writing...

In honour of Nanowrimo Month, I'm posting this here excerpt of a work I've dug out from the archives. It's been posted in bits and pieces, sporadically over the last few years.
I've started work on it again. And have set a goal of December for completion. I approach the 20 000 word mark.

Here goes:

A week later my mother gave me an address. It was for a house in Fordsburg. I set out early that Saturday morning.

The drive there had passed with me replaying images of my father’s face in my mind. And having imagined conversations with the both of them. Conversations that ended with them getting together again.

As long as we live with them, we’re still their children. In fact, we never cease to be just that, as I later learnt. And as long as we’re their children we want to play happy families. Here I was as 22 yearning until it left a hole in me, for a family. A whole, though flawed family. Even when every sensible cell in my body reminded me that things had been ‘finished’ for both of them for some time already.

I stood before the little house with its low roof and cheerful potted clivias that were just beginning to flower – a riot of orange. It seemed unfair that she should have these bright, happy flowers when the garden of my life had just been destroyed by a storm that she had unleashed.

I rang the bell.

“Just a minute,” she sang.

At the sound of that voice, my heart soared. But when she opened the door, it plummeted from those heights, crushed.

How dare she look so happy when…?
Had she not given a moment’s thought to him?
Her husband of twenty five years?
What kind of a woman was she?

Her own expression flitted from surprise, to joy, to contrition. Almost as swiftly, I would imagine as my own transformation from a state of joy to one of anger.
My eyes burnt with the unshed tears. I would not allow her the pleasure of seeing my pain. I blinked, angry at myself. I turned around, ready to leave.

“Wait!” I stopped mid-stride.
“Wait Asma. We need to talk.”
I didn’t turn. The pain, which had now become a physically gut wrenching one was too much. It left me breathless. “What’s his name?”
“Asma, look at me!”
“You don’t have any right to demand anything from me.” My voice quavered.
“Okay” softer this time. “Okay, Asma, please look at me. Come here.”
Are we also conditioned to obey? I thought bitterly.
As I turned to face her, I suddenly felt guilty. Didn’t she have a right to happiness? Would I want what they had shared for myself?

And then I knew what to do.

___________________________________

Dear Diary

Her story, as it turns out is not very different to what happens to people every day. She didn’t go out looking for him. He happened. Ya, I know, shit happens. But I guess to her, he is anything but that.

She’s happy. You know, I’ve never seen her happy. She looks pretty like that. What’s that word? Radiant. Ya, she’s radiant.

She says they’re going back to Cape Town. All of his family live there.

I tried to hide my shock. And I was shocked. Shaken, like I’ve never been before.

I wanted to feel betrayed when I heard her say that. I wanted to scream at her and tell her what a hypocrite I think she is but I couldn’t really find the words. Does this make me a better person than she is?

Do I want to be better?What is better?
Or is it simply being human?
The best Human you can be?

A