Come help me finish off the lunch. Make a salad kanallah.’ While Zainab chopped onions and tomatoes for a sambal to go with the breyani, she described the previous evening’s events. ‘She phoned us in a state last night. Riedwaan had locked them in. Eleven o’clock! We took her their spare keys. Ja Allah, Qabila. That man had tipped the whole place over. It was like seeing the mess Daddy would make, do you remember?’ She didn’t wait for Qabila to answer. Her voice was low, fierce and sad. ‘Her body is full of blue marks where he hit her. The coward! He didn’t touch her face, although she said he slaps her sometimes. He scared her last night. He choked –’ Zainab’s voice broke, her whole body growing still before she continued. ‘He choked her in front of Fahiem.’ She looked at Qabila, a bewildered anger in her eyes. A fire in Qabila’s belly roared to life. Her breaths shortened. She began to pant with the intensity of the sorrow and rage. Once, she might have numbed herself to her sister’s horror and let the numbness hold her safe. But a new life was found in new habits. She allowed herself to feel the fury. She wanted to scream, to find this stupid young man who had broken his unruly feelings on her niece’s body. ‘Coward,’ she said. ‘Men who beat women are fucking, stupid cowards.’ She didn’t recognise her voice. The harshness, the flat vowels. ‘Yes, he is a coward. Allah must forgive me, but I want him to feel the pain I feel now. It’s my child! To think of how we helped him over the years. We treated him like a son. When his parents couldn’t pay his fees, Osman worked on weekends to pay it.’ ‘How is she?’ asked Qabila. Zainab shook her head. ‘She was sleeping when I went in there earlier. She’s embarrassed. She’s a proud child, never one to talk about herself. Last night, ja Allah. I’ve never seen her cry like that. “He’s going to kill me,” she said. “He’s going to kill me. I made him angry. I try so hard to be good but I’m no good, I’m no good.”’ Zainab’s voice was a singsong. ‘Over and over, that’s what she said. How can she believe that? Not good enough! My child, my beautiful child. That vark, lae vark, to make my child feel that way.’ Zainab swore. ‘There is a special place in Jahannam for that man. They always talk on the radio about how the deen says a man must treat his wife, that he mustn’t lift his hands to her. That he must respect and honour his wife … and this man, this man. Allah must forgive me, Qabila.’ She shook her head, buried her face in her hands. She took a deep shaky breath.

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:10:04.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

Her voice thick with unshed tears, she said, ‘It’s almost lunch. We’ll eat when they get back from the shop.’ She stirred the pot. In the space of a night, Zainab had aged. As if her thoughts had conjured them, they heard Saleigha in the passage: ‘Kobus, I’m going to tell my mother about you. Just wait and see. Be careful, the wrath of Cape Malay women is fearsome and a wonder to behold.’ ‘Salaam,’ Saleigha said as she came into the kitchen. ‘Daddy’s letting Fahiem blow bubbles outside. He said they’ll be in soon.’ She gave Qabila a quick kiss on the cheek. ‘How are you? Come meet my friend, Kobus.’ She pointed at the young man behind her. He was ginger-haired, his pale skin covered in freckles, and looked like he knew his way around a rugby field. ‘He’s in my class,’ she beamed. Kobus smiled nervously, stretching out his hand. ‘I told you, we don’t shake hands. We’re a proper Muslim family,’ Saleigha said. They both burst out laughing. Qabila liked Kobus’ open laughter. She’d seen her niece with other male friends. The shimmering quality between them told her that Kobus was different. Kobus seemed similar to the ones she’d dragged home – not Muslim, not Cape Malay – and yet not a weapon for rebellion. ‘I’m sorry, Auntie,’ Kobus said, his Afrikaans accent heavy. ‘I’m learning how to act proper, like a real Muslim boeta. Saleigha says I must.’ He smiled at Qabila briefly before returning his attention to Saleigha. ‘See, I’m even saying Auntie and not Tannie.’ Qabila smiled at him. ‘She’s a little general, just like her mother. Be careful not to be commandeered by her.’ ‘I try, Auntie, I try.’ He shook his head and threw up his hands in mock surrender. ‘Hey!’ Zainab protested Qabila’s description of her. She smiled at Kobus. ‘Foeitog, Kobus, sy gee vir jou ’n harde tyd, nè, my kind?’ ‘Ja, Auntie,’ Kobus said. His smile didn’t quite mask a slight frown. For a heartbeat, it looked as if he wanted to say something to Zainab. ‘This general is going to command you to set up the laptop and connect to Skype in the dining room, Kobus,’ Saleigha said. ‘We have to see if Firdous is online yet. I’ll come now.’ Saleigha lingered after he’d left the room, her face falling. ‘Is Ariefa still sleeping?’ Zainab nodded, sombreness returning to the room. ‘I didn’t tell Kobus. He knows something’s wrong, because of the pretence.’ Saleigha quirked her lip, her face serious. ‘He thinks you don’t like him.’

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:10:04.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

Zainab nodded tiredly. ‘It’s okay, you can tell him. If you’re serious about this boy, you don’t want to start with lies. He’ll find out when Ariefa comes out for lunch.’ Saleigha nodded and looked relieved. ‘Shukran.’ Zainab smiled, kissing Saleigha on the cheek. ‘Okay, go, don’t leave your guest alone,’ she said, shooing Saleigha out the kitchen. ‘Tell me when Firdous is online.’ ‘Kobus seems nice,’ Qabila said. Zainab turned to look at her, her face a complicated mixture of pleasure and concern. ‘He’s a decent child. Osman is worried, they seem serious,’ she whispered. ‘You can’t control what happens with the children now,’ Qabila responded, shrugging. ‘It’s what we fought for – to be able to love who we wanted.’ ‘Like Rashid and Thandi?’ Zainab responded. ‘Ag, Allah picks out our partners. If it is meant to be, inshallah.’ Her words stung. Qabila turned her face away. ‘Maaf, I’m sorry,’ Zainab said. ‘I don’t feel lekker. This thing with Ariefa … I only went to bed at three in the morning, and then I was up for Fajr again. I miss Mommy.’ Just then Fahiem came running down the passage, waving something colourful and whooping. ‘Mommy, Mommy, see what Pa got me. Salaam Ma, Auntie Bila!’ he shouted as he ran past. They both smiled. ‘Fahiem, Fahiem, your mommy’s sleeping,’ Zainab called, moving after him and bumping into Osman in the doorway. ‘Los die kind,’ he said, putting a hand on Zainab’s shoulder. ‘Is goed vir haar.’ She looked at him and shook her head. Looking down the hallway after his grandson, his lined face collapsed sadly. He followed Zainab into the kitchen, his hand stroking the middle of her back. ‘Salaam,’ he said and gave Qabila a hug. ‘Daai kind darem. Ons was nou by die Mall. I bought him one of those pinwheels and bubbles. We must enjoy this time. When he’s older, he won’t be happy with twenty-rand toys, it will be Nike and Levi’s and all this American brand stuff.’ ‘How is he?’ Qabila asked. His face scrunched up and he shook his head. ‘Young, he’s young. Inshallah. He’ll forget.’ ‘Ameen,’ Zainab and Qabila said at the same time. ‘They’re resilient at that age,’ Qabila said. ‘As long as he learns that there are other ways to treat a woman, then …’ She trailed off into a silent prayer that Fahiem would not repeat

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:10:04.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

his father’s behaviour. ‘He has you,’ she said to Osman, ‘a good man to observe and model himself on.’ Osman nodded. Looking down, he put his hands in his pockets. ‘Sy pa is nog altyd sy pa,’ he murmured. Zainab was taking a large roasting dish out of the oven. ‘Qabila, dish the breyani,’ she said. ‘Where is the cooldrink?’ Osman shook his head. ‘In the car.’ She frowned at him. ‘You’re getting old.’ ‘Too old.’ They could hear Fahiem clattering down the passageway. He was taking a lot longer coming back. He sighed heavily as he reached them, and then once more for good measure. ‘Mommy is sleeping but she’s coming now,’ he said. ‘Ma, will you play with me?’ His voice was thin as he reached his arms up to Zainab. Smiling, Zainab picked him up. ‘You want to cuddle your Ma, do you?’ He laughed. ‘Always. I’m a cuddle monster!’ He pulled his face into a fearsome mask, making both Qabila and Zainab laugh. He lay his head on her shoulder and said, ‘Mommy is very sad.’ The children see so much more than we want to believe, Qabila thought. ‘I know, baby,’ Zainab cooed, kissing his forehead. ‘I’m not a baby,’ he said. ‘Oh maaf, my big beautiful boy,’ Zainab said, stroking his back. ‘Mommy is …’ Zainab looked helplessly at Qabila. ‘It’s just for a little bit,’ Qabila said. ‘Sometimes mommies get sad. Ma is here and Pa and Saleigha is here and Auntie Bila.’ ‘Mommy is sad a lot,’ he said, putting a finger in his mouth, eyes widening. Qabila moved closer. One hand stroking his arm, the other soothing Zainab. He was struggling to say something. His chocolate-brown eyes pained, his mouth working over his tiny index finger. Zainab wanted to respond, but Qabila squeezed her arm and shook her head slightly, miming as unobtrusively as she could to let him try to speak. ‘Daddy makes her sad. We don’t do things right, it makes him angry.’ His brow was furrowed, apprehensive that he’d dared to confide in them. Shame flitted across his face, his lips pursed tight over his finger. Zainab leaned her head on his. Qabila enfolded them both in a tight hug. She knew they needed words, lots of words to undo what he had witnessed. She didn’t have any, just the

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:10:04.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

roiling feelings in her body. She put all her love and comfort in her arms as the three of them huddled. So many people having to work through the damage caused by one man’s uncontrollable rage, she thought. ‘Salaam, Auntie.’ They hadn’t heard Ariefa come into the kitchen. ‘Mommy,’ Fahiem said wiggling out of Zainab’s arms. ‘Salaam,’ Qabila responded, and held her niece tight in greeting. Ariefa wouldn’t meet her eyes. ‘Do you need help, Mommy? Is Firdous on Skype yet? What plates must I put on the table? Where’s Daddy? Does Kobus eat meat?’ The words rushed out of Ariefa. ‘Did you have a nice time at the Mall?’ she asked Fahiem. She moved around the kitchen, jerkily opening and closing cupboards. There were no bruises on her face or hands. Everything else was covered by the black salaah top and red-and-blue scarf tied under her neck. Her hands fluttering. She picked up the cutlery stand and dropped it. Knives, forks and spoons clattered on the floor. ‘Mommy!’ Fahiem shouted, covering his ears. ‘Noise!’ ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘I’m sorry. I’m so clumsy.’ ‘It’s okay,’ Qabila and Zainab said at the same time. They all bent to pick up the cutlery. Saleigha rushed into the room with Kobus close behind her. ‘What’s happening?’ she asked. ‘Nothing,’ Zainab said, ‘just an accident. You and Kobus lay the table. The blue dinner service.’ Qabila had never seen her self-possessed niece like this, and yet there was something familiar in the way she put herself down. How could Qabila not have known that it wasn’t all self-deprecation and modesty? When had it started? She took little glances at Ariefa while reaching for a fork. ‘Wat gaan hier aan?’ Osman asked from the doorway. ‘Nothing,’ Qabila and Zainab said. ‘The cutlery fell. It was me, Daddy,’ Ariefa said, her voice thin and shaking. ‘Pa,’ Fahiem rushed at his grandfather. ‘It was so noisy, boom boom boom! I covered my ears.’ They’d gathered all the cutlery. Zainab ran water into the sink to wash it off. Fahiem held his arms up to Osman. Breaking the tension, Osman erupted with an off-tune, ‘Boom boom, licky boom boom down, informer, licky boom boom down!’ Singing for Fahiem, he lifted the boy up and danced with him, rocking exaggeratedly, and then grabbed Ariefa’s hand,

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:10:04.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

pulling her into the dance. ‘Daddy,’ she said. ‘Daddy, no!’ He laughed. ‘You don’t want to dance with your father. People write songs about dancing with their daughters.’ Zainab was laughing at the sink. ‘Ariefa, dance with your father,’ she said. ‘Just be careful of his left feet.’ ‘Left feet, watse left feet? These left feet danced you off your feet. Ooh Riefa, you should have seen her. The most beautiful girl. When I asked her to blues that first time, “Careless Whisper” was playing. You know what she said? “I don’t slow dance with strange men.”’ He laughed. ‘And I thought, ooh this girl is choosy. So I said, “That’s why I’m asking you to dance, so we won’t be strangers.” We were at a house party.’ ‘I know, Daddy,’ Ariefa said. ‘You’ve told this story a thousand times.’ He looked at her with mock hurt. ‘Oh, Fahiem, did I tell you how I met your Ma?’ No, Fahiem shook his head, eyes wide. ‘Oh, Daddy, please don’t start,’ Saleigha said from the doorway. Kobus was hovering behind her. Osman shook his head. ‘Kobus, have I told you how I met my wife?’ ‘No, Uncle,’ Kobus said. Saleigha turned to give him a look that had him taking a step back. ‘Us men should go and talk,’ Osman said to Kobus, who looked startled now. Fahiem chortled, ‘Yes, Pa, you can tell us about when Ma was in your mother’s tummy.’ ‘When Ma was in Pa’s mummy’s tummy? What did you say?’ They were all laughing. It was not hearty and the air was not light, but it was enough. Fahiem was delighted that he’d made everyone laugh and had everyone’s attention. ‘When Ma was in Pa’s mommy’s tummy!’ ‘No, Ma was not in Pa’s mommy’s tummy.’ ‘But she is your family,’ Fahiem said. ‘It’s like Mommy and Auntie Leigha and Dous,’ he said. ‘They were all in Ma’s tummy.’ They could hear Fahiem’s voice disappearing down the passage as the men left the room. ‘Oh my boy, that talk might have to be too long,’ Osman was saying. Walking behind Zainab and Ariefa, Qabila carried the breyani to the dining room. Zainab had an arm around Ariefa. Their heads were held together, Ariefa’s blue-and-red scarf against Zainab’s black. Lunch was a series of stops and starts, Fahiem and Osman taking centre stage. They had

