Afrocentric Muslimah

Movie inspired writing exercise

2011-12-21T00:45:00.001+02:00

I want to write about the way your lip curled. The way it cradled those words. I love you…

The way it gave me a world I’d never dreamed possible inthat instant.

I want to write about the light. How it gilded the leaves,danced in a shimmering sheet, those ribbons of light, bathing my feet in theirglow, glinting off children’s gleaming heads.

I want to write about the curve of your brow whose every nuanceI’d come to understand. Whose line I'd traced a zillion times in every dream.

I want to write about your laughter, its music. Your voicelike my heartbeat. Your breath like myown.

Your hands, tapering fingers, my beating heart nestled. Andthen they closed. Hard. A knot.

And instead all I find the words for are my tears, hot andwet as they trail down my cheeks.

Words, meaningless, to occupy the silence that fills our days,deep and thick. Words that smother all I once felt. Your words, like strangersin my mouth.

I should have loved you less. Why didn't you warn me?

I have nothing. Only the wrong words.

And a memory. The ghost of a memory. Nothing...

Qadr and choice

2011-12-08T19:19:00.001+02:00

“Ignore those that make you fearful and sad, that degradeyou back towards disease and death" ~ Rumi

Belief in Qadr is an important part of aqeedah. As muslims,to deny qadr is to toss imaan out the window.

Yet qadr confuses me. Since as human beings we are blessedwith free will. The ability to choose. How do the two fit together in thispuzzle of Life?

After much deliberation I arrived at the followingconclusion:

Free will allows us to choose how we will arrive at thedestination that Allah had destined for us. We choose the journey. Thedestination had been pre ordained.

Which means that my marrying at 18 and being a mother at 19,that was qadr. I chose how I arrived there. That it involved giving up aschooling career and spending time in Daarul Uloom, that was my choice. Had Iremained at school, I’d still have married at 18. Or does it?

See, it’s all very confusing.

But here’s the thing. Wherever qadr and choice lead us, weare bound to have some regrets.

For instance, I regretted leaving school. And for that reason I did my matricafter I had my son. It wasn’t easy. And sadly, I didn’t write all six subjects.Then I regretted not finishing madrassah. From that vantage point my lifelooked like a series of regrettable experiences.

But never once did I regret my son. Or the four children that came after him.Nor did I regret my marriage.

In 16 years I have learnt more and grown more and suffered more than I’ve everimagined possible.

But I’m no martyr. No victim of life or qadr.

Life’s trials either make us bitter or better. This bit offive cent wisdom came to me today in a flash of (not so) blinding inspiration.

This, after a friend suggested that I seem to feel inadequate because I did nothave the benefit of formal education and that perhaps I should consider acourse of some sort. In something that I’m passionate about.

I know he meant well. But guess what? He made me feelinadequate with that statement. As though he saw some deficiency that he feltwould be eliminated with some good old fashioned study.

While I have lots of energy and do a lot for a mother offive, I don’t have a death wish. Adding study to an already overflowing platewould be a one way ticket to breakdown.

Yes, I do wish I had studied. But I know that Allah had Hisown plans for me. That they didn’t fit in with my own plans for myself, wellthat was something I’d have to make peace with.

When I stopped being the martyr, when I stopped feeding off my regret andstarted living actively and accepting the consequences of the choices I’d made,doors opened. I’d never imagined that possible, but they did.

It was then that I finally grew up. Grew into myself and began to accept who Iam, moles and all.

I don’t have all the answers. I’m very much a work in progress.My life is far from perfect. But there’s a few things I’m certain of.

One of them is that believing in Allah is an enormous act oftrust. Faith is an act of trust. It is trusting Him to know what we need most,even when what we have is really not what we want. That’s a painful lesson tolearn. But through pain comes growth. And that is something I’ve never doubted.

That Allah loves me and that I love Him, is something I’venever questioned. But learning to Love Him as I truly should, that has been aslow and sometimes painful process.

This is love: to fly towards a secret sky, to cause ahundred veils to fall each moment, First to let go of life. Finally to take astep without feet ~ Rumi

I’m working on it…

The Facts of Life...

2011-11-29T00:14:00.001+02:00

The facts of life are these:

You will live.

You will die.

And whatever you choose to fill the space between those twoperiods with, is your choice. So choose wisely.

Tonight I attended a funeral. Someone dear to me had justlost someone dear to their heart.

To say that the family has been ‘burdened’ lately would be a kind euphemism.They’ve been tested in ways that are hard to imagine.

Yet when I saw her tonight, being strong for everyone, I thought of the saying:

"Wathinta abafazi, wathinta imbhokodo." (Youtouch a woman, you touch a rock.)

The SouthAfrican proverb used during the struggle against apartheid in recognition ofwomen's power and strength. She was indeed that rock. May Allah ease the wayfor her and continue to fortify her from within. Aameen.

I felt the heat in the living room as streams of mournersshared hugs and tears with the bereaved family and thought of the aayah:

Qul Naaru Jahannamu Ashaddu harraa – 9:81

The Fire of Hell is fiercer in heat

I thought of the questions he would have to face. Of the ‘life’that awaits him.

I thought of faith. Of culture. Of how ‘culture’ has beenturned into a dirty word in this age of big Muslim thinkers with equally bigideas.

Yet, the culture of offering condolences to the bereaved isless culture and more Islam. It is called ta’ziyah. Yes, there are indeed illsthat go along with having huge crowds gathered in one place. But if each one ofus smelt that camphor, tried on in our minds as our final perfume, then death wouldtake on a whole new meaning.

If we all tried to feel the weight of death, of having ourselves reduced to mere 'body'; theweight of sand on a narrow grave and saw it as our own, how much more would wenot pray for those who have passed on?

Allahummagh fir lahum, war’ham hum, wa sakkin hum filjannah.

I thought of faith. Of how it is my way of making sense of this world. Of how itis my compass. The tool I use to navigate this journey. The tool that helps mefill the space between those two periods.

Of how it is the rock that I cling to when the tempest thatis life threatens to throw me off course. Of how now, more than ever, for myfriend and her family, it is all they really have. That and one another. Theblessing of human companionship. Insaaniyat. And the comfort that brings.

Remember them in your thoughts. In your prayers.
Remember too, this sinner. This one, so unworthy.

Love unchanged...

2011-11-24T16:00:00.001+02:00

He held out a hand into the space between them, fingersscissored. She took a step forward, and held her own hand up. Pressed itagainst his, fingers matching. Palms joined. His hand was warm against her coldone. His fingertips protruded above her own.

She leaned forward. Pressed her mouth against each tip. Felt her breath fanagainst her skin. She did not meet his gaze, though she could feel his eyes onher face. Rather, she focused on the mole at the tip of his index finger, thecurve of his callused thumb. The nail, how it appeared chewed. A newdevelopment.

She finally rested her mouth in the crease between theirthumbs and index fingers. Allowed herself to be sucked in by the tide of memorythat washed over her.

Did he have any idea what it was like to awaken in someone else’s dreams? She’dbeen waking in his since the day he walked away. The day she’d stood, a wind tuggingat her dress, watching him grow smaller. He never looked back.

The memory was still enough to cause a sob to catch at the back of her throat.

He would go again. She knew that as certainly as she knewhow much it would hurt.

“Stay…” She felt the words against her hand. Alarmed, shesprang back.. She had not meant to say them.

She searched his face, hope written in every line on her own.

He had aged. Graying temples. Laugh lines. The ridges on thesides of his mouth more pronounced. Each telling her of the time they’d spendapart. But his eyes. The same. Deep. Dark brown. Apologetic.

She swung around, stifling a sob, swiped angrily at thetears that dared leak. Wrapped her arms around herself.

“Why did you come back?”

She waited. Silence.

And then his arms were around her, his chin resting atop herhead. His smell overwhelming her. She resisted her body’s urge to melt againsthim. Held herself rigid.

“I came to say goodbye…”

She felt the words vibrate within her. Felt herself crumple.

For an instant she saw them as they once were.

She felt once again the strong forearm that she’d run a handalong, the hair tickling her palm. The pressure of his mouth on her own. Hisbreath hot against her lips.

The feel of his hand on her thigh. The grass that ticked herear as she’d lain beneath the Dogwood, its branches heavy with a blanket ofwhite flowers. The wind that had moved, keeping time with them, raining a thousand flowers onto their bodies. Theperfectly blue sky that had winked at her between the dancing branches.

She’d planted a Dogwood in her garden after he left. Little did she know it symbolizeda love that remained unchanged through adversity. Did she really want thatchain?

Arsenic

2011-10-28T08:23:00.000+02:00

This is a short story from my collection of interlinked short stories. Soon to be published, insha Allah. Request for duas for the editing process which has been a slow, almost painful one.

******

Farida’smouth flooded with the metallic taste of fear. Her heart drummed. She held thegirls’ hands tightly as her eyes restlessly scoured the Dadaville streets.Where was he?

Why did hedo these things? Didn’t he know she needed him? Was he really no better thanhis bastard father? The man who’d abandoned her when he’d learnt of herpregnancy.

Her fearstruggled to keep up with her mounting anger.

What kindof son was he? The ingrate! After everything she’d been though for him! Aftereverything she’d endured to keep a roof over his head and food in his stomach!

Shanawaazat the Corner Cafe, where his gang, The Kajala Boys, hungout hadn’t seen him. Neither had Ice Man (whose real name was Arshad), theleader of the Kajalas.

She watchedthe yellowing sun with growing anxiety, barely registering the girls’ protestsat her pace. She could delay no longer. Anu would be home. Anu would bewaiting. And Anu didn’t like waiting...

Fear won.

As sherounded the corner, she saw him. Standing calmly at the gate. And she knew. Shedragged her feet as she approached. There was nowhere to run, she accepted that.But still she could delay the inevitable.

He did not shout.Not that day. He just took her hand and pulled her into the house, lockingthe bewildered girls outside. There was no smell of liquor on his breath. Andsomehow, she knew, that today it would be worse.

He pushedher into their bedroom. Shut the door with a bang.

“Strip.”His voice like broken glass.

She stood,looking stupidly at his quivering face.

“Strip, youfucking hoer meit!” He grabbed her cloak, pulled her towards his chest andripped it.

He threwher onto the bed. She watched his hand slide over the buckle of his belt. Hismovements sure. Deft.

She cowered,eyes closed, waiting to hear the familiar whistle of the belt. Oblivious to hernakedness. Her blood rushing against her eardrums drowning out the sound of thelittle girls pummelling the front door with their fists.

His weightbearing down on her caught her by surprise. And then he was on top of her. Thrusting.Prying her legs apart. She lay very still. Did not struggle. This was nothappening. Surely that woman, so small, so fragile, lying spread eagled on afloral bedspread was not her. Surely that man was not Anu. He could never beher Anu.

With eachthrust, she was aware of something inside of her breaking. Crumbling. Leaving agaping abyss that swallowed all her fears. All her anxieties. Everything...

By the time he shuddered, lay still for a moment before rolling off her, sheknew...It had to be done.

He stoodup, stepped into his pants without even wiping.

“Justremember, bitch. I own you. Don’t go looking for that half caste bastard ofyours when I am waiting here to be fed a decent meal. I work damned hard tolook after all of you.”

The wordsdid not sting.

She laythere, naked, legs scissored, until she heard him settle in the lounge, switchon the TV. Then she stood up, wrapping the sheet around herself,and went to the bathroom. She did not let the girls in even though she couldhear them crying on the stoep. She showered, dressed, straightened the bedroomand then opened up for the girls. Rayhana had fallen asleep, her head cradledon Fatima’s bony lap.

She avertedher gaze from Fatima’s questioning eyes. She had no cure for the pain she saw. Therewas nothing left. She was empty.

That nightshe pretended to sleep when he sat down beside the bed. She did not stir whenhe stroked her brow. She did not blink when she felt his tears falling onto hercheeks. Did not answer when she heard him whisper, “Why? Why must you make meso angry? Why do you keep on doing these things? Like a stupid hoer meit! Don’tyou know I love you?”

***

His snoresresonated off the white walls of their shared bedroom. Sonorous. She studiedthe planes of his face and listened so long that the sound seemed to vibratewithin her. His jowls quivered each time he exhaled. In repose, his mouth wasnot hateful. It did not spew vitriol. It was soft. She could almost remember theirstolen kisses. But not quite. The memory, blunted by years of violent blows tothe head.

His neckwas no longer as firm; the skin sagged in places. Below the jaw too he wasgrowing a pouch. The years had not only gnawed at their lives, they had eatenaway at his hairline too. She was no longer surprised at the insipidity of heremotions when she looked at his face. It had been a slow process. Day by daythe love had withered, dying a silently screaming death, taking its last breathon the day Zaahid had left for good.

The dayshe’d died inside and been left with one desire – only one:Revenge. It was this thirst that got her out of bed in the morning. It was whatgot her through the days. It was what rendered her immune to his barbs. HEcould not touch her. Nothing could touch her. He’d sensed the change.

But how?The question had eaten at her. Festered. And then came the call from Zaahid.

He’dslipped the suggestion so casually into the conversation that she’d scarcelynoticed. Even told her where she’d find it. That was two days ago.

Early that morning, Farida went downthe road to the house with the steel door set into the side wall. Head aloft. Ignoring the curious stares sheattracted. Ignoring the shaking heads. There was a small window sliced into it.A little mouth, which when spoken to by young men with lanky hair and women withglazed eyes, would spew out small parcels. Dagga, cocaine, mandrax. All yoursfor the asking, provided you had the money.

She was notsurprised at her lack of emotion. At the state of soporific calm that filledher to the brim. It had been with her since that day. The day she’d crumbled.Crumpled. Only to emerge taller. Stronger.

“Look, Iknow you sell regular drugs. But I need something different,” she said. “Iwant... arsenic.” The word tasted of freedom.

“Hmm, that can be done,” the window hissed.“For a price. Did you know that they treat cancer with it? Are you trying tocure someone’s cancer?” The window wheezed a discordant laugh.

“When?”

“Come tomorrowafternoon. It’ll cost four hundred.”

She triedto rein in her smile. The money was no problem. Drunken men often forgot whatthey left in their pockets.

Farida smiled at the memory. Shegot up and tiptoed out of the bedroom.

When sheentered the girls’ room, she stood for a long while, drinking in theirfeatures. Listening to their rhythmic breathing.

“It’s goingto get better. I promise...” she whispered.

In the backof their cupboard she felt for the little bottle. She cradled it in her handslovingly then replaced it in its little hidey hole. Tomorrow she’d start.Little by little.

She went to the bed and lay downnext to Rayhana. Placed an arm around her.

“Zaahid is okay.” She murmured. “I spoke to him today. He’s starting to liveagain. I can hear it in his voice. We’ll be okay.”

For the first night in two weeks she slept.

Hope is a powerful opiate.

This is going to hurt...

2011-10-26T23:33:00.000+02:00

I never knewhow intimidating some 800 odd university students could be until I had to sharea confined space with them. That was my plight this Saturday night past. Feelingincongruous (I’ve never been to Uni, see). At odds with my surroundings as I navigatedthe hills and dales that led to the Wits Grand Hall in heels (what was I thinking?!)for the Make Me Maaf Comedy show.

To be veryhonest, I wasn’t expecting much. I’d seen the likes of Trevor Noah and NikRabinowitz a year ago at Bafunny. And those guys were a tough act to top.

The crowdthat had gathered outside probably represented half the slumou population at Wits.And more than 50% of them were male! Eish! Well I was here to enjoy myself andI would do it in spite of feeling like the last Dodo amid a flock of Guineafowl.

The beginningwas inauspicious. A portend, I feared. Some chick in a little red number withimpossible stilettos er’ing and uhm’ing as she introduced the evening and toldus about the charity we’d just supported. Did anyone get that? Cos I missed itsomewhere between her er’s and uhms. Anyone who knows me knows that the onething that gets to me when it comes to public speaking is someone who searchesfor words when they’re supposed to have a feast of them prepared and ready forserving.

Yes, I’m anal like that.

And then,like a breath of leather jacket and bow tie clad fresh air, Deep Fried Man madehis first appearance. Doing that signature ten past ten stance, he belted out afew nonsensical songs and got the show on the road.

Hmm, not bad I thought. As the evening progressed, he proved himself to be a worthy MC.

I got tohear of Laz Gola for the first time. He was so-so. I had a few good laughs (butmy laughing shouldn’t be taken as any kind of measure of success since I laugh.A lot! Always!)

Knowing thathe was the real Loyiso Gola’s brother didn’t make him funnier in any way. I’m thinking with a few more gigs under hisbelt his act should smooth itself out and become a more seamless affair.

One of the peopleI was keen to see was my friend Aasia. And she didn’t disappoint. Unflinchinglyhonest. She was a treat. She fed us a dry sarcastic kind of humour. A brand I’mquite partial to.

Conrad Koch is another comedian who deservesmention. He was easily the best act of the evening. Between his adopted alienof a child and Chester Missing he really brought the show to life. I’ddefinitely pay (not for a charity, mind) just to see him in action again.

Simmi Areff surprised me. I follow him on Twitter. And I wasn’t expected to laughuntil I had tears in my eyes. But hey, guess what? I did. He was really good. Kudos.

The grand Kaloo made his debut on the evening. It was a brave (read insane) effort . Ihand him that. He got a few good laughs. But he exceeded his allotted time, whichinspired a few snide remarks from some quarters.

His detractorswill be pleased to know that he remained within his allotted time when he gotback into the saddle at Parkers – Monte Casino – last night You go Fareed!

Two actsthat the show would have been better off without were Omer and 2Dogs. Thelatter was painful to watch. And no, I don’t think he’s a comedic genius. Justsome gormless guy who’s delusional regarding his abilities. Yes, I know that’sharsh. I had a sense that the poor guy was being patronised in some way. And reallyjust being made a g@t of. I could be wrong. There’s a first time foreverything, after all.

As for Omer, I’m not being nasty, but I think he was redundant. One less Omer wouldhave given us more time with the fantastic Rasdien.

It was myfirst time seeing Joey in action. And I was impressed. Laugh a minute, he wasbrilliant! He’s headed for great places.

To theorganisers, Minhaj Jeenah (who came decked out like a small time producer –haha) et al, nice effort.

Next timewarn us when an event is not going to be a mainstream one. I know of a fewgrandparents who felt even more awkward than I did.

Would I doit again? Probably not. But hey, at least when one of these guys makes it big I’llbe able to say: Ek was daar. Ek het hom gesien toe hy nog a laaitie was.

p.s. If I've pissed anyone off with this post, do Make Me Maaf!

Let's Talk About Sex blush

2011-10-12T22:51:00.002+02:00

At the age of 9 my sister first allowed me a glimpse intothe world of human reproduction. I’d always suspected that my parents’ version- involving planes and storks- to be on par with the Tooth Fairy stories. So Iwas not completely blown away to discover that babies came out from vaginas.

But I knew my friendswould be -insert wicked grin- so I chose, rather unwisely, I might add (but,hey, I was only 9) to share this nugget in whispered exchanges with a few raptmadrassah classmates. Girls, naturally! What do you take me for?

All hell broke loose! One of my girlfriends ran off to hersister. An argument broke out. My sister was sucked in. Threats were made. And gasp!There was talk of that horror of horrors! Calling in the PARENTS!

I felt awful. Still do, in fact, whenever I think of it.Felt the shame of what I’d done most acutely. Felt in some way dirty.

That was the beginning of my understanding that all matters sexual were neverto be spoken of in my little slice of Chaardom. They were the worst of all the deadlysins.

Growing up, the word ‘sex’ was considered vile. Ugly. Thatwas one of the most important lessons that my mum made a point of driving home.Along with:

‘Thou shalt haveimmaculate cupboards”

“Thou shalt learn how to cook a decent curry.”

“Thou shalt NEVER walk over anything lying on the floor. (Don’tyou have eyes?! Are you blind?!)”

“Thou shalt never be lazy!”

Even when Muslimaunties around me were popping babies every so often. Immaculate conceptions? Ithink not.

Fast-forward to the ‘91 and the release of Salt-n-Pepa’s hitsingle ‘Let’s Talk About Sex’, me being all of 14 at the time. Even as wecovertly listened to the song, sang it, no one was doing the talking. Certainlynot our parents.

It was understood that at some point we’d all marry decent(non-virgin) guys, our own virginity intact and that our husbands would teachus all there is to know.

So prior to marriage we all tried to get our hands on a copyof Kitaabun Nikaah, read it on the sly, certainly not in front of our parents(even though we’d long been reading Mills and Boon romances in their presence.Contradiction? This is Chaardom we’re talking about.)

And we entered adulthood, secure in the knowledge that shouldwe look at out husbands naked (and they at us) our children would be born blind.And should we dare speak during intercourse, well, they’d be deaf and dumb.

But we took our chances. And when the first kid was neither blind nor deaf nordumb, we took a few more.

And then we finally grew up and realized that all the blind,deaf, dumb stories were just a lot of hogwash. And that sex was an importantpart of every healthy marriage. And that giving pleasure and receiving it wasreally the ideal in Islam. Or did we?

SO what prompted this post?

This:

It was an image that went out on FB, BBM, Twitter, you name it! And not with the face obscured!

It made we wonder.

Would it have been ‘okay’ for a muslimuncle, duri and all to be at Sexpo if he wasn’t wearing a kurta?
Are we trying to say that Muslims don’t have the need forsex?
Why are all matters around sexuality, especially femalesexuality, still frowned upon?
Why do we like to go around pretending that sex is not fun?
And why should people feel guilty about having healthy sexlives within the confines of marriage?

I’m not condoning Kurta Chachas ogling the boude, see. Buthe just made me wonder.

From growing up in a world where balanced information aroundsex and sexuality was unheard of, we’re rearing kids in a world wherelicentiousness is paraded as the ideal.

Just last night I watched a BOLLYWOOD (for crying out loud!)movie where a 21 yr old said about her friend (to her boss nogal)

“That was my friend Priya on the phone. She just lost a V. Isn’t thatcute?”

Er…I think not.

But what are our kids to make of all this?

And if they cannot come to us with their questions – eventhe ones around that dreaded ‘M’ word -yep, masturbation – who will they turn to for answers?

Bollywood, much like Hollywoodpreaches a message that contradicts Islamic teaching. It propagates the messagethat sex before marriage is the norm. Not just the norm, but healthy, in fact.

We need to be prepared to offer the Islamic alternative. And engage them in a constructive manner.

We need to be able to answer theirquestions, albeit with a lot of stammering and a crimson blush.

I found thisto be a fantastic balanced article on the subject and may just direct my kids there when they’re old enough.Because as a mother, I would have difficulty discussing it with my boys. And Iknow their father would never feel comfortable. Clearly we’re not far enoughalong the evolutionary (make that sexual revolutionary) path.