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:10:04.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

their weekly family chat with Firdous and Nieyaaz. They were happy at the school they were teaching at, and enjoyed the lifestyle they had there. They missed home. Firdous invited Ariefa and Fahiem to come and visit. ‘To get away from things,’ she said, the determined lightness of her voice belied by her tight smile and watchful eyes. Someone must have told her about Ariefa and Riedwaan. Searching for something to say during one of the awkward pauses, Qabila said to Zainab, ‘I want to get the quilt Mommy made me out of storage.’ ‘Why did you put it in storage?’ Zainab asked, startled. Osman responded quickly, his voice very bright. ‘Ja, it’s so lekker warm. We use ours every winter. It’s packed away now, but the first time it rains Zainab takes it out. Joh, there’s lots of memories in that quilt,’ he winked at Zainab. ‘Daddy, really!’ Saleigha admonished, rolling her eyes at Kobus. She shook her head at Ariefa. Her disgust broke some of the tension and Ariefa laughed for the first time since Qabila got there. ‘I love the quilt Ouma made me,’ Firdous said, smiling wryly. ‘It’s too hot to use here. I put it over the couch, so we can still sit on it.’ ‘When we first got here and she missed home, she huddled under it.’ Nieyaaz laughed and took hold of her hand. ‘One day, she was lussing for Mammie’s pastei, but it was too hot for the quilt – over forty degrees. That’s how it became our couch cover.’ ‘Mine’s on the end of my bed,’ Saleigha said. ‘I’m going to give it to my children one day, inshallah.’ She gave Kobus a meaningful look. ‘You would have loved my granny, she was the best. I wish you’d met her. I miss her every day, especially in the mornings. She used to make Jungle Oats in the pot. “None of this microwave stuff,” she would say. Every morning, from scratch. I’d sit in the kitchen with her and she’d tell me about when she was young. She plucked ducks and chickens and used hankies. She didn’t believe in tissues. “Paper this, plastic that. Throwaway generation. In our day, we knew how to save and fix things, Saleigha. You must learn how to live lightly on the earth and heavy in others’ hearts.”’ Saleigha trailed off. Ariefa picked up where Saleigha left off. ‘“We lost everything, Ariefa, when they moved us out of Claremont. Everything. We lived in my oupa’s backyard. Denver Road, Claremont. Don’t forget that, Ariefa. That’s where your granny is from.” And: “Respect, adab, and iman, Ariefa. That is what you need, Ariefa, not things. When I left your oupa, it was those difficult times that helped me raise your mommy and auntie alone. And see now, my mommy couldn’t write, but now her grandchild is teaching at the universities.”’

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:10:04.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

Ariefa looked at Firdous, her eyes filling with tears as she dropped her head into her hands. ‘He wouldn’t let me use the blanket.’ Her voice was strangled. ‘“What do you want with that old thing, I don’t want it on the bed, it’s ugly,” he told me. One day I forgot to put it away before he got home. I was in the kitchen cooking and he called me to the room. He had that tone in his voice. When I got to the room,’ she was rubbing her left arm, ‘he pulled it off the bed. It was a rainy day. He stepped on it, dragged me outside and threw it on the muddy ground. “If you won’t do what you’re told, then you can join that piece of filth,” he said. I begged him, told him I was sorry. He hit me, slapped me so hard, my ears were ringing. I was on the ground. He kicked me again and again. I begged him. He locked me outside in the rain the whole night. In the morning when he came to fetch me, he made me put it in the bin and get on my knees, promise to behave. He liked me on my knees.’ She was quiet for a breath. ‘I took it out when he left for work and washed it.’ She looked up defiantly, her eyes glittering with unshed tears. ‘I washed it when he left, every day for a week. I used the tumble dryer every day. I wanted it clean again, like it was before he dirtied it. I brought it with me last night.’ ‘Watter tipe man!’ Kobus exclaimed, releasing them from the pained silence cast by Ariefa’s story. Osman shook his head at Kobus. They were all crying. ‘My child,’ Zainab said, ‘my kind.’ Osman had a look that Qabila had never seen. If Riedwaan had been there, he might not have left alive. Saleigha took a shaky breath, rubbed away the tears. ‘You took the right thing,’ she whispered, with growing wonder. ‘Did Ouma ever tell you the story of the quilts?’ Ariefa blinked at her and shook her head. ‘Because Oupa also,’ Saleigha swallowed, ‘hurt Ouma, she started to forget herself. One day she was repacking the wardrobes and there was such a lot of clothes that couldn’t be worn, but they were too full of memories to throw away. During a very bad time, she started cutting the clothes up when Oupa left for the day. “I was trying to make new memories with them,” she said. They were beautiful but they were all lies that needed to be changed. The first quilt she made was for herself. Where is Ouma’s quilt, Mommy?’ Saleigha asked, getting up. ‘In the top of the middle cupboard,’ Zainab said. ‘Wait, I’m going to show you.’ They could hear her looking through the cupboard in the hallway. ‘She was very close to Mommy,’ Zainab said, her eyes trained on Ariefa’s face. ‘You’re not going back,’ she said. ‘You are my child.’

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:10:04.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

Ariefa nodded. She looked so tired, and far too old. Qabila felt old. Kobus was fidgeting, moving his rice around on his plate as if he were moving soldiers on a field. He took a deep breath, looked down the hall where they could hear Saleigha muttering and moving boxes. ‘Oom Osman and Tannie Zainab, I will never, ever hurt Saleigha. I promise, never. And if I do then you can do anything you want to me. My pa,’ he swallowed, his freckled cheeks red, ‘used to hit my ma. I was small, twelve, when she left, but I still remember. I promised myself I would never do that to someone I love and my children will grow up differently. I will never do to my children what my pa did to us.’ He looked away, confused and ashamed. ‘They say boys become like their daddies. My stepfather is a good man, he’s my pa. I’m like him.’ He looked at Ariefa then. ‘My ma said she chose him for me, because he was the opposite of what she thought she deserved. She’s happy now,’ he smiled wanly. ‘She rules the roost. She’s like Saleigha.’ They hadn’t noticed Saleigha come back into the room, the quilt over her arm. ‘You better believe it – and don’t worry about my parents coming to hurt you. I’m an engineer. I’ll build a torture device for you, boetie,’ she said, shaking her finger at him. ‘Thank you, my boy,’ Osman said to Kobus, with the same gravitas with which he’d been offered the promise. ‘And I will be your father, too.’ Accepting him without fuss. He leaned over the high chair and squeezed Fahiem’s chubby leg. ‘I’ll help you find better ways.’ ‘Mommy, do you see the men have already decided that Kobus and I are going to be together forever?’ Saleigha said. They all laughed and started teasing – Nieyaaz throwing advice at Kobus on how to win over his in-laws. Saleigha interrupted, lifting the multicoloured quilt high: ‘I want to show you,’ she said. They each had the same pattern in their quilts, interlocking starbursts with a large starburst in the centre. Starting at the top, Saleigha identified each bit of fabric: a piece from their great-grandmother’s dress, blue with tiny white flowers, and a bit of her green-and-white checked overall. Their great-grandfather’s blue pinstripe waistcoat and beige shirt. Ouma’s parents and grandparents were at the edges of the quilt, then her sisters and brothers, her closest friends and cousins. She’d asked them each for a piece of fabric. The largest part was made with Qabila and Zainab’s baby clothes and matching Eid dresses. Right at the centre she’d assembled pieces of her own life: the white satin of her afternoon wedding dress, the lilac satin of the morning dress. Clothes from her childhood. Her maternity wear and, in the very middle, a tiny square of turquoise cotton. It was the dress she’d worn the day she started the quilt, carefully cut from a generous hem. She’d worn that same dress the day she left him. They each had a piece of that dress in their quilts.

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:10:04.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

When Saleigha finished, she looked at Ariefa and repeated: ‘You took the right thing.’ Saleigha hugged her granny’s quilt and then handed it to Ariefa who shook her head, ‘I have mine inside,’ she said. ‘I know,’ Saleigha said, ‘but Ouma used a quilt to remind her of who she was. Keep it until you find your own thing to remind you, so you never get lost again.’ ‘My own thing?’ Ariefa asked. Saleigha looked pensive. ‘Ouma always said you must learn to make things. It doesn’t matter what. Food, clothes, quilts.’ She smiled and pointed at herself. ‘That’s why I’m going to make bridges.’ They all laughed. Then her words slowed, her brow furrowed, her look became intense. ‘You need to find something to make. Something beautiful. To show yourself that you can bring things into the world, from inside yourself. Be a creator, it’s how Allah speaks through you. So you know the world doesn’t only do things to you. You have the power to do things to the world, too.’ ‘Your Ouma was very wise,’ Qabila said. ‘I wish there’d been time for me to have the conversations you had with her.’ She hugged Saleigha. ‘Thank you for carrying our history.’ Her voice broke. ‘I’m not going to wait another day. I’m fetching my quilt out of storage when I leave here.’ She looked at Ariefa. ‘We’ll find our way back together.’ As Zainab got up, she knocked over a glass. It shattered into tiny pieces as it hit the floor. ‘What now?’ she said, grabbing a handful of serviettes to mop up the spill. They dropped from her hands. ‘Saleigha, go fetch the broom,’ she ordered. She and Ariefa bent to pick up the bigger pieces of glass, carefully placing them on the table. ‘Ouma broke the glass.’ Fahiem’s eyes were large. ‘It’s a balaa out of the house,’ Osman told him. ‘Something bad has left the house. It’s a good thing. A blessing.’ Fahiem looked at his plate, his eyes twinkling with possibility. Osman laughed. ‘Oh no. Only if it’s an accident.’ Osman lifted him out of the high chair, hugging him tight. ‘Everything’s going to be okay.’ He walked over to Ariefa and rubbed her back, his eyes never leaving Zainab, still gathering the pieces of glass. Her movements were jerky. She looked as if every certainty that had guided her life had fled. ‘Everything’s going to be okay,’ he repeated.’ Ariefa took her father’s hand and held it tightly for a minute, her eyes full of tears. ‘I’m sorry for all the trouble,’ she said quickly. Before they had a chance to respond, she picked up the computer. ‘I’m going to speak to Firdous,’ she said and left the room, trailing the quilt behind her.

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:10:04.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

Zainab began to follow her. ‘Los haar,’ Osman said. Zainab looked at him, angry and helpless at the same time. And then sank into Ariefa’s chair. ‘I’m going to help Saleigha,’ Kobus said, and fled in the direction of the kitchen. ‘I want to go with Mommy,’ Fahiem said, trying to wiggle out of Osman’s arms. ‘No, let Mommy go. There’s glass on the floor. Saleigha, waar is daai besem?’ he shouted. They just sat there. Ariefa’s story reverberating in the silence. Qabila wanted to cry. She’d been struggling to hold onto her composure ever since she got there. She’d done what she always did and retreated into silence, making space for everyone else to express their emotions while she carefully pruned her feelings. It was harder than it used to be. So she let the emotions flow through her. She wanted to scream into the silence. Rend it with her rage and helplessness, and vow to protect these people she loved with every breath. She wanted to go to Riedwaan’s house and beat him, and make him feel everything he’d made her niece feel. She needed to leave. ‘I’m going to fetch my quilt,’ she said, injecting equanimity into her voice, struggling to fill the cracks where the unruly emotions leaked through. Saleigha came into the room with a broom then, Kobus trailing behind her. Her bloodshot eyes were angry. ‘Take the dishes to the kitchen,’ she told Kobus while she swept up the glass. ‘I’m going to kill him,’ she whispered at them fiercely. ‘Make him eat this glass.’ Her face lit up with vengeful glee. ‘Will you help me, Kobus?’ she asked. He looked startled, his hands full of dirty plates, and then nodded. ‘We can roll him in the glass,’ he offered helpfully. She followed him out with the broom and scoop, the two of them whispering revenge fantasies. ‘Ek sal hulle join,’ Osman said, shaking his head. Zainab nodded absently, her face empty and slack. ‘I’m going to go with Qabila,’ she said suddenly. ‘Ek moet uit die huis uitkom.’ ‘Gaan maar, ek is orraait hier,’ Osman said. Zainab sighed deeply, and then halfheartedly hustled Qabila out the door. At the storage place, they leaned into each other as they walked until they got to her locker. ‘It’s haram to have so many things that you need to store it away,’ Zainab said tiredly. ‘Especially in this country.’ Qabila just nodded. It hadn’t been so long ago that she’d packed all her superfluous things in here, and already she’d forgotten how much there was. And what there was. ‘Maybe if Ariefa gets her own place, she can have some of this,’ she said.