But with my girls, well…we may just have lengthydiscussions. Wish me luck!

Seven Links

2011-10-05T10:59:00.002+02:00

There's this project called 7 Links,initiated by Tripbase,that fabulous Azra, the The Glittering Sapphire One and Fareed of The Kaloo Report invitedme to participate in. The idea intrigued me, seeing as I love going back in timeand following the progress of my words. Over time, I've come to see them as areliable barometer of self-growth.

So what is 7 Links all about?

In the words of the originator:

The idea is simple: bloggers publish 7 links fromtheir blog to share lessons learned and create a bank of long but not forgottenblog posts that deserve to see the light of day again.

So I went into the archives (thanked Blogger for havingstats available at the click of a mouse) and compiled this list :

1) My Most Beautiful Post

This heading has had me stumped for the last hour! Probablybecause I happen to be my own worst critic.

Perhaps I should base this on the post that touched the mostnumber of people? That would help.

After intense deliberation (this is sounding like thejudging of the bloody Booker, for crying out loud!) and much profanity hurledat The Grand Kaloo Himself, I've settled on A New Day.

Although these broughtmany responses too.

2) My Most Popular Post

My most popular post ever remains Candles.My thoughts on the passing of Moulana Yunus Patel Sahib. It surprises me, butis perhaps a reflection of the barakah of Moulana, even after his passing.

3) My Most Controversial Post

Hands down, TheMuslimness Measure. It pissed people off, big time. Eventually I tired ofresponding to comments. Though the TheStory of Maha reviews did much the same.

4) My Most Helpful Post

I wouldn't have known what to select here. But when I wentthrough the archives, a post that helped me anew was Thirty.Am hoping it will help you too...

5) A Post Whose Success Surprised me

Once more, that would be Candles.At more than double the page views of my second most popular, TheStory of Maha.

6) A Post I Feel Didn't Get the Attention it Deserved

Twas a toss-up between FacebookDid It and HerHands. The latter was like a punch in the gut when I read it now. It waspenned and posted years ago.

7) The Post That I am Most Proud Of

I'm so unsure of this one. Was going to go with the MuslimFeminist post, but I've settled on Writing instead.The only piece of fiction to make this list. Speaks volumes...

************************************

Phew! I'm knackered. Compiling this list has been painful.But rewarding. I'm not going to select anyone to do this here task. Onlybecause I know how much I swore Kaloo :p And I really don't want to choke on mytea.

Hope you've enjoyed this meandering journey with me.

Until next time...

Burnt wigs...

2011-09-30T09:32:00.002+02:00

SO there’sthis lady. She’s quite well known. And for some reason, no matter how manytimes I try to give her a chance, and no matter how much I WANT to get alongwith her, something just goes wrong. It’s not like I intentionally tripped onher dress the last time and had it rrrrrip along the waist, exposing herknickers (they had holes! I know! Blind!).

And it’snot like I deliberately dropped that candle on her head yesterday, setting herhair on fire! Damn! Lucky it was a wig. And you should have seen her run! INretrospect, it was funny. But just a little (lest she think I enjoyed watchingher burn)

So I’m sureyou’re dying to know who she is? Wondering why you weren’t there to see thedress rip? Weren’t there to see the hair go up in flames. Wigs are highlyflammable. Don’t let anyone tell you different.

Well, her name’s Islamic Media. And to protect my ass, I won’t mention justwhich of the ugly sisters she really is.

Let me takeyou right back. TO when my (disastrous) run-ins with her first began,

Three yearsao I got a call from one of her sisters. She wanted me to write a radio drama.It was short notice (she’s also famous for a lack of planning). But it was anexciting venture. New.

So I ropedin a few good writers and we went at the computers like demons. The script wasfunny. Thought provoking. I actually used the word “good” for it! *gasp* Iknow! That’s just not me!

Theyrecorded. Played out.

And thenthe complaints (maybe 5, or was it 10?) came in. We weren’t preaching enough.We were glorifying sex, drugs and rock and roll. (there was sex in there?Really? How did I miss that?!)

We gottaken off air. (Did I mention that no one bothered to let me know? Don’t lookshocked! #truestory)

While thedrama was being written, I also had an undertaking from this sister that they’dhelp me republish my kid’s book. And this one was ‘religious’ so they were surethere’d be no concerned aunties writing in to complain, using poor grammar andbad spelling.

Monthspassed after the Drama Hangama. And every enquiry about progress on theillustrations was met with stony silence. Clearly, I was persona non grata.

I gave up.Moved on. And well, I knew that I wouldn’t be working with this sister again.

Fastforward to September, 2011.

Some friendsand I decide we’d like to help the disabled and raise funds for the Park thatwas to be built in Lenz. I decide to overlook the fact that this sister has ahand in this pie.

We startplanning. A kid’s fun day. It worked for Al Quds.

We decideto promote it using a local sister who’s had a good run within the community.Did I mention that I gave this sister the use of the rejected drama script? Andthat it was warmly received? Ajeeb!

And thatI’d finally thought that at last I wouldn’t end up on the wrong side of atleast one of the ugly sisters?

Silly me!

How it cameabout that my friends agreed to do a pledge line with the sister, I’ll neverknow. Why my friends agreed to it still baffles me.

As part ofthe fundraising I suggested an auction. We raised a small fortune for Al Qudswith our auction the last time. All this would take place on the 30^thSeptember at a fundraiser that the sister was having for herself (do businessesdo fundraisers?).We had too little time, so I suggested flower arrangements.

And thenthe bombshell!

I get amsg: Leave the flowers

I ask: Why?

Answer:Long story!

Now I don’tknow about you, but ‘long story’ is just not an answer. I pushed (and swore alot!) and got to hear the Long Story.

The longand the short of the long story turned out to be that the sister wanted 50% ofall that we raise through the auction for herself.

Now correctme if I’m wrong here, but would that not amount to deceiving the public? Orwould they want us to make an announcement : People, bidding is open. We’reraising funds for the disabled and the local sister.

I can justsee people forking out thousands for that! NOT!

I rantedand raved. Kept the sister’s name off twitter. But I vented and rid myself ofmy anger.

Last night at 22:15 we got a message that we weren’t allowed our table.

Did Imention that I’d spent the afternoon yesterday buying rings, brooches,bracelets and other little trinkets that we’d planned on selling at their‘pledge’ do tonight? That I’d done this against my better judgement because I’dfelt this was a bad idea from the beginning? That I’d paid for this out of mypocket?

Was therefusal to allow our Fundraising-for-a-Good-Course-Table when others would beselling stuff there for profit, tied in to my angry tweets?

I’ll never know.

I’m sure I’mgoing to be blasted for this post. People are going to accuse me of exposingthe faults of fellow Muslims.

But I thinkthat BECAUSE we are Muslims and agree to adopt Submission as a way of life, ourcharacter should reflect this. It should come across within our organisations.We should hold ourselves to the highest moral standards possible. Our conductshould be exemplary. After all, being in the public eye makes us embassadorsfor Islam. Is that not what we’re always told?

Yet, allMuslim organisations are plagued by inefficiency and the most dire lack of professionalismI have ever seen. To say that frustratesme would be a lie. It disgusts me.

And now I’ll get off my soapbox.

You mayhurl your rotten tomatoes now.

Tomorrow...

2011-09-21T10:18:00.002+02:00

Tomorrow... I will perform all my prayers on time. I will start on a diet and stick to it. I will be a more attentive wife, a more loving mother. I will listen. Actually stop what I am doing and listen when my kids recount their adventures after a day at school. I will savour the silence with my husband’s hand cradled in my own and listen to the sound of his breathing. I will laugh with abandon and surrender to tears as the need arises. I will remember the good more often and forget the bad more easily. I will move out of the shadow of myself and truly be.
Tomorrow…

note: This post was written many months ago. many, many months. saved as a draft. Might as well free it...

The Sacrifice

2011-09-20T22:25:00.000+02:00

It was as the jalsa was about to begin, that Eishkom, intypical SA style plunged us into darkness. The wails, gasps of horror,collective moans, rippled through the hall. Our MC stood before us, alert,vibrant and began anyway (they were running way behind schedule), even aspeople scrabbled to set up lights and others reached for their cell phones toshed some light on the proceedings. I may be mistaken, but I had the distinctimpression that our MC was blind. Which was why the women’s refusal to settle downannoyed me so completely. The words that sprang to mind were the opening versesof Surah Abasa,

“He frowned and turned away. Because there came to him, theblind man”

As he struggled to make himself heard above the din. Ithought of the blind. And of how their days are spent in darkness. Always. Yethere we were making such a fuss about a temporary lack of artificial light.

I was reminded of Milton’ssonnet, On His Blindness:

WHEN I consider how my light is spent

Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,

And that one talent which is death to hide,

Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent

To serve therewith my Maker, and present

My true account, lest He returning chide,

'Doth God exact day labor, light denied?'

I fondly ask. But Patience to prevent

That murmur soon replies, 'God doth not need

Either man's work or his own gifts. Who best

Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state

Is kingly: thousands at his bidding speed,

And post o'er land and ocean without rest;

They also serve who only stand and wait.'

Here was a man, who, in spite of his disability was doingmuch more than just standing and waiting.

We were then introduced to Al Zabih - The Sacrifice. An Actonville based NPOthat caters for the Islamic needs of children with physical and mentaldisabilities.

I’d had trepidations about attending the function. Feared that the gatheringwould be reduced to some sort of freak show, with people gawking at thosemembers of society who are normally overlooked, ignored, hidden at home.Because coming face to face with ‘nature’s mistakes’ discomfits us.

But the evening was anything but! It was a celebration ofall that is possible, even in the face of overwhelming odds. A reminder of the resilienceof the human spirit. A faith that can move mountains. Of motherly (andfatherly) love. Of courage.

I was moved to tears several times and thanked Eishkom fortheir timeous ‘blooper’ when that happened.

It pained me to see kids struggling towalk/talk/make salaam. I kept asking myself: What if that had been my son ordaughter?

It was then that I was reminded: Allah does not impose onany soul more than they can bear.

Subhanallah.

A moment that has been burnt into my memory is of the littlegirl slung over her mum’s arm, lost in her own little world. She caught my eye.I smiled. She beamed back.

A smile is indeed a universal language. I felt such an incredible joy surge throughme at the sight. At this shared secret communication.

The next time you meet someone who is physically or mentallychallenged, don’t avert your gaze. Smile.

You’ll have made their world a little brighter…

p.s I find this post incredibly clumsy, but seems I'm still struggling to vocalise what I was a part of. Hope I've conveyed some part of what I experienced :)

The Muslim Feminist - Oxymoron?

2011-09-13T22:18:00.000+02:00

In 2006, Iposted thisto my blog. It was an article I’d originally penned for The Muslim Woman. WhenI read it today (can’t manage more than 2 paragraphs) I cringe. How arrogant,how cocksure, and how foolhardy I once was! Steeped in a sense ofself-righteousness. Glossed over by my veneer of piety. How misguided...

Yes, onething hasn’t changed. I still don’t think women need be imams. But perhaps Iunderstand why there are those who’d want it. Its symbolic.

Being a Muslim woman in the 21^st century is a challenge.

Enter: Themen of Learning - telling us what our hijaab means to us and how we should be covered to save men fromthemselves. Telling us how paradise will be ours for the asking if we obey(read: are servants to) our spouses. How eternal success lies in us remainingin the deepest, darkest corners of our homes, effectively taking from us whatlittle voice we have. Men who allow (how generous!) women to study in Uloomsprovided they don’t ask uncomfortable questions or demand more knowledge thanthe men are willing to impart. That they never demand actual power or positionthat will challenge men’s centuries old dominance.

The productof these Ulooms are the fellow muslim sisters (I was one once) who considerbeing a voiceless entity a virtue. Tell us of the staggering rewards that awaitus when we breastfeed, cook, sweep, clean. Basking in the glow of their assumedpiety and promised salvation

Is that alla woman is? Designed for childbearing and providing sterile milk on tap?Minions. Blindly following our men. Accepting any manner of indignity they chooseto heap on us? Because that way, salvation lies? How many women aren’t fed the‘Sabr’ line, when their husbands degrade or abuse them? Aren't told of the Jannah that awaits, even as their dignity is peeled away from them, layer, by painful layer?

Enter: The ‘West’ with its notion of female liberation. Emancipation. OurMuslim sisters in the ‘west’ who show us that it is possible to be a hijaabwearing lawyer/scientist/brain surgeon. Women who rile against being delegatedto the last safs (god forbid, segregated) in the masaajid. Women who demand theimaamat. The feminists. Those whosecause I was once arrogant enough to call Madness…

Perhaps nowwould be a good time to answer the question. Am I a feminist? The answer is not that simple.

I think tocall it feminism within the Islamic context is misleading. Since it conjures upimages of women demanding complete equality to men. Feminism a la West. And we all know that Allahin His wisdom has decreed a double share for sons over daughters ininheritance. If this was my cause, I’d be contradicting the Quraan. Allahforbid.

I've long since accepted that as a woman, I'm wonderfully different, but equal in the ways that count.

What I want is for women to be taken seriously. To be heard. To be allowed the sameopportunities to learn, advance and grow, as men. And I think we will all agree,that for the average South African 'housewife', options to imbibe Islamiclearning are limited. And those that are available tend to push a Tableeghiline, one that I remain exceedingly uncomfortable with.

It is Menof Learning who hijack the deen for their own agendas. That explains my deepseated mistrust of such scholars. It is Men of Learning who change Allah’s lawsto suit their needs.

I recentlyoffered to do one show a week for our fledgeling local radio station. They were skeptical (cautious)and asked for a breakdown. This was me asking, after all. And Allah knows why,but I have a reputation for being radical. I know! Go figure!

I sent thema proposal. One of the topics was feminism. Needless to say, I haven’t heardfrom them since. See, thing is, bypretending muslim ‘feminism’ (I use the term loosely) isn’t a reality, we foolourselves.

The feministmovement in the west has been around since 1872. Women have fought tooth and nail to be seen an equals.How well this movement has served their cause, that’s a whole other debate. Andwithin a Muslim context, it will be here as long as men continue to usurpwomen’s rights and sit on their holy high chairs and fatwa-sise all over us.

Muslimwomen didn’t need feminism at the time of the advent of Islam. Reading detailedaccounts of interaction between Sahabiyaat and their male counterparts revealswomen who were dynamic, self assured and completely comfortable and in control of the spheres they occupied in society. And what rights they were deprived of,The Prophet himself (SAW) fought for on their behalf. Islam was radical forit’s time.

It was theIndianisation if Islam and male insecurity that herded women into a corner. Acorner where they have (disgruntled though they were) remained for the lastseveral hundreds of years. Pregnant, barefoot and behind the pots, the clichédreality for many.

Bring onthe turn of the century and our integration into mainstream society postapartheid (as opposed to our little Chaar Fiefdoms), and we have a generationof independent women and utterly bewildered men.

Ask any educated, muslim woman how hardit is to find a secure, confident muslim man who isn’t threatened by herindependence? Ask any mummy's little chaarou son what he wants from a spouse and he'll say, a girl just like my mother.

Stalemate?

I haven't any answers on how to fix it. And still haven't pinned my colours to the Muslim Feminist mast. But they're firmly on the Women are Amazing! mast. And for now, that's good enough for me...

Candles...

2011-07-15T00:16:00.000+02:00

I wish I could show you, when you are lonely or in darkness, the astonishing Light of your own Being ~ Hafiz

Moulana Yunus Patel Saheb dedicated his life to showing us the light of our own Being. Dedicated his life opening a world of wonder and enchantment to the Seeker. Like a candle that loses none of its light by lighting another, so too was Moulana Saheb.

He was of a rare breed. A man of Understanding. For, many are the Men Learning, few are the Men of Knowledge and fewer yet are the Men of Understanding.

I had never met him. Nor had I spoken to him. But I had listened. He spoke simply. No smoke and mirrors. No tricks. His duas in particular, never failed to move me to tears. The yearning in his voice was hard to miss.

Long have I sought a spiritual guide. Long have I lamented the lack of a teacher who would understand me. My needs. And my way of thinking. Until I learnt:

“Be grateful to whoever comes, because each has been sent as a guide from beyond.” ~Rumi

And it was with these eyes, that I looked on Moulana Saheb. I took from him what I needed most. And strangely, he offered what I needed most at just the times at which I needed it.

Alhamdulillah.

To say that a Light has gone out in the world is almost an understatement. He was more than just a light. For those whose lives he transformed, he was a force.

When I heard of his passing, I thought of Rabiah Adawiyyah and of the stories of her death. Of the aayaat:

Oh you contented soul! Return unto your Lord well pleased (yourself) and well pleasing (unto Him). Enter you then among my honoured servants and enter you into my paradise (89:27-30)

I imagined the angels reciting these aayaat as they collected his fragrant soul. And my eyes welled over.

My sister called it: The eloquence of death.

And indeed, death speaks eloquently of the kinds of lives we live.

“There is a candle in your heart ready to be kindled

There is a void in your soul, ready to be filled.

You feel it, don’t you?

~ Rumi

May we continue trying to light that candle. Illuminate our beings. Within

And without…

on scars and sisters

2011-06-17T15:24:00.001+02:00

I’ve always maintained that like taubah, an apology to one whom we’ve wronged, that’s intensely personal. It’s something that should only be undertaken when one is wholly ready. Willing to embrace the act fully.

Yet a few days ago I was forced into a public apology. One I’d been intending to do privately but was not afforded the opportunity. I won’t go into the hairy details, (and believe me, they make Godzilla look like a hairless mole-rat). Suffice it to say, it was an incredibly painful experience.

I was left with a gaping wound that bled tears each time I thought of it.

I comforted myself with all the usual platitudes.

Asked myself, what I had lost. What was it really? My pride?

If so, I could do without it.

My honour?

I was reminded of the quraanic aayat. “do they seek Izzah (respect/honour) by them? For all honour belongs to Allah alone."

What was it?

My dignity?

I did not stammer, did not flinch when the phone was handed to me, on speaker, nogal. I spoke freely and from the heart.

So what was it, really?

Why had it happened?

What was her vendetta against me?

What had I ever done to deserve that?

I told myself, when the pain became overwhelming that long and teary night., “Think, of Palestine. Of Gaza. How often don’t they face humiliation much worse at the hands of the Zionists?”

I admit. I was good at spinning and spinning some more to build a bandage over my wound. But each bandage was soon soaked through and through.

So now, I’ve come to accept that it will be a while before I am healed of this. A while before I am able to forgive. A while before I am able to look back without feeling a pang. Before I am able to run a finger along the silvery scar and think: Wow! I survived that!

But even that night, as I sat, a shawl of self-imposed solitude thrown over my shoulders, the BBM msg’s from sisters kept coming.

Are you okay? *hug*

Hope you’re fine.

Don’t take it to heart.

The statuses were updated. So many in my support. And I was filled with gratitude for a friendship so pure. So sincere. Courtesy of Facebook.

I look back on those earliest Facebook meets. All these amazing and wonderful women unknown quantities to me. Trace the timeline of our friendships. And realize with an overwhelming surge of gratitude that I have been blessed with pure friendships. There has never been backstabbing, tale bearing, gossip and slander.

There has been laughter and love. They stood by me that night. Raised their voices against that of hate.

Your friend is your needs answered ~ Gibran

Indeed, that they are. My sisters. I love you all for the pleasure of Allah.

winter...

2011-05-31T23:19:00.000+02:00

The winter sun is warm, sleep inducing in this glassed box that moves. It reminds me of the feel of your fingers brushing against mine. I didn't quite feel them. Fingers too cold from the excitement that filled me at the thought of meeting you. The nervousness...

Your smile, tentative, guarded. A parting of lips, long fantasised over.
Eyes bloodshot from the shower. I remember how you smelt. How I inhaled. Surreptitiously though. You weren't to know.
I gave you books that day.
Locked between their pages little bits of coloured card. Each infused with one of my favourite perfumes.
You'd never hold me. At least, I thought... you should smell me.

I remember the drive back home. How blue the cold winter sky looked. How deep.

How black the tarred road. And how cheerful the leaves dancing across its surface. I remember being struck by the terrible beauty of a winter world that day. Shivering branches. Selfish sun.

How fast the time has passed. Four seasons since that day. The haughty chill of winter that depresses you, the budding promise of spring, new-green, gleaming.
The richness of a summer we never really saw. Not properly. Not in one another's imagined arms.

The slow drippy leaved autumn. Bereft of dancing leaves and your smiling face.

And once more. Winter...
It was our season. Always, its ashen swaying grass, naked branches, cold blue sky, it brings you...
To me...

Lazeeza Chronicles

2011-04-12T12:04:00.000+02:00

It was one of those days. The kind of day when everything looks much bleaker than it really is. When everything around you annoys. And you’re deeply in touch with your inner Grinch. When the Is-It-Fresh Brigade make u want to spit nails! You’re forgiven such days. That’s what they always say. No biggie. We all have them. Perhaps…

She walked in at a quiet time. The lunch rush gone. I remember her face from way back when she taught me. Grade One. Twenty seven years ago. Her body may have aged, but her face seems to have survived Time’s sometimes ruthless hand.

She places an order. Asks about my mum who was her colleague. We get to talking.

And then she tells me about her grandson. A four year old who bled to death after a routine tonsillectomy. I feel my blood run cold. In my mind I see my kids. My almost-four year old. The horror and dread fingers the fringes of my mind.

“You know about my son, don’t you? He died in an accident a few years ago.”

I offer my condolences. All the while trying to keep my shock, my horror under wraps. My words sound hollow and inadequate.

“And my husband… he lost his mind when our son died. He was coming right and now with my grandson... He’s back to square one.”

I feel like I’ve just been hit over the head by a celestial anvil!

Such pain. Such loss. I cannot even begin to understand it. Cannot fathom the true depth of their grief. Yet here she stands. A strong woman. Still teaching. Still smiling. Getting through life. Finding reasons to smile. Reasons to “be”.

I watch her leave and I am reminded of how huge a blessing each breath that enters my lungs is. Of how blessed I am to have a mind and body that are healthy. Of how lucky I am to have five healthy (though maddening at times) kids.

Yes, it does feel good to wallow at times. But she got me to ask: Why bother? Life’s too short. Carpe diem…

Life's Lessons, courtesy, The School of Hard Knocks

2011-04-09T00:19:00.000+02:00

On Love…

Loving someone means giving them the license to make you miserable. Of course, that isn’t quite how it is in the beginning. Then, it’s all laughter, shared secrets, dreams of forever…

Then one day you wake up. And realize with a start that forever could also be a life sentence….