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:10:04.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

‘She’s going to stay with us,’ Zainab said. ‘Osman can build on in the back for her and Fahiem, so they can have privacy. I don’t know. We haven’t thought that far yet.’ She sighed. ‘I just needed to get out of there. She’s my child. I had that dream about them, remember, with the hair?’ Qabila hugged Zainab. ‘We knew something was wrong, but we didn’t know how bad it was. How could we have known? That story, Zainab … I thought it was bad like me and Rashid, not like Mommy and Daddy.’ ‘Ja Allah, ja Allah,’ Zainab said. ‘I didn’t want that for my girls. I never dreamed that would be waiting for any of them.’ Zainab was sitting on a dining chair, the ornate woodwork dull with dust. Qabila started to look through the boxes. She was glad she’d insisted that everything be precisely labelled and turned so the labels faced out. Even though the moving men had been professional, she knew they’d been annoyed. On top of a stack of boxes, she found the vacuum-sealed bag labelled Bedding: Habib, Mommy, guest room. She carefully pulled it down and unzipped it. The contents breathing and expanding as the bag opened. ‘Do you remember Mommy said when she told her parents they told her to go back home?’ Qabila said. ‘That he was her husband. Ariefa came home and you didn’t turn her away. It’s not your fault. This country has millions of women who get beaten, and millions of men who beat the women they love, who love them. There are lots of broken people. We’re all broken.’ She pulled the quilt her mother had made her out of the bag. Habib’s favourite little comforter came out along with it. Her mother had made it too. She stroked it; it could go on her couch. ‘He kicked her like she was a dog and made her sleep outside. And that was just one incident. How many times did he hurt my child? How could I have let him into our house, into our life?’ Zainab wailed. Qabila stopped trying to push the other bedding back down so she could zip up the bag. She pulled up a chair next to Zainab and held her. The sound of Zainab’s grief unlocked her own and she let go of the attempt to control her anger and pain. She cried for Zainab, for her niece, her nephew, her parents and for herself. When their tears were spent, they left the dusty storeroom, with all its treasures of a life she’d mostly let go of. On the drive back, Zainab said: ‘He didn’t beat you, Qabila, but maybe some of what he did was just as bad. He made you beat yourself up. Made you feel like you didn’t deserve to be loved fully. All your scars are on the inside.’

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:10:04.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

‘I don’t know, Zainab. I was there too. I saw this poster once, it said: We accept the love we think we deserve. We both tried to find love, a way to be tender after Daddy, but we went in different directions. You never forgot Daddy and looked for his opposite. I chased the feeling of excitement and tried to make a fantasy real, in order to forget Daddy. I think Rashid did the same thing, played out the fantasy instead of learning to love fully; he never had the courage to love Thandi openly. It was all excuses – his mother, Faghria, me, Habib.’ She hunched over the steering wheel. ‘He lost, too. All those unhappy years. Fighting for something he didn’t want so he could hide. Sometimes we get so trapped in the pretence, the fantasies of tenderness, that we can’t imagine choosing differently.’ She sighed. ‘We all chose different ways to tenderness. Different ways to soothe our fears. The girls are going to do that too. You can’t control it, Zainab. You can only give them a way to come home if they lose their way.’ She lay her mother’s quilt on her bed that night. Her last thought before sleep claimed her was that her niece was safe, and that her mother’s quilts proved there could be healing.

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:10:04.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

Allegro

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:10:04.

Chapter 22

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

On a hot humid night when she missed having a pool in the backyard and the closeness of her flat felt like a punishment, she had the dream again. There was a single point of light in a deep darkness. At its centre, a barstool and a mike. A young woman who looked like Ariefa appeared out of the darkness. She was followed by Qabila’s students, who arranged themselves in a semicircle behind her. Ariefa, head wrapped in a black scarf, was wearing a glistening black-and-white gown that bared her right shoulder. The black form-fitting skirt contrasted with the white top. The other young women wore identical dresses and scarves, but completely black. The young men were dressed in black tuxedos, their bright white shirts matching white fezzes. There wasn’t a breath of wind, and yet the air was cool. A deep stillness filled the space. To the side of the large group under the spotlight, the darkness lifted slowly to twilight and revealed a full orchestra whose instruments glowed in the gloom. Everywhere else, darkness. It was not the darkness of fear. The darkness was intimate, alive, cocooning something wondrous. A deep, lush note hung in the air. Ariefa stepped forward, and accompanied by the orchestra she began to sing: To live is to be free of the spell To be free of the spell is to claim a spell of your own To spell is to bespell and to bespell is to unmake the world

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:10:04.

Unspell Bespell Spell

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

Her voice was playful. Soulful. The words tripping out. The student choir joined in. Bright gold musical notes danced in the darkness like stars. Qabila didn’t know when Ariefa melted into the student choir, there was just someone else in the lead singer’s dress, and then a young man in a white tuxedo with a black fez was leading the song. Their voices different, they each got a turn to sing and sing and sing the song that united them in complete harmony. It seemed as if every person Qabila had ever known moved out of the choir to take their turn leading the song. And then the air grew still once more and the spotlight found her in the darkness. She began to sing. Change kept rippling through her waking life. She began to admit her anger, and respond with the truth of who she was in the moment. She used her anger like fuel for the life she wanted. She didn’t rest in the fire of rage though. She’d lived there too well after Habib died. Back then, rage had scoured desire from her, leaving her in a scorched landscape that didn’t support a lush life. Now she used anger as a guide to the life she wanted, refusing to endure the people and things and thoughts that didn’t nourish. She no longer needed to prove she had the capacity to endure, to survive. She already knew that. Her whole life had been about surviving. Surviving violence and neglect and colossal loss and rejection and fear and contempt and all the things that made her skulk in the shadows. Instead, her anger now pointed to the things that would allow her to thrive, and showed the boundaries that made her soul burn. She started giving her colleague Peter short shrift. He made her nerve endings feel raw every time he entered a room and brayed some inappropriate remark or other, his racism always wrapped in liberal language. He believed in freedom of expression all right – his right to express how low the standards of black people in power were. His right to silence others and demand to be heard. She’d endured his rages and bullying for years, shrugging it off as the price of inhabiting the rarefied atmosphere of academia. She used to smile vacuously and leave at the earliest opportunity, or respond with something politely innocuous. She was as surprised as the rest of her colleagues when she heard herself saying in a committee meeting, after he’d asked what the boys from Rylands would think about a proposal: ‘Calling black scholars girls and boys does not make you seem familiar but rather

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:10:04.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

like an infantilising racist. Stop that.’ There was a heavy beat of silence in the room before Peter erupted the way he was wont to do. The way his whiteness allowed him to respond, without fear of being called an out-of-control savage. His face was florid, spittle flying. Hands cocked at his sides, he berated her: ‘Why would you say something so stupid? You are so sensitive. Always looking for racism. Me? Racist? I have done lots of anti-racist work, worked for transformation. My record stands for itself. And this is the thanks I get. You can’t understand racism if you think I’m racist. What are you teaching your students? This kind of ridiculous reaction is why we are still where we are now.’ He looked around the room, inviting her colleagues to agree with his assessment. She didn’t feel involved in his tirade. Not the way she’d felt before, when she’d distanced herself to silence the fury and hurt. She felt quiet, peaceful. Calmly gathering her things, she got up. He was screaming about her being out of order. Where did she think she was going? They were meeting. She was insubordinate. Ignoring him and addressing her colleagues, she said, ‘We do not get paid for this. And until we as a group hold each other accountable for our violences, we will continue to endure the indignities visited on us by the Peters of the world. I’m tired of being complicit with his and others’ cruelty. How many years are we going to put up with his inability to regulate his emotions? How long will we grant him the entitlement to misbehave, which he clearly believes he deserves? Because if we cannot get this right, how we deal with each other, what business do we have teaching a new generation how to imagine a better world? While we have to struggle to be polite, he has no problem being racist.’ Her colleagues started gathering their things too as she made her way out the door. She followed it up with a formal complaint to her Dean, and lobbied her colleagues to commit to keeping him accountable. She spent hours relearning how to talk to herself with kindness and compassion. She found, when she changed how she spoke about herself, some friends, colleagues and acquaintances started leaving her life. The bullies who littered her life started to exit as she claimed a space right next to them, staring them in the eye. Without the fuel of her own self-loathing and contempt, the relationships died. She sloughed old relationships off like a skin that didn’t fit. Her already narrow life became narrower still. It was not an easy time. Like muscles that were long disused, the full flow of feeling came in fits and starts. The small conflagrations of relationships that could not be repaired scared her. Her old habits protested and snuck back when she forgot to hold herself accountable for the joy in her day. Like a mountain fire that left a charred landscape behind, the sense of desolation would overwhelm her at times.

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:10:04.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

She leaned on Zainab and the children. Some days, all she could tell herself was that she needed to be what she desired for her nieces. She spent a lot of time with Ariefa, going on long drives around Chapman’s Peak. At their favourite lookout point, where the mountain curved, they’d stare at the deep blue ocean until the sun hovered on the horizon, painting the sky with pink, orange and purple candyfloss clouds while they talked about the violence that had slowly strangled them and who they longed to be. They allowed themselves to be seen by each other as fully as they knew how, sharing hurts and desires they’d kept locked and hidden. Often Zainab joined them, and stories she never knew she carried made their way into the space between them. Hers were not stories of longing for love, but of a world that reminded her over and over again that she was born in a skin that determined what she received. Zainab’s tales contained people who assumed she was negligible, battered and abused because she wore her faith proudly and felt beautiful in her scarves and long dresses. How their voices would slow and become louder. How the young women in what used to be white people’s malls would roll their eyes or pretend not to see her, or worse, follow her around and mutter things about a doekie gang. Qabila, her sister and niece unravelled their shame word by word and bore witness as faithfully as they could. And they cheered when Ariefa reapplied to university to become a psychologist. Celebrated her watchful niece when she started to laugh louder, to play and open up. Watching Ariefa change, Qabila began to see herself anew. There were many Peters, not all of them white and not all male. Some of her male colleagues still thought the presence of women in the academy was a fad. But after her showdown with Peter, one of her female colleagues invited her to attend a lunch-time meeting. The room was full of women, all black, all burnished with a glow that no amount of Peters would extinguish. They met regularly to commiserate, celebrate and just be. She found that in that room of powerful women, she did not need to shrink into a corner. When she laughed in the new friendships that bloomed, her joy reached deep into her belly and her nerve endings came alive. Whatever the sharing, good or bad, she would feel whole in a way that made the world not only bearable but a marvellous adventure. As she began to show herself, other invites arrived to pull her into different communities and aspects of who she was becoming. She fought with God till she trusted that, no matter its expression, her faith would bear her. She danced with deep abandon, welcoming whatever and whoever came into the dance. She read her fighting words, her healing words. Ariefa’s joy at being a student made her want to be one too.

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:10:04.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

She returned often to her teenage journals, and made a list of all the things she’d wanted to do that had slipped away, abraded by a world that was determined to tell her who she could not be. There were things she couldn’t change. The wedding. The way motherhood had unfolded. She could learn another language, but chose to forego the French she dreamed of speaking as a child trained to worship everything European, and started Xhosa classes instead. And asked Saleigha to help her relearn Afrikaaps. She had the dream of her singing the song on stage again. The next day, while shopping for groceries at Checkers, she moved as if still caught in the dream. She felt buoyant and full of joy, even in the midst of this most mundane of tasks. ‘I heard you singing that song at the bakery counter,’ the man in front of her in the queue said. He was a little taller than she was, his bespectacled face kindly. She smiled, ‘I hadn’t realised I was singing.’ ‘What’s the name of the song? Not that I want an earworm,’ he laughed. ‘It doesn’t have a name, it’s not even really a song. I’m the only person who knows it.’ ‘Sounds like a song to me. Don’t tell me, you’re a songwriter,’ he teased. The queue moved forward and he turned to take a step toward the till. She shook her head at his back. ‘No, no not really.’ There was only one person ahead of him now. He leaned his foot on the little shopping cart, one eye on her and another on the short line. ‘So, let me understand this,’ he said. His face was lined in all the right places, creasing at the corners of his eyes. ‘The song doesn’t exist, and you’re singing it?’ She laughed. ‘I guess. I’ve been dreaming this “song”’ – she made air quotes, inviting him to laugh with her – ‘for almost two years now.’ He didn’t laugh. ‘So you’re telling me your muse has been calling you for two years, and you deny her when she’s recognised in public?’ His face was creased in other places now, the two little lines on his forehead furrowed. He seemed genuinely interested in her response. Qabila laughed. ‘I don’t know about that,’ she muttered. ‘I don’t write music.’ She could feel herself blushing. The cashier winked at her, her eyebrows an exaggerated arc pointing at him. Qabila gestured towards the till, letting the man know it was his turn to unpack his shopping on the conveyor belt. He greeted the cashier with a ‘How are you?’ She looked at the neck of his khaki T-shirt, where the crease of skin met sandy brown hair. Politely waiting her turn, she wanted to laugh at her own reaction: both relieved and a little distressed that his attention was not entirely taken up by her. Chatting to the cashier and packer, he focused on unloading his groceries and taking out his shiny gold credit card.

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:10:04.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

She returned often to her teenage journals, and made a list of all the things she’d wanted to do that had slipped away, abraded by a world that was determined to tell her who she could not be. There were things she couldn’t change. The wedding. The way motherhood had unfolded. She could learn another language, but chose to forego the French she dreamed of speaking as a child trained to worship everything European, and started Xhosa classes instead. And asked Saleigha to help her relearn Afrikaaps. She had the dream of her singing the song on stage again. The next day, while shopping for groceries at Checkers, she moved as if still caught in the dream. She felt buoyant and full of joy, even in the midst of this most mundane of tasks. ‘I heard you singing that song at the bakery counter,’ the man in front of her in the queue said. He was a little taller than she was, his bespectacled face kindly. She smiled, ‘I hadn’t realised I was singing.’ ‘What’s the name of the song? Not that I want an earworm,’ he laughed. ‘It doesn’t have a name, it’s not even really a song. I’m the only person who knows it.’ ‘Sounds like a song to me. Don’t tell me, you’re a songwriter,’ he teased. The queue moved forward and he turned to take a step toward the till. She shook her head at his back. ‘No, no not really.’ There was only one person ahead of him now. He leaned his foot on the little shopping cart, one eye on her and another on the short line. ‘So, let me understand this,’ he said. His face was lined in all the right places, creasing at the corners of his eyes. ‘The song doesn’t exist, and you’re singing it?’ She laughed. ‘I guess. I’ve been dreaming this “song”’ – she made air quotes, inviting him to laugh with her – ‘for almost two years now.’ He didn’t laugh. ‘So you’re telling me your muse has been calling you for two years, and you deny her when she’s recognised in public?’ His face was creased in other places now, the two little lines on his forehead furrowed. He seemed genuinely interested in her response. Qabila laughed. ‘I don’t know about that,’ she muttered. ‘I don’t write music.’ She could feel herself blushing. The cashier winked at her, her eyebrows an exaggerated arc pointing at him. Qabila gestured towards the till, letting the man know it was his turn to unpack his shopping on the conveyor belt. He greeted the cashier with a ‘How are you?’ She looked at the neck of his khaki T-shirt, where the crease of skin met sandy brown hair. Politely waiting her turn, she wanted to laugh at her own reaction: both relieved and a little distressed that his attention was not entirely taken up by her. Chatting to the cashier and packer, he focused on unloading his groceries and taking out his shiny gold credit card.

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:12:16.

He commiserated about the holiday rush and the heat, and when business was concluded and his bagged groceries were neatly packed in his trolley, he wished them a wonderful day. Then he turned to Qabila and said, ‘I have to get back. It’s my daughter’s birthday and they’re waiting on me.’ Qabila kept moving her things to the conveyor belt, smiling at him, not quite sure where he was going with this. ‘I teach art at Bellville Library,’ he said. ‘One of my students teaches music.’ He was poking around in his wallet now, and handed her a business card. Richard Marsden, Art instructor it said, with his contact details. ‘Send me a mail. I’ll put you in touch with him. Keep singing that song,’ he smiled, ‘and don’t ever deny the muse in public.’ He raised his hands in mock horror, shaking his head. The strange encounter with the man who believed in muses would not be shaken. She felt silly when she sent him an email a week later. He responded the same day with the email address of a Johannes van Lodewyk. The name made her chuckle. It was all so silly. Mr Johannes van Lodewyk would give her one look and tell her not to waste her time or his. She dreamed the song every night after she received his name. Every night the same dream. A lead singer. A full choir and orchestra with golden notes floating in the air. The faces changed, the order of singers changed, but everything else stayed the same. Well, except for the growing insistence, and the darkness becoming less peaceful and intimate. After two weeks, the darkness felt suffocating, as if it was screaming at her. And so she wrote to him.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

Dear Mr van Lodewyk I received your name from Richard Marsden. He said you teach music. I would like to learn how to write songs. Is this something you can teach? I do not play an instrument. I have some lyrics and tunes in my head which I can sing … badly. Please advise. Best regards Qabila She tried to distract herself while she waited for a reply. Made more lists of things to do. Tried to work on a journal article. Called Zainab. Chatted to Ariefa. Skyped with Firdous. Went shopping with Saleigha. Made travel plans. Spent two hours learning more Xhosa words. And checked her phone every three minutes. He responded two tiring days later. Her

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:12:16.

heart sank when she saw the mail – she knew he was going to say no. He wouldn’t have taken that long to respond to her if he wanted her business. Hello Qabila The world needs lyrics. There are musicians who are desperate for people who write lyrics who have tunes in their head, and singers … who are waiting to sing those songs!!! Can I teach you? Yes!!! And I can introduce you to people to make music with. We must get those songs out of your head, more room for new ones ☺, so they can be sung and played. I’m in Namaqualand for the holidays. I will be back 15 January. I’m going to have a beginning of the year jam at my house that weekend, please come!!! I’ve attached the invitation, bring a friend or two. Lesson One: You can hear the different kinds of sounds and if there are musicians and singers whose sounds you like, we can jam out your tunes. Write more songs! Have a fantastic Xmas and a Happy New Year. This year is going to be musically magical!

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

Yours in song Johannes Qabila read and reread the email. She looked at the invitation. The party was in Kraaifontein and looked as if it was going to go on for the whole weekend. She couldn’t believe he’d written back. Never mind that he sounded enthusiastic. Write more lyrics, he said. She’d dreamed these ones – how was she supposed to write more? She hadn’t tried to write a song in years and these were just a few lines, not even a full song. She added Work on writing song lyrics (15 mins) to the list on her fridge. Before she started dancing a few nights later, she took out a pen and a heavy, ornate journal with thick creamy paper she’d purchased for her songwriting. Slowly, the lyrics that haunted her were written down. She hummed and sang. It could be a chorus. Every night she worked on the lyrics. Or rather tried to. She felt silly and stupid. There was something about trying to write this song that made her sweat and her stomach churn and her mouth go dry. She found herself playing little games to delay sitting down with the black-and-gold journal. Her body dragged a little when she did her nightly dance, every limb heavy, as if song lyrics could be found attached to a ball and chain. One night, she couldn’t dance at all. So she just lay there

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:12:16.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

feeling hopeless, the music blaring in the background. Why could she not write a song like the one that was playing? Real songwriters knew how to do it. Who was she to think she could write songs? Songs?! A girl from the Cape Flats – that’s what her father had said all those years ago. Do you think George Michael wants anything from a slamse girlie from the Flats? That’s what happened the last time she tried to write a song. Just because she’d snuck into the university didn’t mean she could suddenly be a songwriter. Lying there, she heard herself. The unkindness, the cruelty. She would never speak to a student this way. Why was she speaking to herself like this? All the reading she’d done in the last few months came together. This is what we learn. How to hate ourselves. How to doubt and fear. And so we stop ourselves before we enter the gate. We don’t allow ourselves the freedom to learn. To struggle to learn. Struggling to learn is a privilege of those who are taught they’re entitled to be whatever they want. They’re allowed to take as many paths as necessary to learn, without fearing that they’re simply not good enough when they fail. Whereas people who’ve been taught that they’re incapable and inferior because of the colour of their skin think that if they fail, they cannot learn; that new skills should come effortlessly or not at all. If you cannot fail, you cannot learn. To be born into a cannibalised people is to fear failure so much that you don’t even try, because you ventriloquise racist bureaucrats’ imaginings of who you should be. And then you stop trying, and you make yourself invisible. Confirming the lies you were taught. She allowed herself for those fifteen minutes every night to struggle, searching for words to add to the song that had woken her from her ghostlike existence. Nothing came. And every day she thought of how to heal this desire for invisibility. If invisibility was the price of never failing, then maybe the cure lay in being seen. A few days later as she was driving to work, thinking of what she’d wanted for her marriage, a tune and a lyric came to her: Look at me Tell me that you see me Look at me Tell me that you love me Look at me Look at me

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:12:16.

She hummed the tune all day and, word by word, note by note, it started to take shape. That night she went home and rewrote the lyrics into her fancy journal from the pieces of scrap paper she had scribbled on all day.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

I cannot abide the life that you dreamt for me I will not reside in a house that was not built for me I let it all go All of the dreams that filled me To give you your due And still you could not fulfil me Chorus: Look at me Tell me that you see me Look at me Tell me that you love me Look at me Tell me that you need me Look at me Look at me Some nights she’d add a line, others two or three. She learned to carry a little notebook with her. The lines would come when she least expected them – in the middle of a meeting or in the shower or when she was praying or talking. She changed a word here or there, and she sang it everywhere she went. On the day of the party, she felt nervous and scared. What if she made a fool of herself and people thought the song was stupid? And she still hadn’t managed to finish the other song, the one she’d been dreaming. There was a field opposite the house in Kraaifontein where she parked her car. It looked like there were quite a few people already. She would just introduce herself, stay for an hour and then leave if she was too uncomfortable. The sound of a melancholy violin floated on the air, and as she drew nearer, a saxophone, a guitar, a piano. They all seemed to be telling their own stories, yet blending together in a harmonious whole. A young woman with long dark hair that swayed as she walked opened the door and security gate, a warm smile inviting Qabila in.

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:12:16.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

‘Hi. Melissa,’ she said introducing herself. Qabila responded and said, ‘Johannes invited me.’ Melissa smiled. ‘He’s in the back working out a song with Thando and Jimmy.’ A saxophone trumpeted out a few hard powerful notes and then the violin joined in, raw and raunchy. ‘That’s them,’ Melissa said. Qabila nodded, taking in the colourful living room. The walls were covered with photographs of musicians and prints of concerts and jam sessions. ‘This is Qabila,’ Melissa told three men huddled around guitars. They paused their strumming to greet her before their fingers started picking out a tune again. A woman was singing in the dining room accompanied by a man on a piano, her light voice finding notes in a heavenly ether. Qabila could hear deep, husky voices down the passage, rocking out with lots of bass. She could see into the yard through the sliding doors. It looked like a green wonderland. There were people sprawled on blankets on the grass and tucked into little treed nooks. Some had instruments, and they were all watching the band on the paved patio. There were drums, a piano, music stands and a tall barstool. ‘I’ve never met Johannes,’ Qabila said to Melissa, her voice quavering ever so slightly. She’d begun to feel foolish for being here. These people all looked serious about music. Why was she here? She didn’t know anyone. She’d greet this Johannes and leave as soon as possible. ‘That’s him.’ Melissa pointed at a short black man in faded jeans and a white T-shirt sitting on a blanket, with a billowing orange scarf around his shoulders. He wasn’t what she’d expected. Eyes closed, listening with rapt attention. A hand tugging at a tight curl, pulling and releasing. The other hand floating in the air, dancing gracefully in tune to the music. ‘Come, I’ll introduce you,’ Melissa said. ‘He looks busy,’ Qabila waved her hand. ‘He won’t mind,’ Melissa said and walked over to him too quickly for Qabila to demur. ‘This is Qabila, she wants to meet you,’ Melissa said, plopping down on the blanket next to him. ‘Hello. Sit, sit,’ he mouthed and put his finger over his lips and pointed at the band, who were still in the middle of their song. He smiled and closed his eyes again. Qabila sat there awkwardly. When the song ended, he jumped up, clapping. ‘Bravo, bravo!’ He quickly turned to her and said, ‘Don’t go anywhere.’ The band huddled around him, his hands flying as he talked. She was surprised when he pointed at her. ‘Did you bring lyrics?’

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:12:16.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

She nodded, her mouth dry. ‘Excellent,’ he clapped. ‘Come, come!’ He motioned to Melissa, gave Qabila his hand to pull her up, and dragged her over to the band. ‘Guys, this is Qabila. Qabila, on the sax is Bobby. The genius on drums is Maseko. On the bass guitar we have Amelia, and keyboards is Mustapha. And this woman standing here has the voice of an angel,’ he said, pointing at Melissa. ‘Qabila has lyrics.’ Their eyes lit up and they all murmured excitedly. ‘Can we hear it?’ Mustapha asked. Qabila felt as if she was in the centre of a whirlwind. ‘I don’t know, I’ve never done this before.’ ‘No time like the present,’ Maseko said, with a drum roll that made her smile despite her tight stomach and the fluttering in her throat. ‘It’s just one song,’ she muttered. ‘The other one wouldn’t … there’s just one verse for that.’ She took the book with lyrics out, fiddling with the cover, not meeting any of their eyes. Melissa touched her arm gently and said, ‘Can I see it, please?’ Qabila handed the book to her. She wanted to flee. Were they really going to look her song over in front of everyone? ‘I thought I was going to be able to listen and choose,’ she said to Johannes. The note of accusation sharper than she’d intended. He looked at her, his face solemn. ‘If you didn’t want to hear your words sung, you wouldn’t be here. This is hard.’ He gestured around him, at the band. ‘As a black person, putting your words, your music into the world is hard. Some of us would never do it if we didn’t have support. The world has lost enough songs, don’t you think?’ His voice was soft. ‘Just for today, I’m asking you to trust me. I know you have no reason to. Tomorrow I’ll work on earning it. What do you have to lose?’ He smiled wryly, his shoulders lifting slightly. The air felt heavy, Qabila looked at their expectant faces. He was right – she didn’t have anything to lose. For a moment, she imagined them singing her words and the feeling in her stomach released its grip. ‘How will you know what music to play?’ she asked, proud that her voice had managed to squeak out at all. ‘How we do this usually,’ Mustapha said, ‘is the lyricist sings the tune, the melody; we add the notes.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s a process.’ Qabila laughed nervously. ‘I have a terrible voice.’ ‘As long as you can hold the melody, it doesn’t matter,’ Melissa said. ‘And if you had a great voice, you wouldn’t need me, now would you?’