Or loving someone is giving them the license to make you miserable but trusting that they won’t….For surely a love that is reciprocated, there can be no greater gift on earth. No greater blessing.
“Keep love in your heart. A life without it is like a sunless garden where the flowers are dead. The consciousness of loving and being loved brings a warmth and a richness to life that nothing else can bring. Who, being loved, is poor?” ~ Oscar Wilde

On Faith…

Being born into a faith is a strange thing. It’s like being born with curly hair. Not something that you have any control over. Some see their faith as an asset and do everything they can to enhance and nurture it. Curl defining mousse, hot oil treatments for faith. You name it. Nothing is too much.

For others it is like a handicap. A cruel joke of fate to be ironed out with every tool at their disposal. GHD, hair irons, gels, styling crèmes. Every hint of a curl, whispers of it must be eradicated. Ever notice though, how when their hair gets wet it’s still curly???

It’s part of that fitrah that we’re all born into.
“The minute I heard my first love story
I started looking for You
Not knowing how blind that was.

Lovers don’t finally meet somewhere
They are in each other all along
~ Jalaluddin Rumi

On Happiness…

A state of mind. How often do we labour under the false notion that it takes another to make us happy. Sure there are people who do. People who fill our hearts with joy and add to our happiness. But at the end of the day, it remains a state of mind. One that we adopt consciously. Willingly. Embrace Happiness and life will embrace you…

On Marriage

Hah! How dare I? For if there was ever a tough beast to master, it is marriage. However much love it may be founded on, it requires respect in equal measure. How ever many rights we’d like to see fulfilled, it requires compromise even more. And above all, it requires hard work! Lots of it!

Of course, this you learn through trial and error. No one tells you this, though everyone wants to offer advice regarding bedroom antics.

Conclusion

If there was one lesson in life that I were to choose to implement ignoring all others, it would be : And to thine own self be true.

A life bereft of honesty with oneself is an empty one indeed.

Okay, I’ll get off my soapbox now…

The Muslim-ness Measure

2011-02-07T00:09:00.000+02:00

I sometimes wish there was a scale. Like the bathroom scale. Or like measuring in grams or litres. A measure where we could determine the Muslim-ness of a person. So we’d get up in the morning. Hop onto our Muslim-ness scales and gauge.

Hmmm… yesterday, I spoke 1 lie. That lost me 2 Muslim-ness kilos. BUT I gave a beeeg sadaqah! Yaaayyyyy! Back on track!

It would make life so easy, not so?
People with high Muslim-ness ratings would set up exclusive clubs.
Admission criterion: 100 Muslim-ness kilos and over only.

But wait, even without this scale, we have these exclusive groups. And even without an ‘Actual scale’ we have our mental checklist that gets ticked off every time we meet a person.
For a man:
 Beard
 Kurta
 Pants above ankles
 Namaaz mark

Or in the case of a woman:
 Scarf (dupatta = bonus points)
 Decently covered (cloak = double whammy bonus)
 Niqaab (triple whammy bonus *comes with a voice that says “you are guided, sistah’*)
Note : even among niqaabis there are degrees. The latest trend being a jilbaab and dupatta artfully draped over the head. Very stylish ;)

Yes, I know, I sound sarcastic. Even a little bitter. And perhaps, yes, I am. But see, I was once there. Comfortably enrobed in my .25 m² of extra fabric in the form of a niqaab. Looking down my long nose at people who walked around without a scarf on their heads. Making dua for their hidayat. Even as I sported a range of spiritual ills of my own. Really, what right did I have to make decisions regarding their level of Allah consciousness? And that too, based on what they didn’t look like?

Okay, rewind here. What prompted this post?
An argument. A very messy one with a friend about a post on FB. A post where the discussion veered from why Imams need not bother mention Egypt in Jumu’ah khutbahs to the importance of Sunnah. And people’s attitude regarding sunnah.

The argument was put out that today we have relegated sunnah to the back burner. That people have no regard for, no respect for sunnah. The beard was singled out for special attention. The true mark of a Believer! The thing that sets us apart from the Fire-worshippers (so it was said – though I was tempted to point out the orthodox Jews pride themselves on keeping big beards too).

It was further said that it was pointless for our Imams to discuss Egypt in their khutbahs when we have Muslims turning Murtad. And that should be given primary attention.

I bristled at these comments (okay, that’s a euphemism - I became pretty confrontational).

See, at no point would I ever be dismissive of the importance of Sunnah. It is an expression of our love for Allah and by extension, of Nabi SAW. BUT, it is NOT all of Deen. And to ostracise someone because of the length of their beard, to bring it on par with Fardh is a South African illness. To take it as the mark real Muslim is for me, a prime example of South African “Appearance Fixation”. Men have been refused Imaamat in our Masaajid because they have beards that cannot grow!

Allah says in the Noble Quraan:

فَلاَ تُزَكُّواْ أَنفُسَكُمْ هُوَ أَعْلَمُ بِمَنِاتَّقَى

So, ascribe not purity to yourselves. He knows best him who has Taqwa
Surah 53 – Verse 32
And what is this Appearance Fixation, other than us feeding our already bloated egos? Revelling in how “guided” we are, compared to the misguided masses.
Does it not make us think when we see people who boasted none of the external ‘signs’ of ‘Piety’ being granted blessed deaths? Do we not question the value of these “external’ signs when we find an e-mail in our inboxes where a Muslim man, mubaarak grey beard, in full “Islamic regalia’, getting ‘some’ from a hooker in a side street somewhere, ‘unlucky’ enough to have been caught on camera.
Surely, the change begins within. Surely our Muslim-ness is about much more than what we look like.

drift...

2011-02-04T18:29:00.000+02:00

i try to make myself real
pretend i have an anchor
tethered to the earth
even as i feel myself drift
shift
hover above life
pretend i'm living it

yet the me i knew
she lived
through you
for you

And this woman
who's inhabited her body
would seek to deny you
pretend that you
never touched her soul

held it in your hand
held it to your own
and seen
how the lines
so perfectly
they fit

Keep it in a Closet...NOT!

2011-01-31T18:08:00.000+02:00

Some years ago I thought a man named Sardonic Scholar into existence. He would be my alter ego, The man behind whose face, I would lurk and hopefully say what was really going on in my mind. Hopefully say these things without too much of a consequence. I was, after all, a writer for The Muslim Woman.

His posts would go out as e-mails to people on my mailing list. The responses I received were often interesting. Sometimes damning. Occasionally amusing. And at time confrontational.

At this point, perhaps I ought to explain why I chose a ‘male’ to tell my tale. Even then, in my not- fully- conscientised- pseudo- feminist mind, I understood that a man could get away with much more than any woman could, especially on the religious front. So I chose to hide behind him, Mr Sardonic, who, even if I dare say so myself, was damn sexy ;)

But the time has come to merge these various personas. In the words of Zain Bhikha, “this is me”. Deal with it.

This was his first ever post:

Sardonic Scholar I

Okay, so the word scholar is loosely used here. In the sense of : one seeking knowledge, since I don’t have the complete qualifications, sanad, right length of beard, right lineage peppered with uncles with waist length baardjies and turbans that could double as kafns. But, still, I’ll keep the name.

You’ll be hearing from me somewhat regularly, so keep an eye out.

What’s my pet peeve today? Wellllll, it’s a beeeeeg one. But I will keep it brief. See, from my time spent at Daarul Uloom trying to claim the illustrious title, I had lots of people telling me what was Halaal and Haraam – in the food department. And somehow, looking back, I feel their behaviour was not…halaal. Really.

See The Prophetic tradition is clear : Da’ ma yureebuka ila ma la yuribuka.
Meaning, Leave those things which you have doubt in, giving preference to that which you have no doubt in.

So this is a largely individual thing. One man’s doubtful, and hence ‘yellow light food’ could well be another man’s halaal, ‘green light goodie’. But somehow, we fail to make the distinction between doubtful and haraam. So the number of people telling me that I can’t eat jelly babies grows all the time. Like, duh, I have no issues with gelatine, just like the many ulema who have passed this verdict.

I’m not saying that I’m right and the Don’t- eat- that,- it’s- haraam’ brigade are wrong, but I’m simply saying, allow me to eat that which I have no doubt in and you stay away from what is doubtful for you.

And most important, respect that. Don’t look scandalised when I whip out my not-certified- by- your- authority- of- choice- marshmallows to roast at my braai. I would not be eating them and passing the packet around if I had these doubts, and I’m sure, neither would you…

Facebook did it!

2011-01-15T23:48:00.000+02:00

Wanting

By Megan Hall

Wanting’s a powerful word.

I don’t want to be left wanting,

Want to be unafraid to want.

Wanting puts your heart out on a string,

Trawling for the thing that’s wanting you.

There’s no hook, except maybe forever.

I sometimes wonder. Will FB be blamed for Global Warming eventually? All those people sitting with their cell phones, on laptops, and booking the Face out of Facebook. Surely they must be emitting some kind of negative energy. There will probably be a long winded scientific explanation for it. Complete with Pie Charts and Graphs. Just you wait!

Already, Facebook become the scapegoat for the high divorce rate in the Muslim community. A sentiment, which to me is nothing short of ludicrous.

Let’s begin at the beginning and ask the question very few would dare answer. Why Facebook?

And why do we? Married people, who have LIVES, why do we?

I shall brave the wrath of the Anti-Sweeping-Generalisation Brigade and stick my neck out by saying:

every married person who finds their way onto FB is seeking something that their spouse is unable to provide. Or they're promoting a business/book/product ;)

I’m not going to take a ‘poke’ at figuring out what exactly that ‘something’ is for others, but I do know, from the interaction I see, that there are those trying to fill an empty marriage. Escape a miserable one. And perhaps even find love, while they’re married!

For me, it’s intellectual stimulation.

And in my quest for the perfect wordsmith, the person or people capable of sparring with words, I have come across whackheads looking for ‘play’, psychos trying to find a way of being less psychotic, and young men in India looking for easy South African women.

It can get pretty crazy sometimes.

I’ve heard stories of divorce because the husbands or wives were having affairs with people they’d met on Facebook. But can Facebook really be blamed? And if you’re in a troubled marriage, is Facebook the solution?

Or has Facebook just made it easier for people looking to be faithless to manifest their faithlessness and lack of commitment? Made it easier to find the thing you’re wanting, ‘cos guess what? It’s wanting you too…

When we remember that every ‘instrument’ is only as good or bad as its user, then we will accept that the problem lies not with Facebook.

It lies in lack of communication in marriages. A lack of honesty, of integrity. In people staying in marriages that aren’t working for them, for fear of being judged by society should they opt out. If your spouse is not meeting your needs, then perhaps you need to address the issue and find a way around it as opposed to seeking that emotional fulfilment elsewhere. For, all that brings is heartache for all concerned. All it does it become a justification for acting in ways that destroy us within, in the long run.

Bottom line : If your marriage is floundering, Facebook IS NOT the solution!

So what has Facebook done for me? It's been a rewarding experience.

I have found ‘sisters’. Ones I would never have otherwise met. We’ve bonded and the relationships I share with them are very special. I stay in touch with people I shared a classroom space with, back in the day. I promote my business.

Lest I be seen as the perfect Facebooker, allow me to confess. I'm not blameless. I mess up sometimes. But I’m hoping, in time, I’ll get better at it. Wish me luck!

Lazeeza's Chronicles - 2011

2011-01-14T19:36:00.000+02:00

I stand on the cusp of Lazeeza’s third birthday. Straddling the past and future. Taking stock...

The years seem to have passed in the blinking of an eye. Yet in some ways, there is a timeless quality to them. Like time congealed. Without beginning. As though I’ve always been surrounded by the smell of biscuits, thick in the air. The aroma of bread, the perfume of cinnamon marrying vanilla.

As though I’ve always known Anne and Beryl and Premi and Sam. The faces and names that fill my day. The people who welcomed me back after our year end closure, with beaming smiles and heartfelt ‘we missed you!’s. How rewarding it was, on that first day back, to trade smiles and laughter along with fresh scones, donuts and cakes!

I’ve forged bonds. Made friends. Built relationships. Had the circle of my life touch, and at times overlap with others’. I’ve seen people triumph over adversity. Raj beat cancer. The young man with the malformed limbs who just keeps going, not allowing his ‘disability’ to hold him back. Maggie have a baby against all odds.

I’ve been inspired by the people I’ve met. My life had been enriched beyond measure.

Some have vanished. Like my Painted Lady. She must have passed on by now….

Moments like these remind me of how tenuous the bonds I share with them really are. Of how fragile the thread that binds our lives, one to another really is.

My initial staff of 5 is now 8. Almost all from the initial group that were with me in my first year. Seun, sadly, has passed away.

These are the people who’ve witnessed me at my best and worst. Who’ve stressed about a ganash that wasn’t perfectly smooth. Or celebrated a perfect birthday cake with me. Who’ve become a part of my life, indispensible as my own family.

Did I envisage, when I started on the 18 April 2008, that 10 families, excluding my own, would depend on Lazeeza’s for their livelihood?

No. Not at all. All I can say, is Alhamdulillah. All praises belong to Allah for His favours on one so unworthy.

And Thank You! Yes, you! All the wonderful people who have supported me, stood by me and been such wonderful confectionary eaters. What good is a perfect cheesecake without someone to appreciate it?

Suggestions? What would you like to see us introduce (space permitting) in 2011?

And where to from here?

Psssttt…just between the two of us, there are plans, big plans. So keep me and my little dream in your thoughts and prayers.

Wishing all of you a fantastic 2011. Abundant love, light, joy and contentment.

Saaleha

(aka Aunty Lazeeza -if they but knew they’re calling me “delicious” every time they say that!)

Coming Full Circle

2010-12-23T09:32:00.000+02:00

At first I was freaked out that nothing, and I do mean, nothing about Zakariyya Park had changed. We drove into the parking lot, found a parking bay. I admit, I was uncomfortable about the fact that I’d come sans niqaab. Was I merely inviting people to pass judgement?

Fleetingly, the thought had crossed my mind before leaving home: Should I adhere to Madrassah rules and wear one to go in?

But I figured that hypocrisy is so not my thang, and if I had any hope of preserving my integrity, then I’d best go as I am. And let people say what they will. Since Allah’s view of me is the only one that counts any way.

So I passed the ‘hallowed’ green gates, slipped past the curtain (it’s new – change 1).

And inside, everything looked exactly as I remembered. I was filled with a sense of homecoming. I had loved being here with all my heart. It will always be the home to some of my happiest memories.

And then I saw Change 2 – They were organized! Impressive!

I did the registration thing and made my way to the kitchen where the programs were being held. It was packed!

I saw many familiar faces, but the ones I really longed to see, still eluded me. Farzana and I found a comfy spot, sat down. And listened. Kaar Guzari. First Maputo, them Malaysia, and then France.

Already, I began to find things that prickled. That niggled. That screamed at me all the reasons for why I no longer belonged.

And when my ex Apa stood up and said “Strong Words” about those who leave madrassah and abandon their purda *shock* or worse, their scarf *shockhorrorgasp*, I knew the battle was lost.

I sat there marvelling at the South African ability to sum up all of a person’s deen by what they look like. At our fixation with the external. But surely, it’s the spiritual cleansing and growth that should be the emphasis?

And then, the play.

I have never wanted less to sit through a Drama Production than I did that day. Written by the fifth years nogal! The naiveté. The monochrome view of the world. I’d be loathe to present that to a group of preschoolers!

So I bowed out gracefully. Located the sisters I had come to see, amongst the crowd, asked them to join me outside. And we did the catch up thing.

That was the highlight for me. The only one. The relationship we had shared had always been Al Hubbu Lillah. Love only for the pleasure of Allah. And I felt blessed to see that that bond, that thread that bound us, one to another was still intact. Alhamdulillah.

But never in my life had I been asked as many times, by as many people about how many children I have. At some point, I figured that the organisers would have done humanity a service had they just included a list of kids names and ages on the name tags we were issued. Would have made life so much easier. And of course the longer the name tag, the more impressive.

Fuzti!!!

Yes, you, my dear sister, of the name tag that reaches your navel, you’ve done the Ummah a phenomenal service!

Really? Is the true measure of a woman, her worth, to be gauged by how many babies she’s had? Is she really nothing more than a baby making machine?

Don’t answer that!

Especially those of you who know I have five!

Going back home I gave Farzana a headache with my diatribe on Palestine, on the need for people to read more, to educate themselves. With my thoughts on the fact that being a religious scholar is no excuse to be so wholly out of touch with the world.

With my story about how I chose to remove my Purdah.

And with my confusion as regards just what it is we’re producing in our Daarul Ulooms.

The students are far too young (most of them) to appreciate the gravity of what is being passed on to them. Only now, some 15 years later have I begin to see the wisdom and beauty of some of the things I’d learnt.

How much of the learning to we internalize? And how much of it breeds little more than arrogance?

At any rate, I'm thankful that I went. I've come full circle. And that's never a bad thing...

Another small dose

2009-12-22T00:19:00.000+02:00

Prologue

We want to believe that love is the last untamed. That at least it, with all its chocolate scented promises of eternity s not constrained, not confined. It will never be packaged as neatly as everything else in this day and age has become. Think rows of cereal boxes or houses like boxes, a neat little package to contain an entire life. We want to believe that it will always be just a little too big, too loud to be contained.

Think again…

Cutting words for the romantic, I know. But yes, think again…love is bound by time, space, distance, circumstance. Often it happens at the wrong time, to the wrong people. So from the outset it is doomed. That deformed foetus that under different circumstances could have been whole. Could have been beautiful. Then nothing remains of it but the echo on a stolen wind. A borrowed wind.

And it is this wind that follows me. Like a shadow. And brings with it, him…

It has been this way as long as I can remember. I’d be walking amongst a crowd and see him. Plain as day, standing before me. He never looks at me. Never acknowledges my presence. At first I was alarmed by these sightings. But now, I’ve come to think of him as a friendly ghost of sorts. Someone who is there, watching over me. You know, if that were really the case, I would not be surprised. Since, what we shared…well it’s hard to explain. A precious secret to be jealously guarded. A memory that evokes a pain so exquisite that I would be bereft without it. It defines my very essence.

I remember that day vividly. The riots. 1976. Oom Ghassan with blood on his hands; a cut on his head; dust on his body. Before he even opened his mouth, I knew what he was going to say. I wanted to scream at him. Tell him to go. To leave me. I wanted to put my hands over my ears, block out his words. Close my eyes and pretend I had not seen him. But the jacket. Bloodied and torn in his hands. It told me what words never could. The crystallisation of my most feared nightmare. And in that moment, I hated him.

Completely. A hatred so pure that it seemed to extinguish the love that had once consumed me. Why didn’t he listen? Why? It was a road that was going nowhere. A road that would forever be paved with bodies, mostly black, being trampled on by the boere. Those bastards. Sharpeville was only the beginning. The bloody beginning. Soweto would be remembered forever.

“They killed a dog,” Oom Ghassan murmured. Almost to himself. A man lost in the horror of what he had been forced to witness. “Hacked it to death and burnt it. A police dog.”

He didn’t need to say more. The anger that had radiated from the mob was almost visible. I had seen them that afternoon as groups made their way across the railway line that separated Actonville – the Indian suburb - from Watteville – home to the ‘Bantus’. And though the government used the occasion to prove that every stereotypical picture painted of black as savages was true, I saw it as a sign of things to come. A sign that perhaps the iceberg was just beginning to melt.

Watteville has no memorials to mark the occasion. Soweto does. While Hector Peterson has a memorial named in his honour nothing remains of my him. The man who shaped my life. Nothing, but a dusty plaque in the hallways of my heart. One that I visit during moments of solitude. In other ways, everything remains of him. I see him still. And know that he has always been watching over me. Hence the sightings of the ghost.

Afrocentric Review - Maha Ever After

2009-12-17T00:57:00.000+02:00

Maha Ever after – another spunky tale of Romance, Rotis and Unsuitable Men – so says the cover.

And that’s exactly what it is. Maha has graduated. From a naaching, koodhing teen to a Duryi dorternlor. The perfect round roti. The very thing she’d vowed never to become.

Brace yourself for a trip through Slumurbia – unmatched. Loads of Guji, even some Cape Malay. And Maha de-bandanna-ed, dripping jewels and wearing heels. Perfect Palace Hostess. Or is she?

When Sameer turns out to be a lot less than she’d hoped for she is faced with a choice. Call it quits, or hang in there. Knowing Maha, what do you suppose she does?

A small teaser:

The Patel posse burst into the room to find me giggling at my book while Sameer lay dozing.
“Ey, Maha! You laughing also!” Dada barked without preamble and jabbed at my book with his walking stick. Behind him Sameer jerked awake and Mummy and foi immediately fussed around him.
“You saali, sitting here reading chopras?” the old man continued, knocking the book off my lap. “You know my wife, marhoom?” he yelled. “So-so much she suffered. When we were young, your age, we was battling-battling, but she made sabar! Now you girls must also learn to make sabar, never mind what and what happens!”
I listened with my gaze appropriately downcast.
“So now you just sitting?” he shouted. “Where your beeg mouth now? You got nothing to say? Just now I heard you had big bhen-chodh mouth for talking talaaq-talaaq!” he spat, prodding my foot with his cane.

Lee explores the Indian prejudice and bigotry with regards to philandering men and divorce with a light touch. She manages to turn an otherwise serious situation into an occasion for laughter. She makes you cry. She gives you hope. And reminds you that second chances really do exist. I enjoyed the trip thoroughly.

The language is as colourful and evocative as ever. The pace never lets up and you are swept along, most willingly, I might add. Even better than The Story Of Maha, and that, in my view is quite an achievement, since few writers manage to achieve that.

The ultimate feel-good read. Perfect for lazy days on the beach.

What you waiting for? Go out and get a copy!

Title : Maha, Ever After

Country: South Africa

Format: Softcover
Publisher: Kwela Books

ISBN: 9780795702914

Length: 222mm

Width: 152mm

Weight: 365g

Pages: 272

more please mum

2009-11-16T22:36:00.000+02:00

Okay, so I've ignored chronological order with all of this. But I think you get the picture. But this has to be the last excerpt for some time now. Can't go giving it all away for nothing :)

Dear Diary

I give him this much. He’s persistent. I mean, this guy just does not let up. Yesterday he insisted on walking me to the ward. Even though he had a lecture to attend. Plus, he embarrassed me by wanting to carry my books. Must be watching too many movies from the sixties. Though it was sweet. And very flattering to be treated like some princess.