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:12:16.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

Qabila swallowed. Johannes gave her a bottle of water off the top of the piano. She opened the book and sang, her voice quavering, in fitful starts. Every time she dropped the melody or had to struggle to find it, she looked for derision. The serious concentration on their faces never changed. She felt as if she’d run a marathon when she reached the last word. ‘Wow,’ Johannes breathed. They looked at each other and smiled. ‘Those lyrics are …’ Maseko shook his head. ‘Powerful,’ Amelia said. It was the first time she’d spoken. The others nodded and repeated it, ‘Powerful.’ ‘Can you run it through for us again?’ Amelia’s voice was serious, businesslike. Qabila nodded shyly and started to sing again. Melissa hummed along. Amelia started to follow the tune on the second line, the guitar sweet, the notes low and long. One by one, each instrument joined her singing. She knew she couldn’t quite reach the notes, but she forgot about the people sitting around or that she didn’t know any of the people bringing her words to life. She just sang. She felt light as a feather when she got to the end, beaming at everyone. They smiled. Gentle. Fierce. Warm. Loving. ‘One more time, please,’ Melissa asked. Qabila started again, each of the band’s instruments and her voice surer. She forgot herself. There was nothing but the music and the melody and the words that wove it all together. Melissa nodded when she got to the end and reached over and hugged her. Qabila laughed, feeling free. ‘May I?’ Melissa asked, pointing at the book. Qabila smiled and handed it over to her. Johannes took Qabila’s arm and pulled her off to the side. She felt a little bereft. ‘Your words are the centre,’ he whispered in her ear. ‘Now let them polish the details. Listen. If there are notes you want changed, remember where and you can describe it to them.’ She looked at him. She wanted to be back in the centre, singing with them. And then they started playing. Melissa’s voice soaring, telling the song’s story with a depth and clarity Qabila knew she would not be able to match. She let the song go. Her work with it was done. It was for others now. Johannes was watching her. A slow smile on his face as the first tear fell. She smiled at him, unashamedly wiping her face. She didn’t try to stop the laughter bubbling up. None of the band was looking at her and she was glad. She felt as if a magical circuit had been ignited, from her to the band and to the audience, who were clearly enjoying the song. When the silence hummed and their instruments came to rest, the band approached her

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:12:16.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

slowly. Melissa trailed behind. ‘What do you think?’ Amelia asked. ‘I don’t have words,’ Qabila said. ‘It was … I can’t explain.’ ‘Did you like what we did with it?’ Melissa asked. ‘Yes, yes, yes, yes. For a moment, I wanted to be in the centre singing again – until I heard what you can do with it. I didn’t know that letting go of it could feel this good.’ She laughed. They each touched her very softly as they passed, smiling a thanks. Qabila had never felt this connected to anyone before, never mind strangers. If they’d mocked her, they could have broken this part of her that had just begun to heal. ‘Is it good?’ she couldn’t resist asking. She thought she knew the answer, but had to dispel the doubts. ‘Crazy good,’ Mustapha responded. ‘Fucking A, it is good!’ said Maseko, and they laughed. Johannes squeezed her arm, and in a mock-stern voice to the band said, ‘You got work to do. We’ll record it in studio tomorrow. If it’s okay with you?’ he asked Qabila. Before she could respond, he shooed the band back to their instruments again. They grumbled laughingly, and while they settled in, Qabila asked, ‘What do you mean?’ ‘We’ll record it tomorrow while we have everyone here,’ he said. ‘It can get difficult sometimes to arrange all our schedules to be in the same place. The day jobs,’ and he shook his head. They were starting to play the song again. Qabila hadn’t thought that their first performance could be made better, but after the first few notes, albeit slight, she heard a definite improvement. ‘We’ll talk about the business end of things over the next few weeks,’ Johannes said. ‘It’s very important. Especially for us black people, you know. Record companies might try to get you to give it away and make a fortune off you. And if that,’ he pointed at the band, ‘is your first real attempt at songwriting, you’ll need to get clued up on intellectual property.’ Looking at her, he laughed. ‘No need to frown, we’re just going to record a demo.’ The rest of the day passed in a blur. They practised the song a few more times. Each time, Qabila thought they couldn’t be better. That night she found her fifteen minutes writing in the black-and-gold journal stretching for almost three hours. When she returned bleary-eyed at nine in the morning the next day, Johannes led her to a studio. A painting of workers in a nightmarish vineyard dominated the room. She watched as Johannes fiddled with dials on equipment she’d only seen in movies as they layered the

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:12:16.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

performances. She didn’t know what was happening, and was both stimulated and frightened by the newness. Johannes never stopped moving. The easy-going man disappeared, replaced by an exacting taskmaster. She was almost afraid to tell him she had another song during one of his short breaks, and was disappointed when he just nodded and smiled perfunctorily. What happened to being at the centre? When they were finally finished and the recorded version was played, Qabila could barely believe that the song had started in her little apartment. Johannes was leaning back, eyes closed, the band spread across the room, all of them listening intently. When the final note stopped playing, Johannes looked at them each in turn and bowed solemnly. The atmosphere felt sacred. They congratulated each other, hugged and laughed and played ‘Look at Me’ a few more times. When the magic they had created together had softened and released them just a little, Johannes called for silence. ‘Qabila has written another song,’ he said with such relish that she laughed. Her relief dizzying. ‘Whoohoo!’ they whooped at the news. Johannes quieted them down again. ‘We did good work today. When can we all meet? Let’s set a date.’ And they did. Johannes gave her a CD and a little USB drive in the shape of a guitar. ‘Play this when you’re not sure if you have what it takes and when the muse gets demanding. We all need reminders,’ he said. ‘We’ve set our date to record the next song, now we need to set a date for just the two of us. I will teach you the theory. We already know you have that magical thing that cannot be taught.’ ‘I feel overwhelmed,’ Qabila said. She pointed at the room and the band. They were packing their instruments away and chatting light-heartedly, the way people do after they have pulled together and created something they’re proud of. ‘I don’t know why I’m even doing this,’ she laughed. ‘I’ve had this dream for over two years now with this one verse. Over and over. I thought it was a poem until I dreamed a melody. But I haven’t been able to write any other verses. I can’t be much of a songwriter if the verse that haunts me can’t become a completed song.’ Johannes looked at her. ‘The problem with the world today,’ he said, ‘is we have this idea that everything we create must become an achievement. Something for others to applaud. Maybe the purpose of that verse was to get you here. To open you to songwriting. And that’s just the beginning. A creative life blooms when we commit to creating something that gives us joy.’ Qabila smiled and rubbed her forehead. ‘I’m not really creative,’ she said. ‘It’s just this

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:12:16.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

dream, the same words over and over, the same song. Just different environments. And after I have the dream, I can’t shake it for days.’ Johannes frowned. ‘We are all creative. Every single one of us. It is how we thrive. When we create beauty in the world. When we are generous with who we are and our stories and our songs and our tastes and our colours and how we put together our homes and our clothes. I see this all the time with my students, especially when they’re older, and in our communities …’ He shook his head. ‘For so many years, all our creativity was geared to supporting white lives; cooks, artisans, singers, painters, dressmakers. All the colour was leached from our world so that the best parts of us could be used to service white cities. If we could be convinced we had no beauty moving in our souls, then we could be directed to any end. And we believed. We hurt and maim each other so we can feel that we have an effect on the world, instead of taking that energy and making beautiful things together. And so many of us believe we are not creative. But we are. I want you to do something,’ he said. ‘Take a seat.’ Qabila felt foolish but sat anyway. She was learning to really like Johannes. It was strange for her to trust so easily. There was an earnest realness here that made her feel wide open, soft and easy in her vulnerability. She had not seen the relentless competitiveness of the university, just people with different talents and skills coming together to make music. The end result belonging to them all as equals. Johannes fiddled with his equipment and she immediately recognised the opening to her song playing. He sat down on the ragged red velvet sofa next to her. He leaned back, picked up her hand and held it lightly. Every now and then he would squeeze it. The earlier sense of celebration and the fizz of excitement dissipated. She had done this, been part of this. They were her words and she heard each one. She felt small, sitting there listening to her words transformed. She remembered the years of pain that underlay the song’s story. It was beautiful and brave to let strangers not only read but tell her story. She who’d spent her whole life wearing a mask to get through the day. They had made the wounded part of herself beautiful. Johannes didn’t wince when she squeezed his hand really hard. She sang along, her voice low. It was both her and not her, as if in the telling of that story she had let some of the hurt go. Johannes played the song on repeat a few more times. They didn’t speak. He sat there with her until a small part of her began to believe. He must have felt her shoulders relax and her resistance melt, and he switched the song off. ‘Can I see the new song?’ he asked.

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:12:16.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

She smiled and began to laugh with joy and abandon. He nodded and held out his hand. She dug around in her cream leather handbag and gave him the journal with the new song. It was called ‘Dancing with my Ghosts’. She was nervous as she watched him read, twitched when he twitched. When he finished, he didn’t look at her. His eyes roved across the studio. His voice was low when he started speaking. ‘To write good songs requires a depth of feeling. You must be willing to feel it all, and then condense it to its essence.’ He breathed heavily. ‘That is what creativity is, the medium doesn’t matter. It is the willingness to feel and communicate our experience of the world. The right balance of spices in a curry, the blend of colour in a painting. And when we show and tell others, we break down the loneliness, the worry that no one understands. And in this country, as a black person, to live a creative life is the most radical thing you can do. To be fully alive. Fully aware. To risk feeling it all, seeing it all, taking it all in. And then to seek to awaken that aliveness in others. The very best of us remember that beauty needs to be just. They don’t make beautiful things that make others ugly. The Nazis, the Afrikaners, all those fascists also used art, but to make themselves higher and others low.’ His voice had softened as he spoke. Qabila looked at him. If she’d seen him in the street, she would have found him unremarkable, except for a certain flamboyance that would’ve undercut his penchant for pensiveness. She would’ve never known he wanted to incite a revolution. ‘My mother was a quiet woman. Her smile was like a wall – the harder you tried to cross it, the brighter it got. She was barely there. Her body, yes, but the rest of her …’ He shook his head, the memories catching hold, and he lost the words. ‘My father was the opposite. He’d walk into a room like the sun that everything revolved around. Shine so bright that everyone else grew dark. He loved her. But he was like a drummer that drowns out every other instrument, destroying the song.’ His eyes were dark with memory. ‘He was all rugby and beer and braaivleis. He hated moffies. He tried to have me saved, tried to set me up with girls. The first time he found me trying on dresses and make-up, he beat me. I couldn’t sit for a week. Whenever he went away, she would let me be who I needed to be, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. She’d make me the most beautiful dresses. She pretended it was for a client with a daughter called Janet.’ ‘She sounds remarkable,’ Qabila said. ‘She was. But my father … It took him years to accept I wasn’t going to be the kind of son he’d expected. We were watching something about artists on e.tv one day, and he told me he’d wanted to be an artist, and laughed. At himself. Then looked at me, as if asking me

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:12:16.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

to laugh with him.’ Johannes smiled sadly. ‘He made beautiful mouldings. The one on our tiny ceiling in Hanover Park, I stared at it for hours as a child, imagining climbing the crevices and scaling the heights. In a different world, there’d be tours of the ceilings he did in all those white peoples’ houses.’ He sighed deeply. ‘That’s how I met Richard,’ he said. ‘I signed my dad up for an art class, and took it with him.’ Qabila remembered Richard Marsden, the man in the queue at Checkers who’d put her in contact with Johannes. She should email him her thanks for doing so. Johannes pointed to the painting of the vineyard. In the background, an imposing mansion loomed over workers in a tiered vineyard, their backs hunched, faces twisted, their dissolution worsening at each descending level. A South African version of Dante’s inferno. The raw power of the artist’s vision and the incredible beauty with which he’d painted the menacing landscape was masterful. ‘That’s one of my father’s. Most of his family was lost to alcoholism on the wine farms,’ Johannes said. He shook his head. ‘He changed afterwards, after he could release what he saw inside into the world. Became mellower, kinder, less interested in making himself matter through cruelty.’ ‘Are you close now?’ Qabila asked. ‘He passed away last year. We became accepting of each other,’ he said slowly. ‘There were too many years … I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. It’s that song, your song.’ He frowned, then smiled a sad smile. ‘So many years, I just wanted him to look at me.’ He shook his head, pulled his shoulders back and stood to usher her out. ‘Enough for now. Come, come, we’re missing the party.’ Qabila spent the rest of the day getting to know the band and some of the other musicians. She knew it was naïve to imagine there weren’t frictions and contradictions and all the things that make being with people magical and scary, but she allowed herself to unfold in their company, part of a joyful camaraderie without competition or guilt or a hustle for worthiness. They’d each played a part in making something beautiful that spoke to what they dreamed for their lives and others’. They asked her about the song’s story and she told them. About her father and her husband and the people who’d refused to see her, and in that refusal had relegated her to roles that never fit, no matter how she tried. And they in turn, each different, each with their own histories and dreams, revealed the fragile broken places inside themselves. They asked her if she’d write another song for next month’s gettogether. And then to write enough for an album. Tracking the shadows on the ceiling, she laughed. She had agreed. Sometimes you’ve just

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:12:16.

got to do the thing, she told herself, and let the belief of possibility unfold in the doing. She reached over to her ‘Get Things Done’ notebook and penned in on her annual list of things to do: Write enough songs for an album. It was underneath the list of other things that needed to be done to move ahead and move on. She started to open a page where she could put Write enough songs for an album at the top, and all the other little tasks underneath. Before she lowered her pen to the paper, she went back to her master list for the year and thought about how all her plans and ideas had fallen apart, but had led to that very moment where she was fully visible to people she’d only just encountered. She didn’t need to put it on a list. She picked up the pen and scratched it through:

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

Write enough songs for an album.