As for the lectures he keeps missing on my account, I’m sure he won’t have any problems with catching up, since everyone says he’s a genius.
He doesn’t look like much of a genius though, if he’s chasing damaged goods this hard. Sometimes people just don’t know what’s good for them. Or what’s not.

Fatima has a good laugh whenever she sees him coming our way. She says he looks a bit like Tom Cruise in Endless Love. I reckon she probably says so because she doesn’t know how to say that he’s got a big nose. And that one slightly crooked front tooth. Tom Cruise looks good with it though. So maybe he looks that way too. I can’t be sure since I find myself hiding from his gaze most of the time.

She keeps bugging me to give him a chance. But she doesn’t push me. She knows…

She’s going out with this gorgeous guy she met while we were getting pizza one afternoon. He’s…wait for it…studying to be an accountant. Aside from his dead beat interests, he seems like a nice guy. He’s very sweet. And the way the two are forever together, every spare minute that they have, I’m sure it will end in marriage. Good for her. She really deserves a break in life.
Today, I’m thankful for the love of good friends. And for my father who seems to really be coming around now. He’s almost normal.

By that I mean that he now watches TV most days and doesn’t try to set the table and stuff anymore. He seems to have reconciled himself to the loss of his shadow.
A

__________________________________

“So Asma. I don’t think you’re even going to relax around me enough for us to start something. So I think I’m going to get my father to phone yours. And then we can do this the right way. Like an official proposal and stuff. When’s a good time to call?”

My jaw must have dropped to the ground when he said this. I mean really! The guy could not be serious. I didn’t even know him! Proposal! Was he out of his mind?

Fatima walked up to us just then. At the sight of my face she started laughing. The laughter of the demented.
“What happened, Zaheer? Did you ask her to go to the bioscope with you or something? Majestic?”

“Erm, Fatima. Assalaamu alaikum.” A dense silence.
“What? Did I interrupt something?” She looked worried.
“Just come with me. And don’t say another word. I’m not lus for your jokes today okay.”
I pulled her hand and led her to the parking lot.

When we got into the car, she turned to me. That same no nonsense look she used to give me whenever I asked her to cover for me back in the day on her face.

“When are you going to just move on huh? I mean the guy is gone, what’s it? Six years now. You have to start living again. You can’t punish yourself and this guy, who happens to be the best thing that has happened to you in the longest time, for something that neither of you had anything to do with. If you must blame someone, blame this country for giving us twisted values. Blame the government. But don’t keep making yourself suffer. What do you want to be? The Penitent of Benoni?”

“Oh, shut up will you. You don’t need to lecture me. You’re not my mother okay.”

“In case you forgot baby, you don’t have a mother. I’hm all you have.” She didn’t do a half bad Southerner.

And then I was laughing. From deep within me. From my very core. And between the raucous bursts of laughter, I saw his face. And I realised that I had noticed. I had noticed that his eyebrows were thick. And joined over the bridge of his nose. And that his eyes were very warm. That his lashes were lush. And that his smile transformed his face from ordinary to extraordinary.

Maybe…just maybe…

accusation...

2009-11-14T22:40:00.000+02:00

So Farzana reckons I go from phases where I post often enough to those where I all but vanish. She's right. So to thank her for the observation. And for taking the time to voice her irritation with the state of affairs, another little taste.

“Wow! Your mother is a very charming woman.”
“Ya, I know.”
“Ya, and she’s also very pretty.”
“Oh, so you wish you’d married her instead?”
“What? You jealous? Tell me you’re jealous. It would make this night all the more memorable, ’Cos I sometimes wonder whether I’ve just married the Ice Queen. You haven’t given me a single kiss all day.” His eyes laughed.
“How could I? We’ve been surrounded by people all day!”
“Ya, and I think you like it that way. That’s why you’re sitting so far from me. Come hither daahling .”
“Your English drawl is lame. But I’ll come closer anyway.” I got up from the bed and went to settle myself on the couch next to him. We were in at the Holiday Inn in Jo’burg.
“Wait!” He stood up from the couch.
“What?”
“I need to do something first.”

He disappeared into the bathroom. I stood up and went to the window. I pulled back the curtain. The City stared back, all million eyes, or so it felt. The lights were just amazing.
So this was the big First Night. There were questions I had to ask though. Before…Things I needed to know. I was surprised we’d got this far without discussing it. Zaheer emerged from the bathroom with a dripping chin. He was towelling his arms dry.

“Can’t forget the salaat.”
“What?”
“Before, dot, dot, dot? You don’t know?”
“No.”
“Hmm, so it would appear that you didn’t do this thing the right way the first time around.”
His first mention of my past. And done so casually. He sure had my vote.
“Okay, now, go and make Wudhu. I brought a musallah for both of us. And a compass. Among other things.” He winked. And my pulse tripped over itself.

I stood behind him. To the right. He was my imam. I followed his movements. Matching. Just a beat behind. And I knew that into the world of the great unknown he would always precede me. He would always clear the obstacles. My Imam.

writing...

2009-10-28T21:09:00.000+02:00

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

Celebrities and celebrations

2009-10-21T14:58:00.000+02:00

I'm sure you can tell that I'be been invited to a good few parties lately:P I attended all dressed as a cake.

The Mad Hatter was thrilled with this one. I did it especially for his party. We finished it with a tea-set precariously perched on it's lopsided topmost tier.

Yes, I've been hobnobbing too. Just some of the celebrities I've met lately

dead??

2009-10-19T22:37:00.000+02:00

Nah, contrary to what the absence of posts may hint at, it's not true. I'm not dead. But I have been run over by words. I was in the ICU after reading Barbara KIngsolver'sThe Poisonwood Bible, since I had never even imagined writing as stunning as all that.

Pity none of the words that floored me were my own.

I've also just read three of the Twilight books in a space of three days. I plan on buying the fourth. Not because the writing dazzles or anything though, but simply because I'm chachie to know what happens next.

I read J.M. Coetzee's Disgrace. Food for thought there. Maybe, contrary to the evidence, I am growing up after all. But don't tell anyone I said that. They might expect me to start behaving more responsibly . Shudder. Can you even begin to imagine that !!

Lazeeza Days...

2009-10-01T11:56:00.000+02:00

Lazeeza days are moody. Sometimes they’re cheerful inspiring, buoyant. And on other days they are limp, weighted by negativity and negative beings. A morning that starts with ‘is it fresh’ is often a forgone conclusion. And is the kind of day I’d rather hide from.

But then I meet the man. The young man with the deformed arm, who goes about life doing, doing and doing some more and I am cheered. I know that he faces challenges day after day. That the half length arm with a single malformed finger must be the cause thereof, but still he presses on. Drives, works, lives. And always…smiles.

Or I meet the old lady, shrunken, diminished in body with a flaming spirit that dares life to deign otherwise. She bakes wedding cakes, she tells me. And I find my mind conjuring up images of the white Arum lilies she so lovingly describes, perfect, and a snow strewn wedding.

And then there’s the couple. The unforgiving eye, the blighted eye would never see beyond the dark, fat man and his equally dark and unbeautiful wife. But to me, I see a marriage of souls. A thoughtful, loving husband, and a woman who after more than twenty years still has the grace to blush when he teases. A restorative balm when I find my spirit becoming jaded.

The previous post brought this gem into my life – courtesy of Azra . Since I think that wealth is always best when shared. Enjoy…

''For a long time it had seemed to me that life was about to begin - real life. But there was always some obstacle in the way, something to get through first, some unfinished business, time still to be served, or a debt to be paid. Then life would begin. At last it dawned on me that this was my life. There is no way to happiness. Happiness is the way'' ~ Alfred D Souza

Musings

2009-09-26T07:53:00.000+02:00

KhatPat - it's back!

2009-09-09T08:31:00.000+02:00

okay, so you thought that 'they' had won. And that you'd never get to hear Amina and Khayroon skinder again.

Well, I've got news for you. KhatPat is back. To listen to episode nine as well as previous episodes go here

Enjoy :)

And of course you're part of the Facebook Group (693 members - I'm gobsmacked). If you aren't you'd better join here

Brewing Storms in Teacups

2009-09-03T06:56:00.000+02:00

The Prophet Muhammed PBUH has been reported to have said: Al Muminu mir’aatul mu’min.
The English translation would be “A believer is a mirror unto another believer”.

So what do these words mean to you?

All my life I have used these words as a means by which I strive improve myself. I have looked at the mistakes of others and asked myself whether I possess the same ills and then worked at purging them from my system if I find them to be festering within me. I have learnt from the mistakes of others.

And this is the very principal that I applied when the ideas for KhatPat Corner, being aired on Cii, took root in my mind. Yet, people have seen fit to claim that the show teaches young children how to lie, use drugs and much worse.

Helloooo…. Can we all stop dreaming for a moment here and wake up and smell the leaves. Burning leaves. Our youth are struggling to find an Islamic identity in this melting pot that we call South Africa. Many are losing the plot…seriously. Ever since I opened the bakery, I get to see more and more of this. I see youngsters come into the shop, clearly stoned. And I smell the leaves – burning leaves – in the passage that runs along the shopping centre.

What KhatPat aims to do is show that these evils are prevalent in society. And hope that parents will take the steps necessary to fix it!

Ziyaad is a father who is never at home. Who believes that providing all the material benefits of this world, that’s all it takes to rear a child. Is his way the right one? That’s the question we ask.

Farouk is the dictator dad who rules over his dominion with an iron fist. This sparks small rebellions (inevitable in every country ruled by a dictator), but of course these are all ‘underground’ movements. His wife has bought the children cell phones -against his law, naturally – and his daughter has found ‘someone’ on Mxit. Is his the right approach?

Tasneem, Ziyaad’s daughter, has a black Muslim significant other on campus. Is refusing the proposal on the basis of skin colour Islamic behaviour? Zaheer is stuck on Chappies and is being dragged through night clubs, zol selling and a series of other evils. How does he resist peer pressure and listen to the voice of reason, his best friend Umar.

All we’ve done is use drama as a means of getting the message across. The Quraan tells us the story of Aad and Thamud. We are told of Lut (AS) and the evils that were prevalent in his society. These are not told for mere entertainment value, but so that we may learn. That we make take lessons from the wrongs that they committed.

If we were to use the rationale that some people are applying to KhatPat, then we’d have to say – Allah forbid – that we are learning to cheat people, we are learning arrogance and all sorts of other vices from reading of these nations.

Allah tells us of Nabi Yunus AS in the belly of the whale. This was as a result of his disobeying the command of Allah. Is Allah revealing the sins of a believer by telling us this Qissah? Or is He teaching us. Allowing us to learn from the mistakes of another?

Why, oh why, do we always have to put such a negative spin on anything that does not conform? Do we really consider our deen to be such bitter medicine that we immediately brand anything that might be -ooooh, that terrifying F word - FUN as fitnah.

Have out imams nothing better to say than to advise people in this blessed month of Ramadaan nogal – on the evils of the dreaded Khat?

From the snap survey that was held yesterday though, it is clear that the detractors as few and far between, alhamdulillah.

May Allah make KhatPat Corner a success. May it be a means of getting people talking and working together to eradicate the evils that fester and threaten to transform our communities into seething cesspits of vice.

Eish, I've been remiss

2009-08-25T07:46:00.001+02:00

Just read this. Found it revealing :Niqab Ban in France - My thoughts

by a very prolific blogger i.e. anyone who does more than 2 posts a month -by my standards :P

S

back for a bit

2009-08-25T07:11:00.000+02:00

As much as I tend to steer away from announcements of late, I might as well admit that I've just had my 32 nd birthday. Oddly enough, I don't really feel much different, but once you pass a certain age you seldom do. I was surprised to find a rather large bottle of Lacoste Touch of Pink waiting for me at home . Which proves that men can become romantic. It just takes half a lifetime for them to do so ;)

Yesteray the first episode of a Radio Drama entitled Khat Pat was aired on Channel Islam International. I helped create that. It was a strangely Gepetto-esque moment, listening to words that I'd carved come to life.

The 'other' Saaleha, one of the co-writers, basking in the sense of pride that comes from a job well done, asked whether the feeling could be likened to childbirth.

I think not though, since the agony with this baby was prolonged, sometimes ignored even. Each of us dipped into and out of the project as our schedules allowed.

I look forward to the second episode and think that Cii would be doing all of us a favour if they turned it into a podcast. I think I'm going to suggest that. Right after I tell the 'actors' involved just what an excellent job I think they did.

S

Addendum...

2009-08-10T19:55:00.000+02:00

Some time back I created a man. I called him Sardonic Scholar. He was a busy body who send unsolicited mail to people on my contact list. At the time, I believed that people would find his point of view more acceptable if it was coming from a man. I think differently now. If you're interested in hearing what my alter ego has to say (more like 'has had to say') go here

Tomorrow, I may just write another Sardonic post :P

Tomorrow...

2009-08-10T19:52:00.001+02:00

Tomorrow I will perform all my prayers on time.
I will start on a diet and stick to it.
I will be a more attentive wife, a more loving mother.
I will listen... Actually stop what I am doing and listen when my kids recount their adventures after a day at school.
I will savour the silence with my husband’s hand cradled in my own and listen to the sound of his breathing.
I will work on my novels.
I will laugh with abandon and surrender to tears as the need arises.
I will remember the good more often and forget the bad more easily.
I will move out of the shadow of myself and truly be.
Tomorrow…

What is this life, if not a series of interminable tomorrows? It seems we break the promises we make ourselves the most. Tragic, no?

Thinking

2009-07-28T21:28:00.000+02:00

It really has been a hectic two months. I've been short staffed at the bakery. That has meant considerable juggling of tasks as well as getting the uninitiated initiated. But we've all survived and learnt new things in the process. The changes have been positive in many ways and for that I can only thank Allah.

As odd as it may seem, but while my hands busied themselves decorating birthday cakes and filling endless savoury or cream croissants my mind went off on a tangent and came up with these questions:

1. Why is it so easy to drift and become lost in a sea of the mundane?
2. What is spirituality? What does it do for the soul?
3. What is friendship, truly, and why do we need it so very much?
4. How does one actually place a monetary value on a 'thing'? I mean, consider a fifty rand note and the endless combination of things it can actually buy.

The last question was sparked by two cups of organic coffee and two slices of cake bought from the local Woolworths coffee shop. The cake was so depressingly awful that I felt horrible about having doled out R24-00 for each slice (one of the biggest drawbacks of owning a bakery). And I thought of all the other things that my fifty could have bought. And I wondered who it might be, in my very neighbourhood, that went to bed on an empty stomach, while I wasted R80-00 on four, not very good items.

Until next time

Oh Allah, bless us in Rajab and Sha'baan and allow for us to reach the month of Ramadaan.

Go gently
S

A Discovery

2009-07-01T21:33:00.000+02:00

Remember how I mentioned a card that I received in the mail?

To have a look at it go here

really worth the trek :)

S

The Most Unreadable of Unreadables

2009-07-01T18:20:00.000+02:00

I think they sneer. Yes, these meanies really do sneer. They sneer at you for wasting hard earned money on buying them. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, they continue their Sneer Fest by deriding your every effort at reading them. And, no, they really don’t give a damn whether you have any other readable read at your side. So you’re left in a lurch.

Marooned on an island, surrounded by a sea of unreadable, unpalatable words. You're left with two choices. Languish or wade. I've gone for one or the other of these options each time one of these Unreadable Reads came to visit. Depending on my personal level of desperation. But more often than not, I chose to languish, awaiting the arrival of a Magnificent Steed of Stunning Words to spirit me away.

To save my fellow Word Warriors the the same fate I’ve finally stolen the time to compile the list of The Most Unreadable of Unreadables according to Afrocentric.

Topping the list, hands down would have to be Rajaa al Asnea’s Girls of Riyadh. I started this so-called novel only to ditch it after a few chapters feeling faintly bewildered by the realization that crap like that can actually be the cause of the loss of trees. Nothing short of sacrilege.

On a scale of one to ten, I’d rate it a minus five. Yes, it’s that bad.

At this point I feel it necessary to add Ken Follett’s World Without End to the list. It felt more like a Novel Without End. Painfully long, unnecessarily detailed. Plus it stank of treachery. A totally unrealistic portrayal of the time period. In his version of reality women spent all their time flashing their fannys at men. Talk of wishful writing.

I actually waded my way through this sea of unreadable tripe, astonishingly enough. But I was desperate. I had nothing else to read. On a scale of one to ten, it scores a stingy three.

I hope you have yet to hear of Kate Furnivalls’ The Russian Concubine. It’s a cliché a couple of hundred pages long. Tragic. What can I say? I’m a demanding reader. It scores a four.

Though I feel a traitor for writing this, but Imraan Coovadia’s Green Eyed Thieves is also on this list. I could not, even with the best intentions and truckloads of perseverance, wade my way through it. Out of touch with reality. That was the lasting impression it left with me. It scores a four.

Okay, don’t toilet paper my lawn for saying this, but Tolkien's Lord of the Rings is also on my list. B-O-R-I-N-G. That’s what it screamed. Even though the style of writing was easy on the eyes. It scores a generous six.

I hunted down a copy of Girl in the Tangerine Scarf by Mohja Kahf. Found it, began reading it, only to abandon it a few chapters in. Too American? I don’t know. But it just missed every chord and some of mine are pretty exposed. I’d rate it a six.

Until next time
go gently
S

Books

2009-06-23T20:55:00.000+02:00

You know how it sometimes is that you read a blurb and everything sound so exciting. Then you take the book home, lovingly cradled in your arms only to have the pages morph before your very eyes into something ugly, and plain unreadable?

Thankfully, that doesn't happen too often. Most books that find their way into your hands, do so for a reasons. At least I'd like to believe that. And then there are those books. That elite little grouping that carry words so precious that they are seared into your mind. Words that border on actual physical nutrition. They are rare finds, these works of art. And they deserve some sort of homage. So here it is :

The Bestest, According to Afrocentric

1. The Book Thief by that legend, Marcus Zusak (so what if he's only written one book thus far?)
Now for the rest. Try as I might, I cannot place them in any particular order, since each of these titles have added something to my life
*The Wedding Officer, The Food of Love, The Various Flavours of Coffee - all by Anthony Capella
*The Constant Princess by Philippa Gregory
*Confessions of a Gambler by Rayda Jacobs
*The Kite Runner and A Thousand Slendid Suns by Khaled Husseini
* A Golden Age by Tahmima Anam
* The Voluptuous Delights of Peanut Butter and Jam by Lauren Liebenberg
*The Translator by Leila Aboulela
*Middlesex by Jeffrey Eugenides
*Purple Hibiscus by Chimamanda Adichie

Two novels that have just recently been inbibed by yours truly are A Golden Age by Tahmima Anam and The Voluptuous Delights of Peanut Butter and Jam by Lauren Liebenberg.
Concerning the latter, the only criticism I have is that the title is a bit of a huge peanut- butter-stick- your- jaws- together kind of mouthful.

But the prose in both of these was an absolute delight. Truly stunning reads which fly in the face of my previous assertations concerning novels by male authors. I really could not have been more wrong.

Enough said. I have Adichie's latest offering at my bedside. It beckons. I am wont to respond.

Until we next meet... Hopefully with my list of The Most Unreadable Books according to Afrocentric.

S

p.s. Bloggers who may wander into my little space, I may not get to visit, or read what you have penned, but a similar lists by you on your blog would make for interesting reading. Turn it into a meme perhaps?? :P

non bloggers, mail me with your list on imraan dot bhamjee at fnbisp dot co dot za

A Gifted Week

2009-05-18T10:57:00.000+02:00

I can hardly believe it that it's been nearly a month since my last post. Apologies to the two peole who read my blog. I know I'v been really remiss.

So what's happened since?

Not much. and pretty much everything

I've discovered that in spite of my previous assertations re the wisdom that comes with ageing, I did not have the foggiest idea regarding what love entails. I've been smacked about by life and have finally understood that it really is a place to call home. And I feel really blessed - alhamdulillah - to have just that
I was lucky enough to receive three gifts in one week. The first was a beautiful burkha. The second, a stunning handmade card, courtesy of my doppelganger and the third a delicious smelling body wash.
I learnt that bigotry is alive and well in the Muslim community. I shan't elaborate. But expect a rant from my alter ego, Sardonic Scholar, soon enough. (If I can just steal the time)

That's all folks.

Oh and one more little thing. A gift from me to you :

Chapter Five

Human nature is like a relentless river. Finding one path blocked, it always seeks out another. And just continues flowing. Ever forward, never stagnant. The day Farouk walked into the house a huge box in his hands, it changed Samiha’s course forever, led her to new vistas. And suddenly where she had once been, it didn’t seem quite so verdant anymore. The colours faded. The cracks began to show. And she found a way of expressing these emotions in tales that she called fiction, though there was a lot more fact to the stories than even Samiha would care to admit.

The box contained that marvel of technology – a computer.

One freezing winter’s night Farouk took his eldest son Ali along for a Qiraat recital at the home of a good friend. The Sheikh was from Egypt, and he wasn’t called bul bul for nothing. His voice was legendary.

The evening that was meant to have lasted two hours stretched. Recital was followed by snacks, samoosas, she guessed and tea. And lots more besides. Farouk lost track of time. As it was Samiha wouldn’t miss him. She was always far too absorbed in that computer of hers anyway. But she did. And the pain of that night birthed a tale, one of her first short stories.

Things so Lost

2009-04-21T21:11:00.003+02:00

I stumbled across an old file. Found some ancient scribblings. And this here text for a children's picture book. Methinks it will never get published. So I've gone and self published...right here. Anyone care to illustrate???