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:12:16.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

Chapter 23

The ‘Ode to Joy’ woke Qabila. Somewhere between waking and dreaming, she groped for her phone. ‘Salaam,’ she said sleepily. ‘Mommy maniengald,’ Faghria’s voice said on the other end of the line. ‘Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji’un,’ Qabila said automatically. From Allah we come and to Allah we return. Fully awake now, she pulled herself up, drew her knees up to her chest and pressed her back against the headboard. ‘I’m sorry. What happened? Was she sick?’ ‘She had a heart attack. Rashid said she complained of chest pains last night and threw up, and Boeya took her to hospital in the early hours of the morning. She died in the operating room. They were trying to give her a double bypass.’ ‘I’m sorry,’ she said again, her voice soft. She meant it, even though Mummy Kayna hadn’t liked her and often delighted in being cruel. Qabila had called her a few months after she and Rashid separated, at Zainab’s urging. Mummy Kayna had said it was in the hands of God, and maybe they weren’t meant to be because they’d never been blessed with children. Qabila had put down the phone on a wave of relief that she no longer had to deal with her. But now, she was surprised how sad she felt. Even when the cycle of life worked the way you expected, it knocked a hole in you. The old woman’s contempt had made her think she was indomitable. But it was just the contempt that was indestructible, not the woman. ‘What can I do?’ Qabila asked. ‘I … nothing,’ Faghria said. ‘I thought you’d want to know. The janaazah will be at the house today at eleven. They’re going to take her home now. Boeta Zakariya is talking to the hospital and Auntie Fazlin is arranging the toekamandie.’ Qabila heard her gulp air. ‘I’m at the airport, waiting for my flight. She can’t stop me from coming to see her now.’ She laughed: small, sharp, strangled. ‘Is Caroline coming?’ ‘No, she’s in Sweden.’ ‘Do you want me to meet you at the airport?’ ‘With the way things are between you and Rashid …’ She broke off. ‘He will be there

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:12:16.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

with the children. He’s at Rylands Mediclinic now. They’re going through to the house with Mommy as soon as the body is released.’ Her words were so tight, Qabila could feel her holding back the tears. ‘I can’t ask you to come. She was cruel to you. He was cruel.’ Her voice was so small, Qabila wanted to reach through the phone to hold her. Faghria’s family had betrayed and belittled her. Honouring Mummy Kayna by going to her funeral was not something she felt duty-bound to do. And then, Qabila remembered what it felt like to sit at an airport with her mother’s death changing the molecules in her body, shifting parts of her soul she had not known existed. Her mother, who she knew had loved her. Not perfectly, but as fully as she knew how. She couldn’t begin to imagine what Faghria felt, who’d been rejected over and over by Mummy Kayna. She had not lost compassion. ‘What time is your flight? I’ll meet you at the airport,’ she said. Faghria was crying. She didn’t try to muffle the sound. She’d lost the fight to keep her sadness contained. ‘I have to go,’ she got out eventually. ‘I’ll text you the details.’ Qabila put on her black thaub and black scarf. When the import of the news had settled inside her, she sat on the edge of her bed and called Zainab to tell her Mummy Kayna was no more and that she was fetching Faghria from the airport. ‘They aren’t your family any more,’ Zainab said. ‘She won’t be alone, they’re a big family. Can’t someone else fetch her?’ ‘I know. But it’s death,’ she said. ‘Ja,’ Zainab sighed. ‘Siekte en dood, siekte en dood.’ ‘I didn’t think about it when I offered, I just did. She sounded so lost. She wouldn’t have called otherwise. You know Faghria, too proud to ask.’ ‘That family has no adab. They will talk and not worry if they’re pulling the skin from your face,’ Zainab said. ‘What about Rashid and Thandi?’ It was Qabila’s turn to sigh. ‘What are they going to do to me that hasn’t already been done? Lie? Humiliate me? I don’t need them to approve of me any more, and whatever they have to say, I know now that all their pretending just breeds secrets. I have nothing to be ashamed of. That’s Rashid’s burden. I just can’t let Faghria face that house, face Boeya alone.’ ‘Do you think Rashid’s father will do something to her, chase her away from the funeral?’ Zainab’s voice was hard. ‘That Boeya was always so sly, letting Mummy Kayna do all his dirty work.’ ‘I don’t know, Zainab. I feel so sorry for her. When we lost Mommy, it was hard enough. Faghria always hoped they’d reconcile one day. Now … I can’t let her go alone. The things

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:12:16.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

that family did to her. And for all her faults, Mummy Kayna was Habib’s grandmother.’ ‘Ja, shame. She loved him a lot. May Allah SWT grant all the deceased Jannat ul-Firdaus inshallah ameen,’ Zainab said. ‘I’ll see you at the janaazah,’ said Qabila, knowing Zainab would’ve been there anyway. Her sister nearly always made time to pay her respects to the dead and do her duty by the living. At the airport, she held Faghria close as she sobbed in the busy terminal. Held her hand as she led her to the car and, when they were both seated, leaned over to kiss her softly on the cheek. Faghria rested her head against the window on the drive. They didn’t speak. They didn’t cry. Just before they got to the corner of the street where Rashid and Faghria grew up and their mother’s body waited to be placed in the ground, Faghria said, ‘I wished her dead for most of my life. It would have been easier. I died to her a long time ago. She said that to me the last time I came here.’ The street was full of cars and people were milling around outside, all there to bury Mummy Kayna. Qabila was grateful to be parking; it saved her from responding. ‘Almost thirty years,’ Faghria continued. She put her head in her hands, the black scarf twisting off to reveal salt-and-pepper hair in a loose bun. Qabila leaned over to hold her in an awkward embrace. ‘They erased me. They erased me.’ Her voice was soft. It didn’t tremble. She took a deep breath, pulled out of the embrace. Looked out of the window, then back at Qabila, her face questioning. Qabila tried to smile in reassurance. She had no words of comfort. ‘I don’t want you to be ambushed,’ Faghria said. ‘Rashid is bringing his kids. He wasn’t going to. I was on the phone with him for hours last night. I will not let them be erased. She may have ignored us in life but Sukayna Fakir will not refuse us now. This family’s erasing of people they don’t approve of must end.’ Even though she’d prepared herself, Qabila’s stomach tightened. Now it was she who looked out of the window. She hadn’t seen Rashid in such a long time. She took a deep breath into the band around her belly. ‘We can’t undo the past,’ she said, surprised at the steel in her voice, ‘but we can change the future.’ When they were ready, they straightened their scarves and walked, close enough for their black thaubs to rustle against each other, towards the house that had bred so much rejection. They nodded perfunctorily to the people who greeted with questions in their eyes, and softened their faces to those whose greetings wrapped them in gentle compassion, until they

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:12:16.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

were seated near the body to pray with the other women. Boeya hovered on the edge of the room. He’d ignored their greeting when they entered. He hadn’t approached them or looked at them. He hadn’t chased them off. Faghria’s hand, which had clenched Qabila’s arm so tightly she was sure there’d be a mark, had gradually relaxed and now lay in her lap. When Rashid walked into the living room with two children, she immediately recognised them from the private investigator’s surveillance photographs. Boeya walked past them without acknowledgement, close enough to touch, and left the room. The children seemed bewildered. Rashid looked much too old as he led them to their grandmother’s body, whispering down at them. The little girl was clinging to him, her eyes large and scared. The young man looked sullen and angry. She’d never seen Rashid this lost or vulnerable. He bit his lip and his eyes filled with tears as he paused to look at his sister, at her and then at his mother’s body. The little girl tugged at his sleeve, her whispered ‘Daddy’ loud in the nearly silent room. Everyone was watching, the furtive whispers scraping Qabila’s skin over the purity of the recitation of Surah Yaseen by a young nephew. Faghria lay her hand on Qabila’s lap, then got up and went over to them. She crouched down to smile at the little girl. ‘You look like your grandmother,’ she said gently. ‘My Daddy always says so,’ the child replied, giving a shaky breath and frowning. ‘Do you want to greet her?’ Faghria asked. ‘She died,’ the little girl said. ‘I didn’t know her.’ Qabila had been dry-eyed since they entered the room. A warrior woman. She wasn’t going to let them see how much she hurt. Now, she wanted to weep, to wail, to mourn. Faghria straightened her scarf and said, ‘Come say goodbye, and if you want I’ll tell you about her. Would you like that?’ The girl’s face lightened before worry clouded her brow. ‘What must I do?’ she asked. ‘You can ask Allah to make a place in heaven for her, and kiss her cheek. Do you want to do that?’ The little girl nodded and set her face determinedly. She looked so much like a miniature Mummy Kayna that it almost made sense they’d never met. To meet oneself at a different age creates a paradox for the time traveller, was the thought that popped into Qabila’s head. Rashid swallowed, his eyes full. He knelt down to Nadia, kissed her and whispered in her ear. ‘Go with Auntie Faghria,’ he murmured, tears snaking down his cheeks, and stepped back. Faghria tucked Nadia into her side as they stood waiting their turn to greet a woman who hadn’t welcomed either of them.

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:12:16.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

Qabila felt tears dropping as the little hand reached up to touch her grandmother’s still face. The small, earnest face taking it in as if she were preparing for a test. Qabila would’ve loved to have known just what Nadia saw that made her nod, stand on her tiptoes and kiss Mummy Kayna’s cheek before looking up at Faghria, ready to move on. Faghria and Nadia stood to the side and watched as Adam leaned over to kiss his father’s mother hastily. Qabila stood up so Mummy Kayna’s children and grandchildren could sit together She touched Rashid as she passed, rubbed Adam’s arm briefly and kissed the top of Nadia’s head. ‘I’m going to find Zainab,’ she said to Faghria. ‘I’ll come sit with you when the men go to the koebus.’ Faghria wanted to say something, then just nodded. ‘Shukran,’ she said and sat down with her brother, niece and nephew. ‘Afwan.’ Looking for Zainab outside, Qabila headed off questions from gossips by mumbling about Malakul Maut coming for everyone, and Allah saying we should beware of fitnah and to keep a clean relationship with Allah. Boeya came up to her as she was about to phone Zainab to ask her where she was. She’d barely offered him her condolences, when he said, ‘Those children of mine are an embarrassment. To disrespect their mother like this.’ Even though his face was haggard with grief, she recognised the clenched jaw, narrowed eyes and contempt. Rashid had perfected that expression. Qabila shook her head and said past the lump in her throat, ‘It’s too late for Mummy Kayna, Boeya. If only you cared more about what love felt like and not what it looked like, you’d have a whole family. They are right there inside,’ she pointed to the house, ‘and all you need to do is to walk in, sit down with them and begin somewhere new.’ He didn’t pause to breathe. His eyebrow rose in that way she knew too well. ‘Salaam, Qabila. Salaam, Boeya.’ Zainab came up to them and pulled Qabila into a hug, curtailing whatever Boeya was going to say. Then Ariefa and Saleigha were greeting them. During the flurry of greetings, the sheikh came over to ask Boeya if he was ready to take the body to the mosque. Not long after, the sheikh started the prayers for the body to depart the house. ‘I told Faghria I would sit with her when they go to the koebus,’ she told Zainab. Inside, Rashid was getting ready to leave with Adam. ‘Daddy,’ Nadia said, sounding panicked that he was going to leave her with a house full of strangers.

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:12:16.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

‘Don’t worry, Auntie Faghria will look after you,’ he said. ‘I must go to the cemetery.’ ‘I’ll go with,’ she said. ‘Girls don’t go.’ ‘Why? Why can’t I go?’ She was starting to cry. ‘Dad, why don’t you go and I’ll stay here with her,’ said Adam. ‘No,’ Rashid said. ‘You have to go to the cemetery with the men and help bury your grandmother.’ Faghria bent down and said to Nadia, ‘I’ll tell you about your grandmother like I promised. I have photos somewhere. I’ve been looking forward to hanging out with you for so long. Auntie Qabila and I will take very good care of you. Right, Qabila?’ ‘Yes,’ Qabila said, smiling at Adam then Nadia. ‘Very good care of her. We have lots of stories about her grandmother to tell her.’ Nadia’s suspicious look lifted a little at Faghria’s warmth but didn’t completely clear. Faghria looked down, taking in a shaky breath. ‘I wish we’d met differently. But Allah takes away one thing and gives another. I am glad you’re here, and glad to be meeting you whatever the circumstances. I have lots of years to make up for,’ she said, the rushed words slowing down. ‘Please let me start now.’ Her sincerity seemed to calm their worry. Adam nodded tightly before looking at his father, and they moved off behind the men carrying his grandmother’s bier. Everyone who was not watching the body leave the house was watching them and pretending not to. Qabila and Faghria, with the little girl between them, watched as Mummy Kayna’s body was carried through the door. They followed slowly, each holding one of Nadia’s hands. Everyone made way for Faghria. Some of them reached out to touch her and wish her healing. ‘May Allah grant you shifa,’ they whispered, their voices harsh with grief, some mouthing the words while looking at the child. Trailing in the whispers behind Faghria, Qabila held onto the little girl watching her grandmother’s body leave. Nadia was crying, whether from the outpouring of emotion, fear and confusion or from some deep longing for a relationship that now would never be anything but an empty space in her heart. Tears were streaming down Qabila’s face. The smells of death – camphor, incense and sugar-bean stew – too many bodies and too much emotion, broke time’s hold. Her mother’s body leaving the house; her sons, her father, her grandmother, her aunt. The memories came. Standing at the gate, their bodies shielding the little girl between them, they watched the men load Mummy Kayna on the bakkie. Boeya, face pale, stood on the sidewalk, for a brief moment an island in the bustle. The lines in his face were stark as death separated him