The Land of Socks

Yusuf wore a frown on his brow,
For the life of him, he couldn’t tell how
His favourite pairs of socks was a pair no more,
It was time for mum to return to the store
To replace the ones now oh-so lost
No telling how much that would cost

Yusuf sighed, a great big sigh
And pulled on a pair almost knee-high
Black with thick, ugly yellow stripes
That just increased his complaints and gripes

This sock- business was strange, for sure
He needed to try to discover a proper cure
For the socks that disappeared without a trace
Even though Mum had put them in their place

So he pulled out the drawers and placed them on his bed
Then went on all-fours and stuck in his head
The cupboard was a dark and gloomy place
So dark, that he couldn’t even feel his face
He peered into the darkness as hard as he could
Get to the bottom of this mystery, he certainly would

In the distance a bright light did he spy
Surely this wasn’t a trick of the eye
He crept into the gap, feeling his way,
This was turning out to be a very strange day

Then suddenly the ground was there no more
He was falling fast, and his body was sore
From knocking against walls, covered in cake
That smelt like Mum’s lousiest bake
Rock- hard it was and very stale too
He ate a bit and it tasted like glue

He landed on the ground with a mighty bump
And rubbed his head, it had grown a hump
The size of a camel’s, this hump felt
He rubbed it gently, trying to get it to melt

He looked around him, feeling rather peculiar
Nothing around him looked even slightly familiar
This land was huge as far as he could tell
With the number of socks there, it was just as well

It smelt heavenly though, remain in no doubt
With roads of foot powder spread all about
Flowers by the dozen bloomed along the roads
Thankfully, here there weren’t any toads
The flowers were pretty, lilac, yellow and blue
And colours of the rainbow, amazing their hue

A liquid dripped from their inside each flower
That seemed to possess a very strange power
For wherever it fell a new flower would grow
It’s colours amazing, it would begin to glow

But strangest of all was the sock choir
Their song so beautiful he had but to admire
They stood in rows straight and neat
And sang a song that none could beat
For their king, whom they called a Chowder
Standing respectfully on their road of foot powder

Before them the Grand old Chowder, he sat
He was their King and he wore a splendid hat
He was a huge grey sock with a bright red beet
Who could very easily fit on giant’s feet

Beside him sat the Grand Chowderess
Her purple hair all tangled, it was a mess
If truth be told, a woolly pom pom was her hair
And it looked so strange that Yusuf had to stare

White was her colour with yellow polka dots
Or was that Winnie the Pooh, his face covered in spot?
And she too was huge, this I must confess
A giantesses boot for her, no less

And talking of boots - these were their thrones
They were speaking to each other in low tones
Yusuf stood tall, and then looked around
Astonished was he, when amongst the choir he found
No less that four of his favourite socks
Even they grey one, with the navy blocks

He felt terrible to find that sock right there
For he’d just had a fight with his brother Umair
About this very sock, which now stood so proud
Singing for the Chowder and Chowderess so loud

So the next time your socks decide to take a walk
And feel that they’d much rather sing than talk
Know that they’ve found their way to The Land of Socks
They’re not simply hiding at the bottom of a smelly box

Their Sokkie Heaven is much more appealing
It’s not a case of your brother stealing
Your favourite socks just to have a hoot
So stay away from the boxing gloves and boots

A wonderful story

2009-04-20T21:53:00.006+02:00

I was sent a story the other day. I wouldn't be lying if I said that it is, without doubt, the best short story I have read in a long time.

So I share it with you now...

AUTOBIOGRAPHY IN 5 SHORT CHAPTERS
BY PORTIA NELSON

I.

I walk down the street
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk
I fall in
I am lost ... I am helpless
It isn't my fault
It takes forever to find a way out

II.

I walk down the same street
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk
I pretend I don't see it
I fall in again
I can't believe I am in the same place
but it isn't my fault
It will take a long time to get out

III.

I walk down the same street
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk
I see it is there
I still fall in ... it is a habit
My eyes are open
I know where I am
It is my fault
I get out immediately

IV.

I walk down the same street
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk
I walk around it

V.

I walk down another street

-------------

SO if I seem to have gone AWOL, don't fret. I'm pondering the paths. Wondering whether I want to fall in a hole again. Walk around it. Or just try an altogether new path. Being in unfamiliar territory is terrifying isn't it?

Lazeeza Chronicles IV - The Is-It-Fresh Brigade

2009-04-01T17:55:00.005+02:00

Amongst the patrons of Lazeeza’s is a group that I have taken the liberty of christening the Is-It-Fresh Brigade.

Picture the scene:
The cherry wood shelves groan under the weight of trays of still shiny koeksusters, glossy chocolate doughnuts, sprinkled liberally with multi coloured hundreds and thousands or roasted peanut nibs. A hint of cinnamon teases your nostrils triggered by the warmth of the sugar encrusted doughnut. The clang of bread pans being emptied reaches you over the laughter of bakers somewhere out back.

You turn to the salesperson and ask, “Are these fresh?” The violins that orchestrated your movements until now grind to a discordant halt. The smiling face of said salesperson morphs into something grotesque. Smoke issues from her nostrils.

“Yes,” she grunts.

The rapidly morphing salesperson is yours truly. The patron being enticed to the harmonious strains of a violin is a member of the Brigade.

So tell me, dear member of The Brigade, why, oh why do you ask me this question when it is obvious, in fact more than obvious, that what you are buying is fresh.? When, with the aid of a pair of tongs, you can do a rudimentary press to ascertain this for yourself?

Why, when naan is still breathing cloudy breaths into the air do you turn to me looking for all the world like a poor replica of Dennis the Menace and ask the dread question?

There are days when I clench my teeth, grin and bear it. But there are also days when I want to scream.

So if my answer to you, dear Brigade member, is less than polite, you’ll forgive me. Since the other members of your Brigade, the ones who got here before you, they’ve milked me of all the polite grins I have in my mental storeroom.

And when I see your face, my mind shrieks, Please God, not another one!!!

Lazeeza Chronicles III

2009-03-18T21:12:00.003+02:00

Sometimes…beneath the crushing agony of grief, it’s easy to forget the words of the Quraan, even though you hold on to it each day and recite from it, allowing the music of its words to wash over your tortured soul.

What’s stranger still, is that you are one of the lucky few who recite with total comprehension. So much for all the years of study.

A woman walked into the bakery this morning. She has eyes that are bluer than the sky at noon. She took a doughnut. ”Not for me,” she said. “For my mother in law.”

“How is she?” I ask, recalling a previous conversation concerning her mother in law who lives in an old age home. On that occasion she and her husband had been summoned by the authorities at the home to resolve a situation where the older woman had turned violent against a fellow resident.

“She’s coming to stay with us.” Her eyes are shiny.
“She’s in an old age home. Ever since she’s been there…she’s deteriorated. Old age is not a sickness.”
At this point it dawns on me that this conversation is as much of an attempt to convince herself as it is to inform the listener.

“It’s hard living with her.” The internal strife rages in her eyes.

“May God make it easy for you.” My words. “May He give you the strength to deal with it all.”

“He will.” Her voice never wavers. Grows stronger.
“He never gives us more than we can bear.”

I feel my body flood.
Then drain.
Of all the fear. All the uncertainty.
What remains is the hard nub of human existence, the thing that brings the woman who has buried her child to her feet once more…
Hope. It’s all I have left.

“That’s a verse from the Quraan,” I say. My own eyes swimming.

How is it that she found me on this day, when the glass glued to my hand feels heavier than ever? And even though more than anything I’d like to put it down; lay my burden aside for a bit, the glue eats into my skin and the weight drags my arm downward.

She has never heard of la ilaha illallah. And yet...
Suddenly the leaden water evaporates from the glass. The glue ages. Weakens. I lay the near empty glass aside. I place all hope and trust in Him.

And I know that each breath, each heartbeat whispers of Hope. And that the second between each one. That’s distilled Faith.

P.S. This post was meant to have been an article for a local magazine. Had been accepted, in fact. Was to have been the first of a series entitled 'Behind the Counter'. But then the editor of the editor decided that he didn't 'get' it. I decided that fragile egos don't 'do' rejection too well. And that was that. Abortion pre term. A cliché , rather personal at that.
Who knows, maybe someday :)

S

Thirty

2009-02-23T22:01:00.006+02:00

Photo: Regina Povedav

A friend described turning thirty as turning a corner. At the time, I scoffed at the suggestion, Queen of Contrary that I am. But I concede - much to my chagrin - that of course she was right.

See the changes weren't so pronounced when I hit 30. But at 31 they're a whole lot more real.

SO what happens when you turn 30...1

you stop trying to impress people with beeg words, since you know enough of them now to no longer find them impressive

you become more accepting. I'd use the word resigned but that sounds somewhat defeatist. So yes, accepting it is. Accepting of your lot and the many jugs of lemonade that life has had you make

the phrase, 'it's a lemon' finally makes sense. Realising that it has much to do with sucking gives you great joy. (I know, too much citrus., I'd best change track before I give someone an ulcer)

You're more comfortable with your body no matter what the shape. You understand it better and know that if there's something you don't like about it, only you have the power to change it

You accept the fact that not everyone will have the heartstopping romance that novels promise. And that having 'comfortable' ; ' supportive'; ' friend' - in the long run these things can count for a lot more. Besides, your firsts were pretty impressive by your own standards and those are the only standards that matter anyway

you no longer believe everything you read

you finally concede that there is no Utopia. Not within religion. Nor without. It's all about carving that body shaped niche. One that is large enough to accomodate even your inconsistensies.

you realise that while black and white is a striking contrast and most fetching when it comes to colouring your world, it's also very limiting. You begin to explore all the shades in between and thank Allah every day for allowing to the ability to do so

You befriend Allah and discover minifestations of His Supreme clemency in tiny gestures each day. And know with all your heart that He has bigger things to worry about than the length of a man's beard or a woman's hair for that matter

you begin to discover what makes life so precious

So yeah, being 30...1 is not bad. It's atually pretty good. If you're real about it. And I'm all for real.

Walking...

2009-02-12T10:31:00.003+02:00

Put the glass down.
Always darkest before the dawn.
Every cloud has a silver lining….

But what do you do when the glass is glued to your hand?
When the dawn is so long in coming that the darkness swallows you whole?
When the clouds are so dense that they fill the space between the heavens and the earth and press your arms to your side?
Are clouds meant to be so heavy?

She gropes about. Stumbling. Bumbling. Yet onwards. Always onwards. In the dark. What drives her?

Faith. An idiotic faith in?
People.

The ground beneath her walk-weary feet is rocky. It slopes uphill. Always bloody uphill.

The thing about walking uphill. Always bloody uphill. Is that you’re always looking down. To look up would mean a pain in the neck. Literally. So you look to the ground, at your blood ribbon-ed feet. You don’t see a summit. You don’t imagine that something awaits beyond those smothering clouds. You cannot imagine that a glorious vista approaches. It’s under a stream of cloud anyway. A murky one.

Look away now. Look away. She’s sat down. Crying.

Her tears are red. They’re not the product of her dusty eyes. Rather, from her soul. It’s such a broken sound. Should you be wretched enough to hear it…well don’t say you weren’t warned.

She grovels to her feet. Teeters. Totters. Wipes away the snot, the tears with the back of a torn hand. And she walks. And walks. And walks…

The Task at Hand

2009-02-09T11:21:00.003+02:00

Palestine has long been touted as a worthy cause in the Muslim community. Since the suffering masses share our faith and remain where they are in order to protect the third holiest site in the life of a Muslim , Masjid al Aqsa. While I admit there are times when I thought of it as a lost cause - can life really have so little value? - but a recent mass rally held at the Bazme Adab hall in Actonville got me to revisit Palestine in my mind and decide which side of the fence I am sitting on or whether I want to be sitting there at all.

While much of what was said resonated, it was the address from the COSATU representative, Bongani Masuku that impacted most deeply, while the head of the SACC, Mr Eddie Makue spoke in a language that was much akin to my own.

Does it say something about me that I found the contribution from Moulana Akoodie – the Muslim View (says who?)- on the matter to be most ire-worthy? He was all bluster and fluster and empty rhetoric. In fact much of what he said didn’t sound very different to the pamphlets that were being distributed amongst Israeli soldiers in a bid to justify the senseless killing.

"[There is] a biblical ban on surrendering a single millimeter of it [the Land of Israel] to gentiles, though all sorts of impure distortions and foolishness of autonomy, enclaves and other national weaknesses. We will not abandon it to the hands of another nation, not a finger, not a nail of it." This is an excerpt from a publication entitled "Daily Torah studies for the soldier and the commander in Operation Cast Lead," issued by the IDF rabbinate. The text is from "Books of Rabbi Shlomo Aviner," who heads the Ateret Cohanim yeshiva in the Muslim quarter of the Old City in Jerusalem. The following questions are posed in one publication: "Is it possible to compare today's Palestinians to the Philistines of the past? And if so, is it possible to apply lessons today from the military tactics of Samson and David?" Rabbi Aviner is again quoted as saying: "A comparison is possible because the Philistines of the past were not natives and had invaded from a foreign land ... They invaded the Land of Israel, a land that did not belong to them and claimed political ownership over our country ... Today the problem is the same. The Palestinians claim they deserve a state here, when in reality there was never a Palestinian or Arab state within the borders of our country. Moreover, most of them are new and came here close to the time of the War of Independence." (HAARETZ.com, IDF rabbinate publication during Gaza War :We will show no mercy on the cruel By Amos Harel, Haaretz Correspondent)

Sound familiar?

I’ve just completed reading The Book Thief , a work of fiction by Markus Zusak. It tells the story of a German girl growing up in Nazi Germany, whose foster father decides to give refuge to a Jew in his basement. Does it make me less of a Muslim that I am able to feel the pain of the Jewish people at the time? Is pain and suffering not a universal language? Does it really matter who is being granted the ‘privelege’?

Should our response as people, as human beings, not be to reach out and seek to touch that humanity that binds us, one to another, as brethren?
As the Hadith of the Prophet Muhammed (peace be upon him) states : The Entire creation is the family of Allah.

I don’t really give a flea’s bottom about the politics, the Hamas, the Fatah and all the rest that makes up Palestinian politics. But I do care when I read tales such as these:

Seeing is not like hearing

Yesterday my father joined friend and local activist Fida Qishta and members of the ISM Gaza to visit the site of the al-Daya home- a four-story house that was leveled by Israeli forces on top of its occupants. My father told me there were still four unburied bodies underneath the rubble. They then went to visit the area where the Samouni clan lived-some 15 houses, citrus groves olive trees, two green houses, and one chicken pen (with about 10, 000 chickens), a water well, cattle and other animals- ALL were eviscerated from existence. The only surviving animal was a donkey. The poor beast was shot in the neck but survived nonetheless with a battle scar and a bandage on his wound.
(blog – Raising Noor and Yousuf: diary of a Palestinian mother, Laila El- Haddad)

Sure, there are two sides to every story, but that does not mean that I am not entitled to make a decision where I see wrong being perpetrated and perpetuated with impunity. And it certainly does not make me an Anti Semite when I decide that Zionism is apartheid and nothing more.

The statistics speak for themselves. In the recent bombardment 1 400 Palestinians have been killed, more than 5 000 seriously injured and 100 000 have been left homeless. A third of the casualties are children. 80 Percent of them are civilians. While the losses on the Israeli side amount to 13 deaths, 10 of them being soldiers in active duty.

When Nelson Mandela stood before a country on the occasion of his inauguration as South Africa’s first democratically elected president, these were his words:

We understand it still that there is no easy road to freedom.
We know it well that none of us acting alone can achieve success.
We must therefore act together as a united people, for national reconciliation, for nation building, for the birth of a new world.
Let there be justice for all.
Let there be peace for all.
Let there be work, bread, water and salt for all.
Let each know that for each the body, the mind and the soul have been freed to fulfill themselves.
Never, never and never again shall it be that this beautiful land will again experience the oppression of one by another and suffer the indignity of being the skunk of the world.
Let freedom reign.

Rise to the challenge South Africa. You have work to do.

Note: This is the first article that I have written in well over a year, if not more. Apologies if it's not 'all that'.I know, this is prolific by my standards, as far as blog posts go. But I had a good reason to write. Now to find someone to publish this.

Book Year

2009-02-03T13:28:00.009+02:00

I prefer male authors. There I said it. So lynch me if you will for being a pseudo feminist :P

It’s just that the last year has been intense in so many ways and most notable being the books that have found their way into my hands.

It started with Middlesex by Jeffrey Eugenides, bought on sale from Kalahari. The coming of age tale of a …wait for it…hermaphrodite. I know, you’re thinking sex and more of it, since that seems to characterize most coming of age works. But this one was different. For one, it was more than just a novel. It was an epic. For another, it was utterly absorbing.

Then came Shantaram by Gregory David Roberts. Yes, yes, I know, even Johhny Depp is talking Shantaram (who knew that he is a reader). It is a tome. But I didn’t notice that, since I read it in stolen snatches of time. Grabbing a few chapters when the chance arose, between meals of Pratchett and Philippa Gregory. Okay, so the copy I have is misleading in that it tells a 'this is non-fiction' story, the internet reveals the truth, which is what I suspected anyway, but still, it explored concepts that are both thought provoking as well as disturbing.

In spite of my Indian origin, I have never wanted to visit India, but after reading Shantaram, what can I say, I’ve become the ultimate cliché wanting to see the land of my roots, the land from whose bosom my ancestors were suckled :P

But best of all has undoubtedly been The Book Thief, by Australian author, Markus Zusak, who says on the subject of writing : If someone wanted to be a runner, you don’t tell them to think about running. You tell them to run. And the same simple idea applies to writing, I hope.

And of course, I’m royally pissed that he’s only two years older than I am and has managed to write what I believe to be the best book I have ever read. But I am also in awe, humbled and even a little embarrassed.

The blurb says:
SOME IMPORTANT INFORMATION

THIS NOVEL IS NARRATED BY DEATH

It’s a small story about

A girl

An accordionist

Some fanatical Germans

A Jewish fist fighter

And quite a lot of thievery

ANOTHER THING YOU SHOULD KNOW

DEATH WILL VISIT THE BOOK THIEF THREE TIMES

And that sums up The Book Thief a lot better than I ever will.

But the thing that each if these books have in common is an inexpressible elegance. The capacity that each of these writers - all male - have for expressing the mundane in a manner that is anything but mundane. I would never have considered describing rain as slits. Or paths as scratches. But they did. And it made for extraordinary reading.

Here's to hoping that in spite of all the shite that seems to have heralded 2009, it will be an even better book year. Since anything less would be a shame.

Meeting

2009-01-28T11:45:00.004+02:00

I've never seen the inside of an airplane, but thanks to my alter ego - Afrocentric - I've met someone who has been to Spain, lives in London and is a really great writer.

I've met a bleeding heart activist - who play acts at being an accountant - while he spent months traipsing around the Middle East and has even...wait for it...lived in London :P

I've met my doppelganger - she took the time out to find Lazeeza's - and was blessed with the discovery that pictures are not worth a thouand words since the real thing is always better.

I was interviewed in a radio show where I was called an 'inspiration'?? I know...go figure!!

And these are only the people I've met in the 'Flesh'. I haven't even touched on all those with whom I've touched souls even though thousands of miles lie between us.

For this great opportunity, THANK YOU Computer geeks for the internet. and THANK YOU Blogger for connecting lives.

Chasm

2009-01-03T18:07:00.005+02:00

It’s a looooong way down. She shudders. And suddenly ‘between a rock and a hard place’ crystallizes before her eyes and gives her the finger. ‘Life flashing before ones eyes...’

Fucking clichés! she rages. But that was her life, no? A big bloody cliché. First love never dies and all that crap. What had it got her?

Stretch marks, for one. And heartache…lots of it. Clearly, somewhere along the line, during the Great Translation Process, Youth - its true meaning- had been misplaced. Lost in translation!? The most succinct translation,though, would have to be, was, stupidity, at least in her case it was. Yet there Youth stood, mocking at her, a glorified notion. Tragic, she thought, that decions taken when all the brain cells had yet to cohere translated all of eternity.

And so it was that an otherwise intelligent young woman allowed a great body, superb kissing skills, and hands that roved ravenously– having the unfortunate effect of making her feel desirable (and we all know how that turns out in the end)- to guide her decisions as regards a life partner. And now this. A betrayal so deep, that it dug a chasm in her chest where love had once been leaving her more than just a little confused. And so she stands…here…now…looking at an emptiness and desolation that pales into insignificance alongside her own sorrow. She wonders what the veld and rocks at the base of the cliff looks like close up.

Does she want to see it? Would she have the courage to? Does anyone?

Midnight

2008-12-10T14:19:00.006+02:00

You know how you sometimes just know - even though the grime of the World still gathers beneath your nails and you're not averse to public nose picking - that you're destined for greatness? Sure, you're unable to articulate the thought adequately, but you feel it in the 'different-ness' that surrounds you like your skin. And you smell it as acutely as your fart that has your siblings running for cover.

In the quest for realising this destiny, the pain of life being an unco-operative, unwilling accomplice bites worse than a bout of shingles. Rather than find a solution, you take to your heels at the smallest whiff of catastrophe and cry 'Foul!" with as much verve as you can muster. Life is- after all - happening 'to' you, rather than 'through' you.

You watch your children enter the world, wailing bundles of hope, possibility, and yes, even dreams. Their smiles become your sunshine even when the World witholds its sunshine and everything conspires to steal from you your 'almost-greatness'.

Yes, they will fulfil your destiny.....

But then the unspeakable happens.

They discover the concept of free will - one the opposes yours. And worse still, they chose to exercise this newfound liberty.

They set out upon a path that you know - having experienced lifes bitchiness first hand - that no greatness lies there. They disappoint you... a metaphor for your life.

Your life continues - an endless cycle of mindless consumerism, disappoinment, betrayal. You fail to notice the lines and creases that creep onto your face. And then one day, you wake up and look into the mirror. The face that stares back at you, bemused, resembles a Dorp, complete with all the little side streets and scratches in the dirt for roads. There's even a clock tower.
In a state of near panic, you realise that the time shows ten to twelve. Your midnight looms.

You begin scrabbling around to fill the gaps, grab the dreams, fulfil the destiny. A dream rises out of a weed-ridden plot of land. This one, at least, will reach fruition. The pillars tower over your head. The driveway is sweeping, impressive. The money runs out. You move in. You'll complete it...in time.

Midnight inches ever closer. Your accumulated possesions fill the dream, crowding around you, like death. Incongruous in their new surroundings. The faded furniture, bereft against the shiny splendour of hardwood floors.

The decadent curtaining snubs the Made in China linen. And everywhere, little bits of 'incomplete' litter the dream.

A promise is a promise

2008-12-02T20:47:00.004+02:00

I'm stunned! Was it really in March when I blogged the first portion of this here tale? Called the post Inspiration from the Recycle Bin. If you need your memory jogged, go here It's been so long ago, that I think I need my memory jogged :P

“You ready?” Moon-faced Nahla – the Sultans have a knack for regal names. She stops. Stares for a moment. “Wow!” She breathes. And in her mind she says, I want to look just like you when I get married. Like too many Indian girls her age, her ambitions in life seldom venture beyond the six foot walls of a house in a suburb and two children strapped up in designer prams.

“As I’ll ever be. Can you believe that I’m actually married? I’m nervous.” Though there are no trembling henna-ed hands. These pattered hands speak of anxiety to sit beside her new husband. His initials are hidden in the pattern. She asked the nice Paki girl to do that for her last night. He’d have fun finding the letters. She’d have fun with his having fun. She followed her sister out to the car. Mrs Sultan had insisted on a Limousine, much to her husband’s ire.