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:12:16.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

from the woman who’d ruled his life for the last fifty-two years. Even though he was trapped in his petty hatreds and cruel choices, Qabila still ached for him. To lose someone you loved that long and that deeply was still a tragedy, even if the convictions you built in that private universe of two could not admit other ways of loving. The men left for the cemetery. They stood there until the cars left. Faghria slowly sagged as the mother who rejected her left her sight. She sighed. Straightened. She gave Qabila a smile that was too much bravery, far too soon. ‘Can we walk?’ she asked. ‘I can’t,’ she pointed at the house. ‘That’s a good idea,’ Qabila said. ‘How do you feel about exploring your granny’s area?’ she said to Nadia. ‘My daddy doesn’t know I’m going.’ ‘We’ll be back in time,’ Qabila assured her. They passed little groups of women who were huddled outside. Nodded briskly so they wouldn’t be stopped, and pretended not to hear their names being called. The houses loomed over them, massive double-storeys with tiny concrete gardens or little patches of green. Lansdowne was a neighbourhood where the inside was often more important than the outside. Different generations of one family in the same house. And in houses like Mummy Kayna’s, a sadness where sons and daughters and grandchildren were supposed to be. Mostly Muslim middle class, it was an area where you grew into a community. Qabila, a girl from Mitchell’s Plain, had married one of the crown princes and taken him far away from community and family. She’d rarely been allowed to forget that. The three of them walked in silence in the streets that had rejected them. ‘When last were you back?’ she asked Faghria. ‘Just before Mommy’s seventieth,’ Faghria responded, shaking her head. ‘My granny is seventy?’ Nadia said. ‘That’s ooold.’ ‘She was seventy-six,’ Faghria said softly. ‘Oooh,’ Nadia said. ‘She was old, old people die. My Gogo, my other granny, says she isn’t old, she’s young at heart.’ They were each holding a hand. Faghria laughed. ‘Your grandmother, my mother, was old,’ she said. ‘She was old, I think, before I was born.’ Nadia giggled. ‘Nooo,’ she said. ‘She couldn’t have been. That must have been very long ago.’ ‘How old do you think I am?’ Faghria asked her in mock outrage. Nadia looked at her, suddenly serious. ‘I don’t know. Are you really my auntie?’

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:12:16.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

Faghria stopped on the narrow sidewalk. A postage-stamp garden fronted a massive aqua double-storey house, crisp cornices and floral embellishments painted a dazzling white. She knelt down and took the little girl’s face in her hands. ‘Yes. I am your aunt. And I promise you from today I will always be your aunt. You and I, we’re going to start new family traditions.’ ‘Like what?’ Nadia asked, brow furrowed. She looked so much like Rashid. ‘I don’t know yet,’ said Faghria, ‘We’re going to have to make it up as we go.’ ‘Why?’ asked Nadia. ‘Don’t we have nice traditions now?’ ‘Some of them are not so nice.’ Faghria looked up at Qabila and reached for her hand. ‘The Fakir women are going to do their own thing.’ Qabila laughed. ‘I’m more of an ex-Fakir woman,’ she said, trying to keep her voice light while rubbing Nadia’s shoulder reassuringly. Faghria rose creakily. ‘Maybe I am old.’ Nadia smiled. ‘I would choose you as a sister,’ Faghria said, looking at Qabila. ‘You have been mine for the last twenty years. You are more family than some of the people whose blood I share.’ Faghria reached over and hugged her, fierce and tight. They clung to each other, and when they let go, each took one of Nadia’s hands and walked. Faghria pointed to a dilapidated little shop on the corner. ‘I used to come here when I was little and bought sweets for half a cent.’ ‘Half a cent? That’s silly. We don’t even have one cents, and five cents don’t work at the shops any more. How can you buy something for half a cent?’ Nadia asked. ‘Oh, I did,’ Faghria said, and started telling her about humbugs and star sweets and toffee twists and gumballs and their favourite Wilson Blocks. All the sweets of their childhood. Qabila was only half-listening to Faghria’s stories of childhood – kennetjie and cricket in the streets and mudcakes and haunted blanket tents and Bashew’s and koesisters on a Sunday. Holding the child’s hand that had exposed her ex-husband’s lies was hard, and yet the easiest thing in the world. The flesh-and-blood child with her uncertainty and strangeness was easy to protect because she was a child. Besides, it didn’t feel as if this tragic story had anything to do with her. It was as if it happened to someone she knew a long time ago and didn’t have anything in common with any more. She wanted to bend down and inspect Nadia’s face. Every now and then, she sneaked a peek. The shape of her mouth, the curves of her cheeks, the way she walked. Qabila saw her son in the straight line of her nose. She wondered if Nadia knew about her brothers who had died. Mummy Kayna had adored Habib. For all her flaws, the way she’d loved her grandson

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Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

was breathtaking to behold. Qabila wiped away a tear. Maybe she was with them now. ‘Will you miss her a lot?’ the child asked her. ‘What?’ Qabila asked. ‘Daddy’s mommy, will you miss her?’ Her eyes were the same tawny brown as her father’s. The shape of them were all Thandi’s, though. ‘No,’ Qabila said. And gave Faghria a quick look, regretting her honesty as soon as the word left her mouth. She shook her head and smiled. ‘I’m just sad that you won’t get to know her,’ she said. Nadia looked puzzled. ‘And you, Auntie Faghria?’ Rolling the name in her mouth like a new sweet. Faghria took a deep breath, shook her head and tugged at the black silk knot under her chin, moving the scarf slowly from side to side. ‘Can I be honest with you? We want to start new traditions, and honesty is important.’ She looked at Qabila, her eyes roving over her face before settling on Nadia’s. Nadia bit her lip and then nodded uncertainly. ‘Mommy says honesty’s the best policy,’ she said. ‘Your granny and I, we weren’t close. Not for a very long time,’ said Faghria. ‘Oh, why? Because you live in Joburg?’ They’d reached the park. Faghria led them to the swings. It was a bleak space, the grass seared and bleached by the sun. There were no children playing. They went to the swings and sat, Nadia between them, rocking back and forth. ‘Your granny was a powerful woman. She didn’t like who I fell in love with.’ ‘Like my mommy and daddy,’ Nadia whispered. Faghria sighed. ‘Almost like that. Sometimes we can’t choose who we love. I have a wife,’ she said. ‘Your granny was very angry about that.’ Nadia giggled. ‘No, Auntie, you can’t have a wife. Ladies have husbands and husbands have wives.’ Swinging her legs just above the grey dusty ground, Qabila wondered how Faghria would tell this story. How do you tell a child about the guerrilla war in the heart of their family? Rashid used to say, ‘Mommy’s so old-fashioned,’ and shake his head, ‘but what can you do?’ Would she tell Nadia how relentlessly Mummy Kayna had tried to cure her? The imams, the doekoems, the doctors she was sent to? The blind dates, dresses, forced visits to hairdressers, the incessant prayers? Would Qabila have to bear witness too? Would she say

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earnestly to Nadia, Mummy Kayna never talked about the onslaught to reform her daughter? Recount how Mummy Kayna changed the subject when Qabila mentioned her? Would she be asked to describe the cold fury on Boeya’s face? The way his hands and jaw would clench, the arched eyebrow and tight mouth. Could she tell this child how dirty she felt when he looked at her like that? Qabila was glad to be sitting in the swing. She would not have been able to stand. Sitting with Rashid’s secret sister, listening to her talk to his secret child, shook her. How had they all normalised the dysfunction, made it such a part of their life that it shaped all these marriages? History repeating itself and being ignored. Maybe they should have ousted Mummy Kayna and Boeya and been a family. ‘The world and people are complicated,’ Faghria was saying to Nadia. ‘Movies and TV and adverts telling us how the world should look. We inherit traditions. Some are good and show us how to live well with each other. Some are bad, but people follow them because they’re familiar and that makes them feel good. People like me who don’t fit in with those ideas, we exist. There are women who love other women, men who love other men, and even people who aren’t men or women,’ she said. ‘Do you understand? I’m not sure if I should be having this conversation with you.’ She looked at Qabila for help. ‘Love is beautiful,’ Qabila said. ‘Love doesn’t always come how we expect it. Sometimes, because we want to love in the way everyone expects and not in the way we really love, we can create a world that is very unloving. The world is better if we just let people love whoever makes them happy.’ ‘Like Mummy and Daddy,’ Nadia said. Her face was still with a fierce concentration. ‘When we walk in the streets, sometimes people are mean,’ she said. ‘Daddy says it’s because they are trapped in the olden days and only see wrong ideas and not people.’ Qabila choked up. Nadia’s Rashid was not hers. She wondered if she would have got to know Nadia’s Rashid if Habib had lived. Nadia’s face lightened. She turned to look at Faghria. ‘It’s okay, Auntie, I will still love you. Mommy says we must tell people when we love them.’ Her brow furrowed again. ‘She says love is a choice. That you choose to love.’ Qabila didn’t want to be here in this swing with Rashid’s child any longer, or with his sister who’d been a lesson to him in hiding forbidden love from his mother’s intolerance. She didn’t belong here in this park where a family understanding was being forged. ‘I wonder if they’re back already,’ she said to Faghria. Faghria nodded. ‘Just a little longer?’ she asked, a ragged appeal in her voice. Qabila

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Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

sank back in her swing, pushing herself backwards and forwards. She might as well ride out the child’s truths. She pulled up the hem of her long black thaub and pulled herself upright in the swing, standing on her feet. She pushed down on the seat, building momentum. Nadia and Faghria laughed. Nadia squealed as she followed suit and stood in her swing. ‘If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em,’ Faghria shouted, and she too was up. They whooped as they swung as high as they could, pumping and pushing the rubber of the swings, their bodies pendulums. ‘Daddy, Daddy, see I’m swinging!’ Nadia shrieked with delight. Qabila opened her eyes to see Rashid and Adam enter the park. She felt silly. And let the swing slow down to slide off gracelessly. All the knots that had loosened tightening again. The look on Rashid’s face released the knots. Qabila couldn’t recall seeing him like this: sad and grieving and ashamed and regretful. ‘Thanks,’ he said to her, his voice thick. The simple word falling apart as it left his mouth. She nodded. Faghria put an arm around her, pulled her close and squeezed. She went over to Adam, her voice too soft for Qabila to hear, and they moved off to the merry-goround – leaving her and Rashid in silence, watching Nadia. ‘Did everything go okay?’ Qabila asked. ‘Ja, algamdulillah,’ he said. ‘I can’t believe it. I always thought Daddy would go first. Mummy and I … we weren’t on good terms.’ Qabila let him see the spurt of resentment. He looked down, nodded and rubbed tears from his eyes. ‘I don’t know how to say that I’m sorry for what I did to you,’ he said. ‘I wanted it to work. That is true. I never wanted a life that was so complicated. I never wanted to hurt anyone. I ended up hurting everyone, my children, my mother, Thandi,’ he sighed and took another deep breath, ‘you. I never wanted to hurt you. I don’t know if I can even ask you maaf.’ He paused. For an instant Qabila wanted to fill that silence with words of forgiveness, and then she let it go. Some betrayals were bigger than the words that made them okay. She had waited for him to accept responsibility. But she would not let either of them sacrifice living with integrity to ease a moment’s discomfort. They’d done that for far too long. ‘I don’t know how it happened. I wanted the life my parents wanted for me. I loved you. No matter what you think, I did love you. Not in the way you deserved.’ He sighed. ‘I loved Thandi too. I love her.’ Nadia got off the swing, ran up to him and hugged him. She was a little shyer when she offered Qabila a hug. Her little body squeezed tightly, hugging in earnest.

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Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

‘Come join us,’ Faghria shouted. Nadia looked at Rashid who nodded. She skipped over to the roundabout. ‘It’s different now that it’s in the open,’ he continued. ‘All the things I was afraid of, not all of them came true. But the worst of it is, I look at them,’ he pointed at Nadia and Adam, who were trying to get the roundabout to turn as fast as possible. ‘I was the monster. I was afraid of the racism and the talking and,’ he shrugged, ‘you know. All the lies I told. I hated myself and took it out on you. I chose to hide and failed everyone. You. Habib. I miss him every day. I would still choose a life where I got to love him.’ Qabila’s eyes filled with tears. ‘He was something, wasn’t he?’ They were quiet, letting the space fill with Habib and the ways in which his life and death had made them who they were. Rashid continued, his voice so soft she had to strain to catch every word. ‘I failed myself. And I dragged you into my fear. Everyone, I dragged everyone into my fear. If I’d been brave enough years ago, maybe Mommy and I would have found a way.’ ‘You can’t know that,’ Qabila said. ‘Mummy Kayna chose too. She chose with Faghria and she chose with me and you. Your mom was trapped in her own fears. I wish you happiness,’ Qabila said, and found that she meant it. Waving her hand in the direction of the children, she said, ‘They are beautiful.’ He frowned. ‘After all these years of hiding, it feels like a privilege to be with them, in one place, fully. I want it to be different. The people we love deserve commitment. You deserved commitment. It’s not easy. Thandi gets so mad at me. I broke her trust, theirs,’ he pointed at the children, ‘over and over. It will take a long time before they believe me. I want them to be able to believe in me.’ He ran his fingers through his hair, sighed. ‘I almost don’t know who I am some days. But I don’t wake up with that feeling, wondering if today is the day I get caught, any more. I can look at myself in the mirror again.’ He shook his head, tried to smile, and took a deep breath. ‘Do you have someone? I heard you and Fuad were seeing each other. You deserve to be happy.’ Qabila laughed, and was not surprised at how light she sounded. ‘Life is good,’ she said. ‘Everything is different and yet I’m more me than I’ve ever been. I’m learning to commit, too,’ she said. ‘To myself. I’m committed to me and all the new loves of my life.’ She smiled at him. ‘I’ve written the lyrics to an entire album. And joined a few new groups, and everything has changed. Can you believe I wrote enough songs for a whole album?’ ‘What? Where did that come from?’ ‘Sjoe, that’s a long story,’ she laughed. ‘Wait, I have some of the songs on my phone.’