“R2000-00 to hire that thing for a few hours. Are you mad? How many tubs of home made malai burfee ice-cream can that buy?” He’d challenged.
“Aaw, come now Abu, your eldest daughter only gets married once. You want to give Rajaa a day to remember, ne. So why not a limo?”
“Because I could get Farouk to borrow me his Merc for the day, that’s why.”
“Please, that kanjoos brother of yours. He won’t give you ice in winter. Borrow you his Merc? Fat chance! What is it that he’s paying for at the wedding, just remind me. The Chevro. Cheapskate. He could at least have offered to buy the meat for the leg roast.”
The argument was becoming personal and Rajaa knew where it would end. ”Mummy, it’s okay. Ismail has a nice Jetta. It’s almost new. I won’t mind going in that.”
“What, a Jetta from your school friend. Do I look mad? You have to create an impression Rajaa. And first impressions last. See what car they came to propose in? All BMW’s. And gold too. No. Limousine or horse drawn carriage, you choose.”
The image of steaming smelly horse turds floated into Rajaa’s mind. Turds missing their mark and splattering the ivory gown.
The matter was settled.

As Rajaa, helped by Nahla, straightened out the skirt of the gown with all five metres of stiffening that was more than just scratching her soon- to- be- caressed- by- Haarith’s- hands legs, she was thankful for the much quarrelled over limo. At least the skirt wasn’t smothering her face. Imagine mascara on the ivory fabric. It would be a problem explaining that to the boutique from whence it had been hired. At the bargain price of R3000-00 at that. For just a moment, Rajaa felt a pang of guilt at the cost of the wedding. But then she said to herself, “ A girl only gets married once, right?” That had been her mother’s reasoning whenever her father’s kanjoos genes had become dominant.

Of course she tried her best to drown out the voice that reminded her of two of her best friends who, after extravagant weddings, had had marriages that lasted three months and six weeks respectively.
Not us, she said to herself, while Nahla nattered on in the background. We’re here for the long haul.

What exactly

2008-12-01T10:27:00.004+02:00

It's an important question, no? What exactly... What exactly what? Is that what I hear you say?What’s the point? That’s what I mean. Is there a method in all this madness?

Why do I willingly traipse around in public with fresh cream on my jilbaab? Why do I deal with thankless, sometime rude people? Why do I listen to requests like : I’d like custard slice. A dozen please. But I want the pink custard on top…?

Why do I answer the: 'Is it fresh???" question a zillion times a day without telling anyone “No it isn’t. It’s been in the freezer for the last year. Thanks for asking.”

Even though those are the words that strain to get their way past the smile that I plaster on at times like these.

Truth is, I’m making history. Unlikely, I hear you mutter. But it’s true. Not world history, Not history that involves the great. But history that involves the greatest.

Ah, so now, I’m getting ahead of myself, am I?

Allow me to elucidate. Imagine you’re seven. It’s your birthday party. You wanted a cake that looks like caterpillar. Unlike others your age, Barbie does not impress you.

The caterpillar arrives. It’s long, curly, has dozens of multi coloured legs. Wears a jaunty hat (one that you can eat!) and is covered in Smarties. Yummmy.

The cake will linger in your memory long after it has left the sewer system. The sweetness will remain a memory that haunts. Until one day, someone takes the time enough, or care enough, to produce something with as much love, as much attention to detail. And for a moment you will be transported to that birthday all those years ago. And you will feel loved, and cherished, and special.

It is that, that I seek to achieve at Lazeeza’s. To create that special memory. Since everyone knows that everything always tastes best in your childhood. Can you imagine how many kids will hear about the after-school-donut from their parents some twenty years hence? By which time I’ll be an old (and hopefully famous writer) woman. And Lazeeza’s will hopefully be more than just a legend.

So if I continue this way, I will have the opportunity to be part of many celebrations. Weddings, birthdays, anniversaries. I will have a place amid the joy, laughter and all of the things that make us so wonderfully human.

And when I weigh it up against the cream and the - I need to phone home and see whether I can take this custard slice, since the pattern on top is different – customers…
It’s worth it!

P.S. I'm going to post a bit of writing later today. I think you all deserve it after humoring me so :P

Lazeeza Chronicles II

2008-11-17T09:32:00.003+02:00

Arthritis has bent her fingers. Her legs too. Her face is pale, almost translucent. The only splash of colour on it being a smear of lipstick, a scratch of blue pencil and a shaky line of indigo eye shadow. She is my Painted Lady. I miss her when she is not around. Wonder whether she’s passed on. How would I know if she did? I am no family of hers, though I feel a connection to this bent old lady.

She dropped by the other day…after ages. I held out my hand and helped her into the shop. Her skin has the softness of leather worn smooth to it. When she is my only customer for the moment, I can almost touch her loneliness. It appears like a mantle about her shoulders when she recalls her deceased husband and speaks of the love they shared, or when she tells me about her bird – an African Grey. Or when she buys meat pies for meals, saying that one seldom feels like cooking when there is no one to cook for.

She is one of many who remind me of all I have to be grateful for. Lazeeza is life. She gives with one hand and takes with the other. She is generous with her gifts. A compensation perhaps for often testing my endurance to the limits.

Lazeeza Chronicles I

2008-11-10T08:20:00.002+02:00

He walks in. A diminutive man. Dark as my computer keyboard. Thinning hair that was once long and stringy a lot shorter now. I spy a little bit of plastic peeking out from his shirt. We get to talking. Turns out that the deliberately displayed plastic is his central line for chemo. Turns out he has cancer. I try to make him feel cheered. Speak lightly about an illness that has carried so many away and hope that my optimism will seep into him, by osmosis, somehow. I tell him about a nephew who won. Hope is a precarious thing.

I remember all the times that he would come to my husband’s glass business for shelves and such that would be used in the low cost furniture that he manufactured. He was a man desperately convincing himself of the need for hope back then. His business was ailing. And now he is and the business has been annihilated by Chinese imports and labour disputes.

He came in again yesterday. An attempt at dandiness. Yellow shirt, black pants and a jaunty little black beret. The central line is hidden in his shirt this time. The shop is busy; we can’t chat. But I find that I don’t want to anyway. He scoops up his purchases. And makes his way out. I watch his retreating back. The blacks are faded. So is the yellow. He cuts a tragic figure. Sad. Fading into nothingness.

And I marvel at how fate sometimes brings us full circle.

Books that Call

2008-10-30T12:22:00.006+02:00

So I go to the Exclusive Books sale. I browse around – with kids in tow of course – Mummy, can I buy a book
Which book do you want?
This one…
But you can’t read. Take something suitable.
Mummy help me choose.
When all I really want to do is take as many as my arms can hold to the nearest couch and listen carefully. Which ones call out?

The image goes up in a cloud of whine and nag, so I hurriedly ask for Pratchett. Never go wrong there. I find Thud. I’m already salivating. My eye then falls on a book. The cover is bleak. It has a picture of a young boy doing a handstand. The title – The Perfect Man. Author – Naeem Murr.

I open randomly. Find a bit of dialogue.

I’m impressed. I add it to my mangy – I couldn’t browse properly - pile. Then do the honourable sanity- saving -thing and pay attention to the whining. Choose the kiddies books, and hurry on out – I’m always in a hurry.

The book lies on my shelf while I wrestle with Shantaram. Eventually it beckons and I heed. And then I am lost. The writing is dark, like a shadowy raging river. I drown at times. Pull myself onto the rocks. Savour the light and then plunge headlong all over again.

I end it at 1 AM. But feel empty. As though I have been wandering in a desert . Complete with all the aching beauty and desolation.

I am saddened by the deaths, dysfunctionality. I am perturbed by how close he came to the ‘mark’. How real yet surreal it all was.

Are people really that dysfunctional? Why is ‘thinking’ so painful a process?

FOr a more comprehensive review, far removed from my whitterings :

go here

excerpt yet again.....

2008-10-21T22:57:00.002+02:00

Chapter One

Things Fall Apart. That’s the title of my favourite Chinua Achebe book. At the time when my own world fell apart, I had just bought the book. It lay on my bedside table. After it all ended, I remember sitting on the bed, fingering the spine, and thinking, this is me…

While to the rest of the community our lives were idyllic, we knew just how completely Things were Falling Apart. Like a huge tapestry ravelling strand by strand. Sure, we lived in a bigger, more impressive house. The renovated council house had been sold, I was told. The display cabinet had never had more trophies or trinkets; both my parents drove a Mercedes Benz, and I, the ultimate Golf.

Sure, we were invited to all the weddings…the ones that mattered anyway. And I was paraded as the beautiful, intelligent daughter. Yes, she’s at Wits, fourth year medicine. Even the whispering about Ammar had ceased. Amazing the effect that money has on people. But we never shared a meal together at home. Would hardly exchange more than a few words with one another.

My father still looked wounded each time I caught his gaze. My mother would avoid conversation with me at any cost. Her only comments directed at me revolved around the ‘revolting scarf’ she called it.

She spent more time out of the house now than in the TV Room watching Amitabh chasing women around trees. I was often left to whip up something for my father and me. My mother would not eat. She was constantly on some or other diet. And the diets were working. She was even thinner than I was.

My father did not even bother with the Sundays afternoons at home ritual anymore either. Nobody bothered. While the aroma of rotis being fried drifted from homes around us, our kitchen remained cheerless. No browning leg roast, Chicken Kurma and never a steaming biryani.

It often felt as though my bubble had grown thicker, harder

The Parents didn’t even share a bedroom anymore. I could almost hear my mother in that fake larney accent. Why keep up the pretence. She’s big enough to understand. And I had no way of escaping it.

While I collected Fatima at her home everyday for Varsity, her mother did not want to see me at their home. And would not send Fatima to our house to relieve the monotony either. Weekends had become a series of contemporary and classic novels and very little that was actually novel.

I sometimes heard them arguing when they thought I was asleep.

After everything I accepted. Which woman would do what I did? Accept what I have accepted? I’m too blerry good for you. I’ve had enough!

I heard variations of this dialogue – or rather monologue – more often than I cared to consider.

I thought nothing of my mother’s transformation. Of her renewed interest in fashion. I saw what I wanted to see. At least I still had a family of some kind. An unstable one, but a family. The alternative was too awful to contemplate.

So on that September morning when I woke to find my father already gone to work and my mother straightening her cupboard, I told myself that all was well. I collected Fatima, worked my way mechanically through lectures. Took notes, even smiled at Zaheer who was a fifth year student whom Fatima insisted was in love with me. I did not notice the look of surprise on his face. We discussed this day at length years later.

When the first snow flakes fell from the sky and caught the campus unawares, everything was driven from my mind. Snow in September! This had to be some sort of unprecedented freak of nature. Guys were lending girls their leather jackets. Everyone released the kid that had been forced to play adult and drink espresso for the day. Snowball fights, snowmen, toes freezing in sandals. At least I was safe on that score.

I opened my mouth and caught snowflakes on my tongue. They melted into nothingness. Not a trace. Like Ammar. Banish that though. I caught sight of Zaheer watching me and suddenly felt shy. I sought Fatima.

“Come. Let’s go home.” ”What’s the rush?”
“I’m freezing.”
“Okay, let me get someone to give you a jacket.”

The words had barely vanished into the powdery flakes when Zaheer came up to us and thrust his hand out, shy, self conscious.
“Here, use mine.” His manner was abrupt.
“No thanks. We were just going home. The car’s got a heater. We’ll be fine.”
“Hey, I thought you were going to stick around. C’mon, everyone is having so much fun.”
“Then you stay if you want. You can catch a lift with someone.” I turned on my heel, my shoes filling with snow as I strode towards the car, my feet icing over.

“Okay, I’m coming.” Fatima ran to catch up. “What’s with you? He’s such a nice guy. And he’s got the cutest friend.”

I knew I wasn’t ready. And his parents would never approve. Zaheer could do better. He would have to.

****************************

A work in progress

2008-10-18T23:15:00.000+02:00

Chapter Six

When the 30th of June came and went and nothing happened other than an increase in my nausea, I knew. The worst had come to pass. But why was a small part of me rejoicing?

“So, Asma, how about we meet after school.” Khaled, the swine.
“Oh, fuck off Khaled. You’d have to be the last guy on earth.” Fatima, always to the rescue.

The comments had become part of a normal day at school. All sorts of ‘jollers’ as they were called making passes at me as though I was noting more than an easy lay. That and the look of pity that Mr Naik reserved especially for me. The good girls all avoided me. As though what I had done was contagious. Rooms went silent when I entered. Eyes were averted whenever I sought them.

I struggled to concentrate in school. The teachers spoke and to me they looked like people attempting to teach under water. I wrote, took down notes, produced essays, but the words all looked like dust on a jacket and blood smears wiggling on a page.

Fatima tried to come and see me at home. She sat next to me. She wanted me to talk. But I wanted nothing of it. I hurt her. This I knew. But I just needed space.

One morning while Mr Naik explained the workings of the heart to a rapt class, the toast I had had for breakfast burnt the back of my throat. I could taste the bitterness of bile in my mouth. I rushed out of the class, oblivious to the twenty five pairs of eyes that followed me.

I ran to the toilets, tore a door open and gave in to the waves of nausea. Deep, spasmodic, that dug into the pit of my stomach. Fatima found me, hair all plastered to my head, face in a smelly toilet bowl. She helped me to my feet. I saw the walls dance. She steadied me and together we walked wordlessly to the basin where I began to gargle my mouth and splash water onto my face. She stood behind me, rubbing my back, gentle circular movements that stirred a memory, deeply buried in my subconscious and brought tears to my eyes. I washed them away brusquely. I looked up to find her studying my face in the cracked and spotted mirror.

“You’re pregnant, right?”
I did not answer.
“You’ll have to tell your mother. Do you want to keep it?”
More silence.
“Look Asma, I know this is hard. I know we haven’t been as close either. But I’m here. I’ll always be here. You loved him. And that’s what is important.”
I nodded at her reflection.
“Do you want me to come with you to see her?”

“No, it’s fine. I’ll manage.” My voice was hoarse, unrecognisable. I searched for her hand and gave it a squeeze. “And thanks. I mean that.”
We hugged and I had to blink back tears. It was going to be a long day.

***************************************

I lay on the bed feeling dead inside. My eyes burnt, but the tears would not come. They had frozen somewhere inside of me. In that place where I had locked away the pain, locked Ammar away forever. My balled fists held bunches of floral bedspread. A white sheet, was spread out beneath my bottom. My legs were drawn up, my pants removed. A little hunched woman stood beside me. Her greying hair was tied in a tight bun at the back of her head. Above her lip she sported a hairy mole. She was laying out instruments on the bed, all of which looked as though they were designed to cause pain. She had on a pair of rubber gloves which reached halfway up her short arms.

“Open wider,” She barked. I looked up at the light fitting. Amber nightmares tussled with the pain that ripped through my body; mixed with the warm blood that flowed from me. And then it was over.

For the next few hours I lay on the bed, curled up foetally, writhing in agony as cramps ignited fires along my nerve endings. I thought I was dying. I wanted to die. Ammar stood by my bedside and smoothed my brow. No, it was my father…my mother.

Oh what the hell…

note: I've gone and pulled out all the incomplete manuscripts. turns out that there are three novels in progress. A disturbing pattern is beginning to emerge. With each of them, I ran into glitches. And all of these involved minor details. Stuff like, how authentic can my description of a house from the 70's be since I was only born in 1977. or how kosher is my description of campus life, since I have never been anywhere near a university campus. Stupid little things. These are, of course, manifestations of a bigger problem: Just how much do I believe in my ability to write a truly good novel? I am working on resolving it.

He -- She

2008-10-08T20:09:00.000+02:00

The silence between them is elastic. It turns blind corners where fragments of their past life, so replete, remain hidden. She pulls at a thread on her cloak. The embroidery begins to ravel. As the colours come apart she sees her life between her fingers. A slender, fragile thread, whose beginning she can hold and whose ending remains embedded in a fabric that is tightly woven.

He places a hand on her knee. She looks at his fingers. They are thick, extending from a meaty palm and ending in blunt, flat nails. They need cutting, she thinks. She can imagine the feel of his hands. Course, callused. When they were once so familiar, why do they suddenly look alien? She fights the urge to slide her knee sideways and dislodge his hand, see it drop to his side, pendulum like. Displaced, uncertain of where to go next. He clears his throat. She imagines a bit of phlegm slipping down his oesophagus.

Sammaar. Her name sounds foreign as it escapes his lips. Did he ever once whisper it as an endearment?

She sometimes imagines them standing on opposite ends of the Big Hole in Kimberly. Shouting at one another. Not to. That would be too familiar.

***************************************

He scans the contours of her impassive face. She plays with a thread from her cloak, forcing the flower to fall apart. It is stubborn. It clings to the fabric reluctant to part, loath to have its beauty sullied.

He places - what he hopes will be conciliatory – a hand on her thigh. He knows that on that very spot, she has a mole. Small and delicate, dark against her pale skin. Has he not kissed it at least a hundred times before? He feels the inopportune tightening of desire. He clears his throat and whispers her name.

It has a familiar taste to it as it rolls across his tongue. When he first met her, he told her that it reminded him of summer. She could be his eternal summer. If only…

For the visitor to Lazeeza's who asked about Afrocentric and lamented the lack of fresh posts

How Far.....

2008-09-24T06:10:00.000+02:00

Exactly a year ago at this moment, I was buried beneath a pile of biscuits and cakes so high, that it threatened to suffocate me.

I survived.

Today, I am, yet again, buried under just such a pile, but this time I have help. The staff at Lazeeza’s. And they’re all wonderful. Thank you guys (and girls)!

Who would have thought, as I struggled back then to shrug off the mountain and summit it, that I would come this far? It’s been a long, sometimes tortuous road. But it has also been extremely rewarding. Alhamdulillah. To all the customers of Lazeeza’s, thank you for your unwavering support. Yes, even those who fix me with a disdainful look on each of their visits. To the friends that I have made along the way, you have shown me the bounties of Allah in ways that I had previously been unable to imagine.

And to my Rabb, I am, truly, coming home.

A New Day

2008-09-04T06:18:00.000+02:00

Dawn breaks in stages. A leaden grey gives way to swathes of pink and orange. And finally a blue that is as bright and pale as a newborn's eye. I sit at an ungainly laptop, having been deprived of my trusty PC and listen to the incessant natter of three of my brood as they battle the will to sleep after suhoor. And I look back as the last few days - the first of many that will see me behind the counter at Lazeeza's - and I marvel at just how rewarding an experience it may turn out to be, after all.

I think of the creased woman with the painted eyes, who said to me, yesterday, "in life, you have to look forward". I think of the rewarding love she described, one that she found after forty. I am astonished, yet pleased by the intimacy of the exchange in a shop surrounded by the smells and sounds of food being prepared. I think of the couple, handsome in their youth, no doubt. Both tall once. The one bent over now, her height turning out to be a handicap. I feel the love that they still share and am grateful to be drawn into their warmth, this golden bubble that burnishes all that it touches.

I feel myself changing with each passing day. Growing thanks to the many faces that come into my life. And I can only say, Alhamdulillah.

I think of the two niqaab-ed ladies - or they could well have been girls - who shared a whispered exchange when they caught sight of my now niqaab-less face. Then hurried off as I approached - not them - but the entrance to the Mr Price Home where they were shopping, as though my new status would prove contagious, and I recite to them, "Allah intends ease for you, and He does not intend difficulty..." This is a verse that works for me. It need not work for them. "One soul shall not bear the burden of another."

Life, like the dawn, can be both stunningly beautiful, or stupidly dull. I prefer the stunningly beautiful face of life. Allow me the opportunity to experience it. Don't sully my dawn with your prejudice and judgementalism.

I'd much rather remember the generosity of the people of Rustenburg during Ramadaan, when I was a resident at the hostel, those who would send plates of savouries for the Muslim students who did not have the comfort of their homes, than be disappointed by the thoughtless comment of a cousin, who -not knowing that I would be a resident at the hostel - expressed the ignorant view that the students who studied there had been sent away from home because they were delinquents. When the truth was simply that they were casualties of Apartheid.

I'd much rather remember the laughing, "good to 'see' you," from a customer when she 'saw' me for the first time, than the whispered exchange.

To my Muslim bretheren, Ramadaan Kareem. And to all my friends, May God embrace you...always

S

Abandonment

2008-06-30T21:57:00.001+02:00

I saw the sun set the other day. My vantage point - the step of a toilet, looking over a barbed wire fence. The filigreed patterns of naked branches, black against a bruised sky. Lonely fan palms reached up, solitary, abandoned, like this here blog. apologies to all the friends who have developed a taste for Afrocentric. As soon as the search party returns with the time I have requested, I shall return. Hope that my pen has not run out of ink by then.

Until then....

S

It's Here!!!!

2008-05-25T20:50:00.000+02:00

After what feels like a lifetime, my book has finally arrived. It was an awesome feeling, to be holding nine years' worth of hope in my (much older) hands. It's gorgeous. Jazakillah Widad, Shirley and everyone else. Apparently there is someone out there who wants an autographed copy.

Does that mean that I am now famous??? Hmmm....

So, South Africans wanting a copy, make your way to Lazeeza's Bakery and Confectionary in Mackenzie Park. Did I hear you say, where's that? Have you never heard of Charlize? It beats ordering from Kalahari or Amazon. And the money you save on the book, you can spend on donuts. We make killer donuts.

Bakeries

2008-05-19T09:58:00.000+02:00

The thing about bakeries is that they can be terribly romantic. What is it that is so seductive about the aroma of bread, hot out of the oven? Or biscuits sighing vanilla scented breaths into the air?

Kinda like a coffee shop, or Italian restaurant. A French restaurant is not far off mind you, even though reptilian thingies are passed of as gourmet meals.

So I spend my days surrounded by buns, all cinnamon-y, slathered in creamy cheese toppings accompanied by lashings of caramel and pecan nuts. I find my hands covered in cream and chocolate mousse, and maraschino cherries dripping syrup the colour of blood. And the inevitable koeksuster run on Sunday mornings reminds me that people often go to great lengths for food.

And also that blogging and facebook, well it's for people with time to kill. Obviously Varsities don't keep students busy enough. Neither do some offices mind you. Sigh, but for the days of leisure :P

S

p.s. Blogger is being beastly again. I would so have enjoyed taunting you with delicious pictures

Pssssst...Wholenut Cake never fails. As you can see - pictures.
Feast away!

Thieves and more...

2008-05-12T10:27:00.000+02:00

There's a poem I wrote some decades ago. I'd forgotten all about it. And here I am googling to see whether 'MY BOOK' is on anyone's list of faves. And what do I find? This poem on so many blogs and sites. And some articles nicked and reproduced by everyone and his brother. All in the name of Da'wah, I'm sure. Since when does doing the work of deen give you the license to steal???