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‘I must hear this,’ he said. They sounded almost like old friends. Qabila knew, though, that they would not be close. This was an ending to their story she could live with. She flipped through her playlist and selected the song that had become her anthem for now:

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

We planted gardens in our broken places Out of desperate hope and sacred need We consecrated ourselves Singing slave songs On desires undiscovered Crying holy tears We insisted On beautiful freedom We created The future anew Made dreams we could eat Vanquished cannibals And won dreams worthy of love

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Glossary

abdas: ablution before prayer adab: etiquette afwan: you are welcome ai jinne: oh, goodness akhirah: the afterlife algamdulillah: praise be to God Allah Kadir: God is capable Allah Subhanahu wa ta’ala: Allah the most glorified, the most high ambagsmanne: artisans ameen: may it be so – said at the end of a prayer athaan: call to worship, recited by the muezzin at prescribed times of the day bak en brou: bake and cook bakkie: pick-up balaa: curse barakah: blessing barakat: leftovers to take home befok: fucking angry Bilal was ’n swart man: Bilal was a black man bindis: dots worn on the forehead of Hindu women boerewors: a sausage that gets its name from the Afrikaans word for ‘farmer’ (‘Boere’ is also sometimes used to refer to white Afrikaners in general) boetie: brother brasse: brothers bris: male circumcision in Jewish culture bruidskamer: bride’s room Cape docter: strong south-eastern wind in Cape Town Daai kind darem. Ons was nou by die Mall: That child! We were at the Mall now

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Daai man kan darem aansit: That man can lay it on thick / exaggerate dan sal ons sien: then we will see das: lecture deen: the way of life for Muslims, in accordance with the laws of their religion Die deen gee vir hom die reg vir ’n nogge vrou: The deen gives him the right to another wife Die vis is min nou, Boeta: There is very little fish now, brother Dis hoe ons sulke moeilikheid in die eerste plek kry: That’s how we get this kind of trouble in the first place Dis wit mense se goetes: That is white people’s things Dit is so swaar: It is so difficult Dit klink asof die kinders se planne sal uitwerk: It sounds as if the children’s plans will work out doekie: scarf doekoems: Muslim shamans dua: supplicatory prayer Eid: Islamic religious holidays: Eid-ul-Fitr marks the end of Ramadan, the holy month of fasting and Eid-ul-Adha is the Festival of Sacrifice Ek is klaar met hom: I’m done with him Ek moet uit die huis uitkom: I have to get out of the house Ek sal hulle join: I’ll join them Ek was baie nice: I was very nice Ek wil ’n bietjie handjies vashou: I want to hold hands for a bit En ons het lekker gesing ook by die bruide. Lekker “Rosa” en die ou liedere: And we also enjoyed singing at weddings. Nice “Rosa” and the old songs. Esha: the night-time prayer Fajr: the dawn prayer fez: a round brimless hat fitnah: gossip or slander foeitog: shame / poor thing gaai: joke gaan maar, ek is orraait hier: you can go, I’ll be all right here gadat: melodious Muslim prayer gadat jamaa: prayer group

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geboue: buildings gebouman: building man, a man who works in construction gemors: mess / rubbish haai: gosh Haai, my klong, dié is ’n gemors: Gosh, my boy, this is a mess haj: pilgrimage to Mecca haji: a pilgrim to Mecca who has returned halaal: permissible in terms of Muslim law Het hy in jou lewe gekom?: Did he come into your life? hidayah: guidance from God hijab: traditional head covering for a Muslim woman hoe faa: how are you hoeveel: how much Hoeveel vir ’n boeta van die Bo-Kaap: How much for a brother from the Bo-Kaap (Cape Malay Quarter) houvrou: concubine / mistress Hulle maak my mal: They drive me crazy Hy is te oulik, ’n mens wil hom opeet. Daai lekker stewige boudjies: He is too cute, you just want to eat him up. Those firm little legs. iddat: period of three months after a divorce that a woman may not marry again imam: Islamic religious leader iman: faith Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji’un: From Allah we come and to Allah we return inshallah: God willing Is goed vir haar: It is good for her Is jy nog lief vir hom?: Do you still love him? istikharah salaah: prayer for guidance ja: yes Ja, as ’n mens treur dan doen ons enige iets om beter te voel: Yes, when you are mourning you’ll do anything to feel better Ja, Baddie, en ons kan ook lekker ’n barakat weggevat het. Maar nou met die catering is daar niks om huis toe te neem nie: Yes, Baddie, and we could also take away some nice leftovers. But now with the catering there is nothing to take home. Ja, julle mammie het mos nou kort gemaniengal: Yes, your mommy died recently

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Ja, julle met geleerentheid dink julle weet alles: Yes, you people with education think you know everything jakking af/ afjak: insult janaazah: funeral ja-nee: expressing agreement, even though the literal translation is ‘yes-no’ Jannah: Heaven Jannat ul-Firdaus: the highest level of heaven Julle het julle altyd betere as ons gehou. Kyk nou: You have always acted as if you are better than us. Now look at you. jumuah: Friday prayer at the mosque Jumuah Mubarak: happy/blessed Friday Jy is altyd besig: You are always busy Jy is mos vuil. Van dieselfde vrou?: You’re dirty. From the same woman? Jy speel al weer mal: You’re pretending to be mad again Jy verbeel vir jou. Verbeel jy vir jou?: You’re giving yourself airs. Are you giving yourself airs? kabeljou: Cape cod (fish) kanallah: please kennetjie: a childhood game played with a longer stick that acts as a bat and a shorter stick that acts as a ball – the latter is called the ‘kennetjie’ koebus: graveyard kwaai: good, cool laanie: a posh person lae luis: lowly louse / scum lekker: enjoyable or nice, as in ‘Thank you, that was lekker’; or very, as in ‘I’m lekker hungry’ lokshin: township los die kind: leave the child alone los haar: leave her alone los kinders: literally ‘loose’ children / illegitimate children maaf: an apology, sorry maar sonder: but without madrasah: school for Islamic religious instruction Maghrib: the sunset prayer

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Malakul Maut: the angel of death Manie, hoor wat Qabila nou gedoen het. Sy het vir George Michael ’n song geskryf. Kan jy nou meer?: Manie, listen to what Qabila did this time. She wrote George Michael a song. Can you believe it? maniengal: die maskawie: dowry midoura: headdress for Muslim wedding moeg: tired Moenie vir haar luister nie: Don’t listen to her Moenie worry nie, ek sal nie vir jou in-trade nie: Don’t worry, I won’t trade you in moer: beat up Moet jy altyd alles control?: Do you always have to control everything? musla: prayer rug My kind, dié is ’n lelike storie: My child, this is an ugly business Nabi: Prophet nafaqah: financial support of a wife, even for a period after divorce nikaah: marriage niyyah: intention Ons hoop net die mense om ons verstaan: We just hope that the people around us understand Oom: Uncle Ouma: Grandmother Oupa: Grandfather pastei: pie pronked: showed off Qabil-tu nikah haha linafsi biethaalik: I have accepted her marriage to myself for that dowry Quran: the holy book of Islam raka’at: parts or units of a prayer, consisting of words and movements rizq: provision salaah: prayer, worship salaam: a greeting, literally meaning ‘peace’ salaam alaykum: peace be upon you salawat: a prayer, asking God’s blessing

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salieg: pious se voet: my foot Shabbat: Jewish Sabbath Shaitan: Satan sharia: Islamic religious law shifa: healing shukr: give thanks shukran: thank you shul: synagogue siekte en dood: sickness and death sjoe: wow skindering: gossiping slams: Cape Malay (derogatory) slamse meisie: Cape Malay girl (derogatory) stoute kabouters: naughty gnomes strooijonkers: groomsmen strooimeisies: bridesmaids suiwer Afrikaans: pure Afrikaans sunnah: customs based on the example of Prophet Mohammed’s life Surah Yaseen: the 36th chapter of the Quran swart gevaar: during apartheid, the perceived threat of black people to white people Sy gee vir jou ’n harde tyd, nè, my kind?: She gives you a hard time, hey, my child? Sy is nog altyd my bokkie: She is still my dear Sy pa is nog altyd sy pa: His father is still his father talaq: divorce obtained through the husband’s declaration of repudiation Tannie: Aunty thaub: an ankle-length robe with long sleeves tietie: older sister toekamandie: a person who washes the dead uitgelaat: forward uitgesort: sorted waar is daai besem: where is that broom waqt: prayer times wat: what

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Wat gaan hier aan?: What is going on here? Wat makeer die man?: What is wrong with this man? Watter tipe man: What kind of man vark, lae vark: pig, lowly pig wortel-en-ertjie-bredie: carrot and pea stew yarmulkes: skullcaps worn by Jewish men zakah: charity

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Acknowledgements

I started this novel from a place of great despair. Most of the certainties that had anchored my routines of thinking, feeling and doing had been unmoored. Writing was my route to hope and a thriving life. Whilst there were moments of deep and necessary solitude, manifesting this work in the world was not a solitary endeavour. It is customary to acknowledge those events and people who contribute to our feelings of safety, support, comfort and joy. But instead I would like to acknowledge the dark places and events that we rarely speak of even though they enfold our lives with such persuasion and force that they shape who we become. This book was an attempt to make sense of that which in a just and caring world would not require sense-making. Taking refuge in imagination is sometimes the only recourse, and for the catharsis it has brought me I am grateful. For the friends who taught me how to love gently and kindly, thank you. Tigist for your love, encouragement and gentleness. Sandra for your steadiness and the certainty that no matter who and why I am in any moment, you would still care. Bernie for your laughter and belief that all things are possible. To the most wonderful colleague-friends who allowed me to burble endlessly about this novel. At UWC, Tammy, and at UCT: Chris, Divine, Fiona, Francis, Helen, Marlon, Nikiwe, Selma, Susan and Vivienne. To Catharina for all you have done in teaching me to thrive. To my brothers, Marwaan and Rifaat for the long years of witnessing; through all the changes and challenges. I don’t think any of us could have dreamed who we have become and that is kinda super cool. I really wish Mommy could have seen us today. To Aunty Naziema, I am so unbelievably lucky to have you in my life as mother, friend and the coolest aunty. And to my nephew, Jason, and nieces, Zahra, Raeesah, Athraa and Shazmeen – so much love to you. To the wonderful publishing team at Kwela, Carolyn Meads, Stevlyn Vermeulen and my editor Henrietta Rose-Innes, thank you so much. For the faith in this story and the guidance in polishing it.

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And finally, to you the reader, I wish for you worlds of goodness and kindness where you may unfurl to the fullness of your being; worlds where you may be soft without fear that a wound will come your way.

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Summary

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

With her mother’s passing, Qabila’s world is coming undone. She dreams strange songs and makes lists to stay sane. Her marriage to Rashid is crumbling – it has been for years. A pregnancy sealed their fate, despite Rashid being in a relationship with Thandi at the time. Now Qabila wants a divorce but Rashid resists. Why? As she tries to pick up the pieces of her life and rediscover her own worth, she finds love and purpose in new places – in family, in faith and in song.

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About the Author

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Kharnita Mohamed was born and raised on the Cape Flats in Cape Town, South Africa. She lectures in Anthropology at the University of Cape Town, has a Master’s in Anthropology from the University of Chicago and is working on a PhD in Women’s and Gender Studies at the University of the Western Cape. Her academic research focuses on gender, race, disability, and the production of knowledge. As a black Muslim feminist she grapples with the contradictions of living in post-apartheid South Africa.

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:12:16.

Kwela Books, an imprint of NB Publishers, a division of Media24 Boeke (Pty) Ltd, 40 Heerengracht, Cape Town 8001 www.kwela.com Copyright © 2018 Kharnita Mohamed All rights reserved. No part of this electronic book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying and recording, or by any other information storage or retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. Cover design: Thandiwe Tshabalala E-book design: Wouter Reinders Available in print: First edition in 2018 ISBN: 978-0-7957-0858-9 Epub edition: First edition in 2018 ISBN: 978-0-7957-0859-6 (epub)

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

Mobi edition: First edition in 2018 ISBN: 978-0-7957-0860-2 (mobi)

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:12:16.

Copyright © 2018. Kwela. All rights reserved.

Table of Contents Title page Dedication Sonata Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Intermezzo Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Adagio Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Allegro Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Glossary Acknowledgements About the book Summary About the author Imprint page

Mohamed, Kharnita. Called to Song, Kwela, 2018. ProQuest Ebook Central, http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/bham/detail.action?docID=5482566. Created from bham on 2019-11-28 15:12:16.