Hmmm, seeing as so many others have seen fit to post this on their blogs, I thought I might as well do so on mine. So here goes

True Love

To love until you feel like dying
to wring from your soul every last tear
to pray for the last day just to see His face
to beg for Paradise only to bow at His feet

Have you felt it?

The joy, yet misery
of love that consumes
and yearning that devours
and despair that destroys

Have you known it?

You speak of love
yet you give preference
to the selfish dictates
of your avaricious soul

You speak of faith
yet you engross yourself
in fears of tomorrow
and concerns of yesterday

You speak of mercy
yet you’ve done nothing
to earn that gift
or any other

You speak of forgiveness
yet you’ve never repented
until you wished to tear
out your own eyes
to stop the tears

You claim to know Him
How can you?
when you know not yourself?

And for the record, I was touched by some of the responses, but not enough to think of plagiarism as okay.

S

I've been hijacked

2008-04-30T20:49:00.000+02:00

And for once it was neither the government nor the tsotsis. The culprits look like cakes, sometimes they look like pastries and always they look like custard slice.

I am officially the proud co-owner of Lazeeza's Bakery and Confectionary. This means that I may never use the internet again. The sun could become something of a rarity, weekeneds off will join the dinosaurs and I will finally get to try out all those fun things that have been beckoning for ages. Just today I experimented with a chocolate mousse that was brilliant. I also discovered that Golden Variant makes scrummy Banana Cake. Damned! There goes my diet :P

Inspiration from the recycle bin

2008-03-31T18:24:00.000+02:00

Don't ask too many questions. Just read!

When they first met, it was in a chat room at a time when the cosmos were in full bloom. I know, dicey places those. But you see, she is of a different generation. A generation where being a computer geek is considered cool. Where conversation with The Parents that involves grunts and nods is considered more than adequate –some kids never have any conversation with the parents except the kind that sounds like, ‘mummy, I need 200. My cell phone is out of airtime’. Where hair irons and hair gel are fashion must-haves and everyone looks like some long lost relative of someone else. Just go to Fordsburg Square on a Saturday night. You’ll see what I mean.

He called himself Indian-Boy. Wow! She went as Indian-Girl. Soul mates! She could feel it in her bones, all of which jut out in all the right places. Clearly she has heard someone in Hollywood say, “You can never be too rich or too thin.” She’s working on the rich bit. He’d better fit the bill.

It has never occurred to either of them that Indian boy/girl – these are more than just misnomers (is there a word like misno-whopper-mer?)- , since both of them have never seen India – the real village India with the cows in the houses – and neither are they likely to. Oh they see India- The Bollywood India – which often doubles as chaars in Holland – speaking Eeenglish -; or chaars in Australia speaking ‘Mate’; or chaars in Thailand speaking…wait for it – more Eeenglish.

So that settles it, they’re Indian – South African, fifth generation, so 100% Indian that they do not understand a word of Gujarati. What would Bollywood be without subtitles (sigh)?

The conclusion is obvious. They must get married - after it was ascertained through calls from one haga to another, via this second cousin of a cousin, that his family – they’re more than just rich. They swim in ghee, and considering the price of ghee, that is not something to sneeze at.

No one gives a toss that he’s not yet 21, or that she is still in matric. Everyone is just too relieved that the poyri found a hara Muslim poyra. Not some Dhori who would have to be converted and definitely not a Malay boy with a surname like Gabriels. How, you tell me, would Rajaa Gabriels sound?

And everyone is over that moon that the poyri did not need the services of Marie Stopes. Abortion is legal, you know! Not that she would ever have been at risk, see. She has been known to mistake his - erm, you know, for a cell phone in his pocket during one of his previous visits when they did more than just talk. She's one of the 'good girls'. The ones who are kept on a leash so short that they have never known what a sleep-over entails. See the inside of a nightclub! Never!

Yes, better that they get married. Terrible times, these are to live in. Our children, they are getting lost. Apartheid was better. It protected us.

And so, without so much as a hurricane warning, a hurricane of Katrina proportions is unleashed on her home.

And she survives. Rajaa bint Abu Bakr ibn Uthmaan Sultan – yes, that’s what appears in her passport (though how Mr Sultan and his pretentious wife got the whole ibn and bint thing right remains a mystery, consigned to the annals of Bermuda Triangles and Highway Shielas, since South African Muslims are famous for their fluent recital of Arabic and complete lack of understanding thereof) – she has survived the whole run up to the wedding. And not just any wedding. An Indian wedding.

She has survived Julie Fois snubbing when her parents had gone to do the inviting. What was wrong with her family that they invited only the parents and their kids and not Julie Foi’s in laws? She has not seen the drama. She has eyes for one face only. That of her husband-to-be whose nights are tormented by images of her virgin flesh being caressed by his callused hands – he hates lotions of any sort, they make him sweat.

She has survived Asma Khala’s argument with her mother about how big the pies for the wedding should be. She has not heard it. She has ears for one voice only. That of her husband-to-be who has kept her up into the wee hours of the morning as he waits for her to put the phone down before him as proof of how much more he loves her. . You put down…no you put down.

‘I’m a survivor, I’m going to make it…’ the chorus of the trashy song repeats itself somewhere in her subconscious, wedged between wondering what the ‘first night’ - that mystery shrouded in musallahs and white sheets - and the nikaah – presently being performed at the masjid will be like.

What if he says no, instead of the qubiltuha wa nakahtuha line, she wonders. He’s been practicing it, she knows. He’s told her the line over and over. Softly whispered it down kilometres of Telkom cable – thankfully it wasn't stolen during that time - into her steadily warming ear. In a language we all understand, it means, I accept her and have taken her into my nikaah (i.e. married her).

“You ready?” Moon-faced Nahla – the Sultans have a knack for regal names. She stops. Stares for a moment. “Wow!” She breathes. And in her mind she says, I want to look just like you when I get married. Like too many Indian girls her age, her ambitions in life seldom venture beyond the six foot walls of a house in a more-trees-than-people suburb and two children strapped up in designer prams.

So this is what's been forcing its way onto the keyboard. I say 'forcing' since I really don't have the time these days. And 'recycle bin'? - you figure that one out...

Something Worthwhile....

2008-03-27T20:59:00.000+02:00

Please go here

and follow the link trail...

I promise, you won't regret it :-)

What's in a Name??

2008-03-25T16:22:00.000+02:00

I stand at this point right now. Looking out at a world that breaths the promise of a new day, complete with challenges and surprises. And I grapple...I grapple with a name for myself.

What's wrong with author? You are listed on Amazon. You are listed on Kalahari. You will begin summitting these peaks, one by one, as you knock yourself out trying to promote a dream that has finally been realised. So what is wrong with author?

That's the pragmatic her speaking. The one who says that I'm better off being wonderful to the mother in law and tells me tales about attracting more bees with honey.

But that her does not tell me that I will, in all likelihood, attract flies as well.

So what does being an author entail? Does it mean that you are now entitled to certain privileges that were previously denied to you? Does it mean that you enter into an illustrious society? Does it make you a better person? Help!!!

And for the record, I still prefer the word :Writer. It's nebulous. Just as I am when I emerge from home wrapped in black, my face hidden from view.

I use it on the Internet and never on forms of any kind. Even the ones at the dentist.

For those, 'Self-employed' does the trick.

Released

2008-03-11T17:11:00.002+02:00

It's been a loooong journey. But finally The Beautiful Names has been released. And I'm thrilled. Can't exclaim over it though, since my exclamation key is stuck.

Watch this space for ordering and other information.

Some writing - at long last

2008-03-04T22:02:00.000+02:00

An excerpt from a work in progress

Each year in December we took a holiday as a family. Daddy’s chacha would run the shop for him for that week. Ebrahim chacha was a bachelor who made a living from playing locum. He could be trusted not to dip his hands into the petty cash, and to keep an eye on the staff to ensure that they did not steal. So Daddy could make his journey with a heart at ease. Yeah right!The week would be an unwanted pregnancy of discomfort, swollen feet and heartburn. I wonder what they did while I spent hours on the beach. Durban, Cape Town, Port Elizabeth. These oceans had arms that welcomed me. I would walk far out, as I grew older. Beyond the crashing waves to a place where the water rose and fell as gently as a sheet. I would feel the currents churning against my legs, around and around. And I would taste complete happiness. Happiness that I could bottle, like the Africans did with the sea water, and take home. Imbibe whenever I felt the need.

One afternoon I had climbed onto some rocks that had been revealed by the low tide. They were warm and rough beneath my feet. Mussels and limpets clung resolutely to the rocks. A few waves washed over the ones on the sides. Seaweed attached itself there now and again. I tried to pry a few of the limpets loose. At first touch, they would move, just a little. But on my second attempt, well I’d have an easier time chipping off chunks of concrete. And then I learnt a trick. Catch them unawares; one quick, swift movement and they come loose. And you have in your hands a little black shell, all ridged and mottled with a tiny snot-like creature inside. A creature that seemed to be experiencing severe separation anxiety, writhing furiously. Put it back on the rock. Why Pratley Putty would give you an easier time to remove.

These limpets, they had a story to tell. I could almost hear them whisper. But then an odd thing happened. Their whispering became real. Loud and very deep. No longer nebulous, an echo of the crashing waves.

‘So what do you think of us? Fascinating? Charming?’

I bent my head forward to hear them better. I was beginning to feel rather excited by them talking. The kind of excitement I felt when I once fancied as a child that I could fly. A jump from the first floor of our house that daddy was in the process of renovating convinced me otherwise and resulted in a broken ankle.

It was only when a large form obscured my sun that I looked up and realised that the whispering was nothing more than a certain, unknown young man mocking at my intense concentration.

I looked down again to hide my annoyance at having this precious world of mine invaded. But somehow, dumb-ass didn’t get the message.

“Did you know that I once got a cousin to eat a limpet? Told him that it was an oyster. Don’t judge me. At least I chose a pretty large one.”

He flopped down on the rock beside me and stretched his long, hairy legs in front of him. I happened to notice that his second toe was slightly longer than the first. My mother said that it was a sign of a domineering nature. She often said that I’d be that way, just like my Dadi, who was not one of her favourite people. By this time, the comment no longer had any sting left. The poison had been weakened due to over-usage. But I would not be caught dead in sandals. Remembering this little oddity, I curled my feet up underneath me.

“Did you know that they would rather allow themselves to be destroyed than be removed from their spot? They understand stubbornness. ”
I did not respond. He appeared not to notice and continued talking.
“Did you know that even though they move around during high tide to graze, they return to their ‘home scar’ before the tide goes out? A perfect fit. Don’t you see?”

“Are you done, Mr Chappie Paper? I think that’s enough.”

*******************************
And so we’d meet every day on the rock. He’d seek me out. And chat about the ocean. Turned out that he was quite knowledgeable.

It was the first time that I discovered the joy of undemanding male company. And he even got me to show him my toes. Sometimes we’d just sit, looking out towards the ocean that churned and swirled and share a silence so sweet, I could almost taste it. Sometimes we saw dolphins.

Love could take on different forms, I learnt. And strangers sometimes know us better than we know ourselves.

note: I know it needs refining. It's nothing more than a first rough draft. But I felt the need to share. Since I am finally writing after ages. And that feels good :-)

happenings.......

2008-03-02T16:25:00.000+02:00

it's been ages, i admit. but to me, it feels like lifetimes have slipped through time's peephole. so much has happened.

in between the rush of trying to get a new book 'out there' and set up a bakery, i've survived having my husband and sons involved in a car crash. They were not badly hurt, except that husband will be parading a rather ugly cast strapped to his wrist for a few more weeks. but the car...it's a write-off

then we have the misfortune of having had a gambler and (he says) drug addict on our staff for ages. two weeks ago, he vanishes with a substantial sum of money (he owed Nigerian drug lords lots of dosh - he says) and a vehicle that was used in the business. the said vehicle has since been re-united with husband, thanks to the cops. Of course they had no difficulty finding it, since it had been abandoned at the side of the road. this, after his bogus hijacking claim was proven to be ...bogus, by a polygraph test.

and then, this week, the last and only surviving decent vehicle gets stolen while the crew are out on a job. so, i guess, i'm just another crime statistic. but i can't help feeling that this was all a bit excessive.

but don't worry, my shift key hasn't crashed on me. I'm just too tired to use it. and all you grammar correct types out there, for once, i think you'll understand.

S

Al Muhaymin - The Protector

2008-02-07T07:52:00.000+02:00

A refresher Course for those of you who cannot remember the book in question. A recycled version of a very old post:

Allah, or God is known by 99 Names in Islam. Each of them demonstrates one of His divine attributes. My first published book will be a collection of fun poems for children aimed at demonstrating these attributes. One of my favourites is this particular poem. The beautiful illustration is the work of Shirley Anjum.

The clever publisher who knew a good thing when she saw it is Muslim Writer's Publishing. My appreciation goes out to both.

Al Muhaymin – The Protector

I lay in my bed, one moonlit night
The moon shines in the window, big and bright
I close my eyes tightly, and wipe away a tear
Please let there be someone to ease my fear
The monster in the cupboard makes an awful noise
The ghost in the corner plays with my toys
Where do I go? Where can I run?
Will someone please wake up the sun?
Then I remember what Mum always says,
That Allah, Al Muhaymin is my Protector, always
So I say my Ta’awwuz* with utmost care
Hearing it, the monster gets a great big scare
And the ghost in the corner, why he runs for his life
And probably goes home to be with his wife

* A prayer for protection

A Quick Crow

2008-02-06T15:15:00.000+02:00

I've stolen time for a quick Peter Pan-esque crow. My book is finished at last. All illustrations done by that talented artist Shirley Anjum. Cobbled together by that brilliant publisher, Linda (aka Widad) Delgado. I can't wait!

It goes to the book designer shortly (yep, a designer book :p )

Everything sounds wonderfully important and extremely exciting. And I know you're all hoping it will be an enormous success...

Hugs and kisses to one and all. Yep, you too Minx :)

I Salute You...

2008-01-25T16:53:00.000+02:00

I actually wanted a picture of someone saluting but I thought, this is better. Since those of you who take the time to vist, to be a part of my life deserve better than a picture of someone I don't know slicing air. You deserve a slice of my life. So I give you Imraan and Baby in Pic One and Hamza and Moosa with Ismaeel in the background in Pic Two.

So i know. It's not a twelve gun salute. Not a ten arm salute. Not an eight smile salute. But it's my way of saying thank you for visiting. From romantic Vienna to Malaysia. From France to Singapore. From Parow here in the Cape, to a certain regular someone in Midrand. From Pennsylvania, to Canada and even New Zealand. You may never comment, but I know you're out there. And who knows, maybe someday you will say something so that I can respond. Who knows, maybe someday, we will meet :-)

In the meantime may God enshroud you in His Mercy and may you live a Graced Life, always.

Yours
Afrocentric...aka Saaleha

P.S. Don't feel offended if I didn't mention your location. There are many more except that lately I'm so harried that thinking up all those places - ones I would love to visit one day, mind you - is just too huge an undertaking. Now that I think of it though, Cape Town and a certain someone and well as the UK and a certain few someones come to mind...

What do you want? he asks

2007-12-30T14:52:00.000+02:00

What do you want? he asks. Write it down…

And the fist item that springs to mind...happiness. I want happiness. Failing that, he can always get some tissues, shampoo, body lotion, vegetables...

Pity though that happiness doesn’t come in a jar. Ready-to-use. Just heat and serve.

Or in a packet. Dehydrated happiness. Add 400mls of joy, heat with care and serve.

Or from the earth. Organically grown using chicken manure. 100% natural and always fresh. Guaranteed!

Pity the likes of Bakers can’t package it for you. Perfectly browned (read mature), fresh from the oven. Happiness, baked like only the Bakers man can.

The answer lies within. How perfectly Zen-nish darling. Now if I can just make the time to sit still long enough to find it.

What books have taught me…

2007-12-10T09:06:00.000+02:00

From the Da Vinci code and Dan Brown, I learnt that controversy sells...even if the writing stinks.

From Confessions of a Gambler and Rayda Jacobs, I learnt that local really is lekker.

From Salem Falls and Jodi Picoult, I learnt that more is not always …well, more. It’s really just about content. And that all writers have bad days, weeks, months...

From The Constant Princess and Philippa Gregory, I learnt that history can be exciting.

From the Kite Runner and Khaled Husseini, I learnt that there are two sides to every story. And no matter how tempting it may be, yours in not necessarily right. Goodness, sometimes there is no right.

From Spring Imperial and Evelyn Hart, I learnt that love is truly timeless. And that hope should always spring eternal.

From The Wedding Officer and Anthony Capella, I learnt that Italians are wonderful people. Erm, by that I meant their food.

From The Shadow of the Wind and Carlos Ruiz Zaphon, I learnt that high drama can sell, provided it is well written. And that I’m a sucker for a love story in any guise.

From Portraits and Cynthia Freeman I learnt that books have the power to shape your destiny.

From On Beauty and Zadie Smith; Inheritance of Loss and Kiran Desai; In a Country of Men and Hisham Matar and many more that cannot bear mentioning, I learnt that not everything the ‘world’ thinks is good will find a place in my heart.

From Harry Potter and J. K. Rowling, I learnt that hope is a wonderful thing.

So who said that fiction is frivolous?

Anyone else feel like telling the world the place fiction has in their lives?

Speaking eyes - II

2007-11-26T13:04:00.000+02:00

Speaking Eyes

He felt his hands go clammy as he turned into the driveway of her home, the steering wheel slippery beneath his grip. Why call it her home? Well, it was, wasn’t it? He was there too. Her husband. But the house, the kids, in his mind, these would always be hers. Just as some small part of him would always belong to her.

“Wow, will you look at that!” Shehnaaz, his wife, at the sight of the table, laid out in the entrance hall. A chocolate fountain cascaded warm chocolate; strawberries - blood red and enormous – awaited fondue forks and a heavenly bath of what he guessed to be Lindt. Knowing her, it would be nothing less. There were plump cherries too, marshmallows. Frosted glasses of fruit cocktail meandered along the table, weaving between exquisite platters of entrees. Cocktail, the colour of which reminded him of a sunset so long ago. A sunset that only the two of them would remember.

He heard her laugh somewhere inside the cavernous dwelling and found himself rubbing his arm to smooth out the goose bumps.

He barely heard Shehnaaz exclaim over some or other food item. His ears were trained on the sounds of cutlery, people talking, chairs scraping and the general cacophony that was part of a Luncheon. Amid these sounds he tried in vain to isolate her voice.

“Assalaamu alaikum, Fatima,” Shehnaaz gushed. He turned, a strawberry dripping chocolate at his mouth and found himself barely a metre away from her. She looked amazing. Her face was flushed from the heat of the stove where her masterpiece was at this moment simmering , no doubt. She brought with her a whiff of something that promised to be delicious, though he could not guess at what it would be.

”Wa alaikum salaam.” The women exchanged pecks on the cheek. She turned to him now.

“Erm, Munir, you…”She gestured to her cheek, laughter dancing in her eyes. His hand went up automatically. His fingers came away wet and warm. Chocolate. He felt his ears go up in flames. He stuck his finger into his mouth, sucking away the decadebt confection and turned away.

“S’cuse me,” he muttered. The sound of them laughing, Shehnaaz and Fatima, followed him to the bathroom.
**********************

The kebab that was the starter had a hint of clove, and mint. He could taste saffron too. There was a crunchiness that he guessed to be pine nuts. Most unusual. Mint was almost her signature ingredient. She used it so liberally. He on the other hand was rather partial to coriander – fresh coriander - often from his own garden.

When he first broke the kebab open, he released a cloud of steam. Juices oozed from it, attesting to its succulence before his tongue could. The thel naan that accompanied it was crisp and warm. Feather light and buttery, it rolled around the mouth leaving a burst of flavour and then a sudden emptiness that left you wanting more.

A truthful portend of what was to come.

Lunch was a seamless affair. Course followed superb course, each delighting the palate more than the last. She was an excellent chef. His enjoyment of the meal was enhanced by the fact that she was far from him, busy in the kitchen sending out the laden platters. He would not be forced to meet her gaze, listen to those speaking eyes, and attempt to answer the questions that often came from them.

Rather he could concentrate on the meal, dissect it in his mind, attempt to fathom where this accent in the chicken came from, or that tang in the roast and compile a recipe mentally, one that he would try on his own family in the near future.

It was this, an invisible thread that bound them inextricably to one another. This capacity for seeing ingredients as wholes with which to produce the greater whole. With which to create a music that would leave everyone feeling hungry yet sated at the same time. Few were the chefs who treated ingredients so lovingly and could coax from them their everything.

It was the colour of the almond ice cream that appeared on little plates, a delicate golden sauce dancing down its’ side, that reminded him of that sunset once more. That pinkish tinge of the roasted almond – the sky that bled gently at first then gushed across the land turning the very air pink, and gold of the sauce – the last rays of a dying sun pouring out from behind the clouds, clearly defined beams that seemed to be calling to be rescued just as he had that day.

Note: Blogger is being right nasty again. No pictures for me, or I would have treated you with a sunset at least. Or maybe some stunning strawberries...

Speaking eyes

2007-11-23T09:19:00.000+02:00

Don't ask me why I wrote this. It appeared of its own volition. A few lines from a soul that has too long had a forced silence imposed opon it.

The air between them simmered with possibility and throbbed with unspoken words. Their eyes met across the space, above the heads of the milling crowd. They looked away. A dance that left both with a cavernous space in their hearts. A space that yearned to be fulfilled.

It cannot be, his eyes said.

And hers? Well they looked away. And he was left to guess at what the response to his truthful statement would be.

The people they loved stood between them. Like unbending mountains that sought to block their view of one another.

He read this thought in her eyes later that day. He looked away. He took himself to a place where things were different. And in his mind, they were together.

Perhaps it has something to do with a a certain person reappearing, inserting himself into the life of someone dear to me. Go figure!

Oh, and I know it's raw. Call it a first draft. I shall refine it now. And perhaps turn it into a short story...

Done!!!

2007-11-15T11:31:00.000+02:00

I was going to hang on to this post until the editing was complete. But I don't seem to be getting there. So I announce to one and all - IT'S DONE! AND IT HAS A NAME!

Now don't scratch your head so. It's rather unbecoming.

All I mean is that my collection is done. Has come together in a way I would never have expected. And I've decided to call it a SHOVEL. Meaning - Short Story Novel.

So now you know. Any editors out there who won't ask me to part with the clothes off my back in order to do the editing?

Oh and I was supposed to announce a caption competition for the last pic of my previous post. The one of my wee adorable darling. Any takers? Captions will be published along with the picture shortly. See, blogger has PMS, so I can't add and pictures for now. I shall send a box of bananas her way.

Thus far Debi has deigned to proffer one. Anyone else?

More of what I've been doing

2007-11-06T08:46:00.000+02:00

Ya, ya, I know, you didn't ask. But I'm letting you know anyway. I've been planting and taking care of these...

A purple and white snowstorm

Amaryllis to die for...

Me charming hanging basket. And in case you wanted to know, these are impatiens

A regal potted cycad

In between taking care of this!!!!

So now, you know why I don't get to visit anyone anymore :P

Hope you're all well, fellow bloggers.

Yours

A Government Type Rant...

2007-10-31T17:51:00.000+02:00

Seeing as everyone is indulging in a rant of some kind or the other right now, and the Government Monster and its many tentacles has come under fire, I've joined the fray

I have had the misfortune of wasting ten hours of my life in the last month at the traffic Department (excl. the time spend for my Learner's License)

Allow me to elaborate. I made a booking via the wonderful Call Centre for my Driver's License. The test was to be taken in Springs. It was the month of Ramadaan. I was fasting. I waited three hours in a queue in order to make the payment. At the time, I thought that was bad.

Needless to say, due to idiocy and nerves on my part I did not get my license and was forced to call those kindly folk all over again for a new booking. The day I arrived to make my payment, I found the department closed and was informed that the system was down and that I would have to try again. I returned the next day. The queue snaked its way out of the building. At three o' clock, little pink slips were handed out to the first forty people and everyone else was sent home. These forty would be the first to be helped the following day. Knowing this, I arrived at ten the next morning. I was obliged to work my way through three serpentine queues. One for confirmation of the booking, one for an eye test and one for payment. I finished at half past four that day. And I was not the only one.

I have a few questions for our geniuses at the Department. Since I have a reference number sms'ed to my cell phone straight after I make my booking, why do I need to spend two hours in a queue for some harried employee to print out this page from their system? Would presenting this sms not suffice? Could this queue and the eye test queue not be combined. In fact, could all three queues not be combined into one Uber queue, where a person would take the printout straight to the testing folk and from there straight to a counter for payment?

Whether a person has come for a license renewal, learner's license or driver's they are all on the same snail. Is there no way of streamlining the system? Why spend a fortune on a state of the art system when you are too much of an idiot to use it effectively?

This brings me to my second point. In order to acquire a driver's license, the K53 system is employed. Today I did not get my license . I failed on points. For 'Observations'.

Tell me, -------, do you look out of the left passenger window, into the left side mirror, into the rear view mirror, into the right side mirror, and out of the right passenger window each time you move your car? Why put people to such pressure for preparing for an hour of their lives, using a system that they will never use again in their entire lives.

The real winners here are the Traffic Department - R170-00 each try - and the driving schools - between R350-00 and R500-00 each time you use their car for a test and R130-00 for each lesson.

So if you're really fed up with the system you pay someone and buy your license. Surely if the system made more sense and a license was not as difficult to get - honestly - as reaching the moon, fewer people would resort to corruption. Are we not creating a perfect breeding ground for greedy opportunism, corruption and countless other ills by being totally daft?

p.s. i sent this to a talk show host. Here's to hoping somethings comes of it...

And more....

2007-10-23T16:15:00.000+02:00

And of course, there's this..

A Peppermint Marble Cake. Quite Popular with the locals...

Mini Custard Slice. A recipe that happens to be older than I am...

Chocolate Mousse Cake. Every bite is heaven...

And best of all, the view from my bedroom window...

Don't you love summer? Btw, the Lilies are from my garden...

It would appear Debi dear, that the cake did the trick. Blogger is being so much nicer.

and something else

2007-10-21T22:18:00.001+02:00

and there's this as well...

btw, this must be my tenth attempt at uploading images. Blogger refuses to allow me two pictures for one post. Seems she really missed me...

In case you've been wondering....

2007-10-21T22:04:00.001+02:00

No, I haven't dropped off the face of the earth. Rather, I've been doing this:

Care to come over for tea?

Birthdays and more

2007-09-05T21:42:00.000+02:00

My own birthday has passed me by. The BIG 30. My blog birthday, some four months ago. May - and I missed it. Ah well, there'll be others. Or will there? I've been thinking, wondering whether as part of my spring cleaning I shouldn't just delete the blog, since I have little time to maintain it and even less to enjoy what my fellow bloggers have to offer. Though I wish it were different, Afrocentric may soon become a nothing more than a brief and pleasurable interlude. Part of the tapestry woven over a period of thirty years.

In the meantime, Sumayya has sent me these:

you can laugh about it while i consider whether a web hoover might be what is needed....

The Story of Maha - Book Review

2007-08-28T16:11:00.000+02:00

The cover is as shockingly pink as the tale. Vivid, true to life and a definite page turner. These were my first impressions of The Story of Maha by Sumayya Lee, South African author.

For those who are regular commentators on this here blog, you all know her. She is none other than anonymous. And this is what she looks like.

Okay, guys, you can stop slobbering all over your keyboard. She is married, you know. Back to the tale…

Maha is quirky; she’s funny; and totally irreverent. The blurb reads, “A spunky tale of Romance, Rotis and Unsuitable boys,” and for hormones a-raging Maha, the unsuitable boys seem to fall into her lap.

Lee captures the ‘Durbanites’ - as we Jo’burgers refer to them - with startling clarity (she was one herself once upon a time). Right down to the ‘and all’ that punctuates the speech of so many of them. Prepare yourself for dialogue like: "Eh, Maha! What you naaching and koodhing outside like boy? Like junglee you? Gor and help your naani in kitchen like good girl!”

And it’s exchanges such as these that brought laughter bubbling out of me in many places.

My favourite passage in the book reads as follows:

Maryam was tall, pale-skinned and pretty, with a waist length sheet of silky , golden brown hair. A fair catch indeed, especially within the widespread yet close-knit Indo-African society where fair skin was the ultimate prize.
Unfortunately for my mother – sweet Maryam Maal , as everyone in the community referred to her – expectations were high. Not regarding her matric results or the number of folds in her puff pastry – although to be fair, these were important as well – but expectations regarding her marriage and marriage partner. And to say that she had disappointed everyone would be mild. The community was devastated.

This was enough to keep me up until the wee hours of the morn in a bid to eat the last one - em...page, that is.

But Maha is not all laughter and light heartedness. It is a tale that speaks of deep rooted prejudice, racism, caste- ism (if there is such a word) and a whole host of other ills that the Indian community in South Africa is plagued by. It brings the mirror up close to our faces. Scant wonder then that there are those in the community who have seen fit to question her faith after reading her literary contribution.

For someone who rarely ever swears though, Maha was a teacher of sorts. I found myself reading words that I have never ever thought of using. Except perhaps in my teen years, and that was a lifetime ago. And even then, my mouth was clean by comparison. So be warned, it is not for the faint hearted.

It’s honest, to the point and somewhat thought provoking. I enjoyed it. And I don’t say this because I know the author and have had the privilege of meeting her – hey, I’m famous now! Go out and get it. For non South Africans I doubt whether there is another book available which captures the Indian community of South Africa more succinctly. Not very flattering, but then again, being under a magnifying glass seldom is.

Excerpt

2007-08-20T20:58:00.001+02:00

After what feels like a lifetime, Muse Mine has come and sat downbeside me. She's taken my hand and told me that she's here to stay if I will have her. She's been holding baby while I type. And thanks to her, The Collection is getting along nicely. She's even put another old manuscript under my nose and forced me to have a rethink. And this is what she's inspired.

Chapter One

It has been this way as long as I can remember. I’d be walking amongst a crowd and see him. Plain as day, standing before me. He never looks at me. Never acknowledges my presence. At first I was alarmed by these sightings. But now, I’ve come to think of him as a friendly ghost of sorts. Someone who is there, watching over me. You know, if that were really the case, I would not be surprised. Since, what we shared…well it’s hard to explain. Hard to talk about even. Excruciating to bear thinking of.

I remember that day vividly. The riots. 1976. Uncle Hassan with blood on his hands; a cut on his head; dust on his clothes. Before he even opened his mouth, I knew what he was going to say. I wanted to scream at him. Tell him to go. To leave me. I wanted to put my hands over my ears, block out his words. Close my eyes and pretend I had not seen him. But the jacket. Bloodied and torn in his hands, it drew my gaze towards it. Claimed my attention totally. Consumed me. And I hated him.

Why didn’t he listen? Why? It was a road that was going nowhere. A road that would forever be paved with bodies, mostly black, being trampled on by the boere. Those bastards. Sharpeville was only the beginning. The bloody beginning. Soweto would be remembered forever.

“They killed a dog,” Uncle Hassen murmured. Almost to himself. . “Hacked it to death and burnt it. A police dog.”

He didn’t need to say more. I had seen the images. The ones that could not be blacked out by the media censorship guys.

And here he was again. In the crowded mall. In the year 2007. But this time he looked different. He’d aged. My ghost always looked twenty. Like I remembered him. It always wore the same pair of jeans. The same t-shirt and scuffed takkies. This ghost had on a pair of chinos. A tannish brown. A shirt and leather shoes. And this ghost looked at me. Straight into my face, even caught my gaze for a moment before passing right over me. But strangely enough, the light of recognition did not creep into its eyes.

I should have run in the opposite direction. Pretend I had not seen it. I should have told myself it was a dream. But my feet moved of their own volition. Straight towards it. I stood right in front of him. Blocking his path. I saw only confusion in his face. Even a mild irritation perhaps. But nothing more.

And then I felt fear. Cold fear that congealed in the gaps left by his death. Fear that made my feet heavy and my shoulders creak under the weight. I was spinning. Spiralling into an abyss, the pictures that were once hidden, plastered on the walls of my dark tunnel. Flickering, restless, like the images on a TV screen. I was gasping, breath hammering at the inside of my lungs forcing them to expand. But they would not. My hands were clammy, my scarf suddenly choking me.

I turned and fled to Zaheer waiting in the car. Zaheer and my darlings. One of whom share his name, though Zaheer knows this not. Ammar.

The years folded in on themselves. Merging a yesterday that held precarious promise with a today, languid as a heat induced shimmer. Zaheer and Ammar, side by side. My children with them. I was being thrown headlong into a maelstrom, torn free of my moorings. Dragged, dragging. Where was I going? I could not be sure. The house of Lego was falling apart. The pieces slipping through the same fingers that had so painstakingly pressed them together. Fingers that were raw from the forcing into place. From the task of creating a picture that would conform. An acceptable picture in a world where we were often our own worst enemies

His voice came to me again. But I had torn out his vocal cords. How could it? I had a bad feeling about this holiday. The dream of the snakes, multicoloured, writhing on my bed. I should have heeded. And now, it was too late.

Her Hands

2007-08-14T08:46:00.000+02:00

I look at my hands and see hers. The flat nails, corrugated due to a lack of some or other vitamin. I rub his loose skinned little body with the olive oil and Dutch Medicine infusion and remember her hands doing the same on another body, one that was somewhat bigger. I wipe the hairy new baby shoulders and hear her say, “Wipe properly to help all that hair fall off.”

I see her rubbing the joints, stretching the little limbs, exercising them. “Come now, don’t be lazy,” she’d croon. I remember removing fluff from a little fist, one that was attached to a body that she was bathing, many years ago. More than twenty, in fact. Babies today… they don’t collect fluff in tightly closed fists. Their hands are open from the very first day.

I think of her hands now. How loose the skin seems. Papery, like the rice paper that I had used not too long ago for a macadamia nut nougat. They’re darker too, darker than I remember them being when she could still bathe little babes. When she taught me how to bathe them. When she taught me how to form a koeksuster, or knead a yeast dough. She was good at that. I can almost taste the milk tart, a baked one, mind, that would always be made on the day she bakes coconut tart.

She’s forgotten how to do those things. She’s confused, bewildered by why she can’t seem to remember being told things that people insist they had told her. She’s scared, alarmed by her forgetfulness. She’s scared to bathe babies, or bake milk tart. She’s scared to knead a yeast dough. She’s intimidated by her daughters’ efficiency in their homes. Yet they are the products of those hands that she seems to see as useless now, that she folds away uncertainly. And I feel like crying.

I want to tell her that it is okay to be getting older, that sometimes we need help and that saying so doesn’t diminish us. But I can’t. The words catch in my throat. I see the fear in her eyes, the self doubt. I want to put a hand, one that looks like hers used to, and moves with the confidence that once possessed her own hands, I want to lay it on her furrowed brow, the only sign that belies her befuddled state of mind. I want to say, “It’s okay, I’m here…” But the silence between us stretches and stretches…

Deathly Desire - Part II

2007-08-01T08:52:00.000+02:00

The self pity and shame had ebbed from her pores. It left gaps that were soon filled with anger and hatred. The guilt congealed, solid in these hollows. Each day was much the same. Brooding, hating, regretting. Azhar had taken to visiting with her in-laws. Perhaps he felt all the negativity in the air. He’d go there after school each day. Naeem barely spoke when he returned, later and later from work each day.

Darkness. A shroud, heavy, impregnable clinging to her soul. She saw herself in dreams, in visions, tumbling down the stairs. She saw her dress catch fire on the stove. She saw death. More than anything, she wanted death, the blissful oblivion that it would be.

No memories that taunt, recriminations that glide, vaporous beside her wherever she walked. Why didn’t it claim her like it had claimed her child – her children?

************************************

Naeem stared at the wall clock, watching the second hand move tirelessly. The minute hand inching along. He could almost feel it eating away at his life. Twelve thirty. He wondered what Fairuz would be doing. A wistful smile formed on his face at the memory of her laughter; her smile, the one that would always greet him at the door in the first year of their marriage. Even when she had struggled with the morning sickness, swelling feet and an aching back. And then Azhar had come into the world. A colicky baby, a nervous toddler and now an anxious little boy. Her smiles had melted, her words had sharpened. Azhar, Naeem sometimes felt, was like a toxin in her life even though he was a product of their love, a piece of both of them. It was then, that he had felt himself harden. If she felt this way about his son, how then did she feel about him?

She was unaware that he knew about that day six years ago when she had killed his child. He had followed her, he had seen her enter the clinic, he had seen her leave hours later in tears. While she was inside, he had debated the situation, and finally concluded that this would be best for every one. He had sat in the car, imagining what was happening to the piece of him that she was to have nurtured in her womb. There would be others, he told himself, legitimate ones that didn’t need to have their lives justified. He had hated himself then for taking from her her innocence, but he hadn’t been able to help himself. She was so darned desirable. And so very willing.

He wondered sometimes whether he shouldn’t just tell her that he knew. Share the burden somehow, but he couldn’t bring himself to do so. She hated him enough already for all the pain he caused her. And now this, the haemorrhaging. He had been on site that day. His cell phone battery had run down. He had returned to the office later that afternoon to find a message from her on the answering machine. Her voice sounded strange, distant, tearful. She had said she was losing the baby. He had called the neighbour. Mrs Amin had taken her in her son’s car to the hospital. She said that she had stayed there until the womb scrape was done. She said that Fairuz was fine, resting. She had returned home barely fifteen minutes ago.

Naeem had then called his mother.
“Yes, we were with her. We booked her in. Don’t worry son. The doctor says that she is fine. In fact I just spoke to her now. She says that Fairuz has been discharged. You can go and pick her up. Bring her here. I can help you take care of her. And don’t worry about Azhar, he’s with us. Shame, poor child. He’s sleeping now.” Just as he was about to hang up, she had added, almost as an afterthought, “And don’t worry about the account. I know that your neighbour took her to a private clinic, but Papa says he’ll pay for it.”

Mummy, always so thoughtful, he had mused, as he got into the car ready to fetch Fairuz. Her reaction when he had told her that they would go to his mother’s house had been like a slap in the face. After all Mummy was just trying to help. Why was she this way? Always pushing people away when the meant well. He wished he could unlove, her, but truth is, she had burrowed so far into his heart, that his life would be incomplete without her.

Naeem suddenly felt an urge to hear her voice. He looked at the telephone, uncertainly. Should he? In the end, he decided he would. He’d call her and check up on her.

**********************************

She sat on the edge of the bed in pyjamas. Her hair dishevelled. In her hands a bottle of tablets. She stared at the bottle. She turned it over in her hands, toyed with the lid. This was it then. The only way out of her misery. She’d have to pay, she knew. Answer to Allah. But this life was just not worth living. The weight of the guilt felt like sand on her grave. Crushing. She popped off the lid, poured about a dozen into her palm. She lifted the glass of water, held it up to the light. She could see little particles swirling in the glass. Dirt, dirty, like her.

And then the telephone rang. Loud, piercing, insistent. “Shut up, shut up!” she screamed. She picked it up, threw it against the wall. The mirror, in pieces struggled free of its frame. Tinkled to the ground. Musical.

She laughed. She picked up the lampshade, flung it against the wall. The shade smashed into a million little fragments. She laughed some more. She picked up items one after the other, threw them against the wall, against what was left of the mirror against the bedroom window. She broke out in a sweat. She laughed louder and louder.
When there was nothing left to be thrown, she collapsed to the ground, spent, in tears. She sobbed, sucking in great gulps of air, hacking, rolling about on the floor.
“I want to die, I want to die. I can’t do this I can’t do this.”

****************************************

Naeem found her on the floor, sobbing. Inconsolable. Like an abandoned child. He touched her shoulder. Called her name. Shook her. She sobbed louder, more heart wrenchingly. He gathered her in his arms. Lifted her gently, carried her to the bed. He stroked her head, pulled her to his chest. Rocked her back and forth. She wept. And he let her. She wept and he wept with her.

A Quick Crow

2007-07-24T10:53:00.000+02:00

Hi all,

Yes, I know, I've been remiss. And you've missed me terribly. But I've been so busy basking in the glow of seeing my writing on a 'Literary Website', that all else was driven from my mind.

So go to LitNet

and read my short story. It will be in my collection. And just so you know, I've been working on that as well :-)

Back Home

2007-07-16T11:16:00.000+02:00

It’s been more than three months. A longer ‘break’ than even I could have imagined. And thanks to a horribly defunct Telkom, I still languish without telephone lines. ADSL? Huh, fat chance! So I’ve gone the wireless route, and hence, courtesy of Vodaphone, I now present my first blog entry in months.

The last three months have been filled with house moving, living and dying. Let me explain. We moved house, and miraculously, I survived the Great Trek, though I was almost 8 months pregnant. I am now an official resident of suburbia.

Not long after the move, my nephew ‘drowned’ in a koi pond. He was just over a year old at the time. And for almost a week it was touch and go, with everyone wondering whether he would survive, and worrying, if he did, how severe his brain damage would be. His mother did not need another mentally handicapped child in the home. Dealing with her 18 year old son, whose brain has not developed beyond the age of five, is challenge enough.

Seeing little Mohammed now, all smiles and mischief, after his traumatic ordeal, is enough to convince even the most dubious of minds, of the existence of God, Allah. In a space of three weeks, he had gone from a near lifeless form, in an ICU to a perfectly normal 14 month old :-)

And then came the birth. Hamza Imraan Bhamjee arrived at 8am on the morning of the 31 May, weighing a healthy 2.98 kg. He’s doing well, and so am I. Thanks for asking ;-)

This last month has been a time of deep introspection for me. And no, it wasn’t the snowfall that we saw after 25 years that prompted the questions. It was something a lot less cheering.

Just over a week ago, my grandfather’s elder brother, a man of nearly 90 was robbed and murdered in his home. He was bludgeoned to death with a crowbar. I’m told that his bloodied body that was almost naked, was not a pleasant sight. I am also told that the thieves went as far as to steal the bedding from his bed.

This is a man who should have been allowed the dignity of dying peacefully in his bed, with his children by his side. Natural causes, this is what the records should have revealed, but instead, he has become just another crime statistic.

And the reports in the news of children being abducted, raped and murdered have become so common now, that no one even bats an eyelid when these stories are told in newspapers. What kind of a society is it, where no respect is accorded the old, and no care is shown for the young?

Before, I vanish, I need to apologise to Widad and Safiyyah, two very dear friends who were so worried by my absence that they are now very upset with me. Believe me, had I been able to get in touch and let you know that I was alive and well, albeit it very tired, I would have. Realising how little we control in our own lives is a truly humbling experience.

To all those who still dropped by now and again to check up on me, thank you. Andres, part II is on its way, as soon as I can get the wireless sorted out on my PC. Laptops are not my machine of choice.

p.s if the typing is croddy, and the spelling stinks, blame it on baby. Thanks to him, I'm having to learn 'one hand typing'. and not doing any writing for months wreaks havoc with your editor's eye.

Kimya, before I forget, I hope the book is doing great. Here's to many, many more.

You'all watch this space. I'll be reveiwing the book by our own 'anonymous' (those who comment know her) pretty soon. Seeing as I can't get to Exclusive Books, I'll order a copy online. Thank God for the internet.

Afrocentric Muslimah

Movie inspired writing exercise

Qadr and choice

The Facts of Life...

Love unchanged...

Arsenic

This is going to hurt...

Let's Talk About Sex *blush*

Seven Links

Burnt wigs...

Tomorrow...

The Sacrifice

The Muslim Feminist - Oxymoron?

Candles...

on scars and sisters

winter...

Lazeeza Chronicles

Life's Lessons, courtesy, The School of Hard Knocks

The Muslim-ness Measure

drift...

Keep it in a Closet...NOT!

Facebook did it!

Lazeeza's Chronicles - 2011

Coming Full Circle

Another small dose

Afrocentric Review - Maha Ever After

more please mum

accusation...

writing...

Celebrities and celebrations

dead??

Lazeeza Days...

Musings

KhatPat - it's back!

Brewing Storms in Teacups

Eish, I've been remiss

back for a bit

Addendum...

Tomorrow...

Thinking

A Discovery

The Most Unreadable of Unreadables

Books

A Gifted Week

Things so Lost

A wonderful story

Lazeeza Chronicles IV - The Is-It-Fresh Brigade

Lazeeza Chronicles III

Thirty

Walking...

The Task at Hand

Book Year

Meeting

Chasm

Midnight

A promise is a promise

What exactly

Lazeeza Chronicles II

Lazeeza Chronicles I

Books that Call

excerpt yet again.....

A work in progress

He -- She

How Far.....

A New Day

Abandonment

It's Here!!!!

Bakeries

Thieves and more...

I've been hijacked

Inspiration from the recycle bin

Something Worthwhile....

What's in a Name??

Released

Some writing - at long last

happenings.......

Al Muhaymin - The Protector

A Quick Crow

I Salute You...

What do you want? he asks

Let's Talk About Sex blush