Balancing them on their heads, the maids took the empty pots to the huge sink outside, near the storeroom. They doused them in dishwashing liquid in amounts that would make any madam cringe, and shot the hose at them with glee. Some parts of their job were fun, especially when they got to clean together. The frothy foam enveloped the crusty pots. The wind played with the whiffs of foam, making them float around like bits of whipped cream.

  Laila’s kids, Isa and shy Fatima who sat on Sibo’s back, squealed in delight at the impromptu bubble party. Aunty Shaida’s daughters, who’d been granted the day off school, ran around outside, each trying to blow huge bubbles with their Bubble Fun.

  Scourers in hand, the maids chatted loudly to each other in Zulu and English. Laughter and clanging of the pots bounced off the walls. Even Mrs Bhoola’s shushing was ignored.

  In the foyer, Joyce set the tables for lunch and Precious helped stack the paper plates near the end of each table. They found themselves alone in the large foyer while the madams went to wash their hands.

  ‘So? When will you tell them?’ Joyce asked casually, retying her doek.

  Precious was a little taken aback but nothing could get past Joyce. ‘Um. I don’t know. Soon.’ She mechanically stacked the plates.

  ‘Eish. There are just too many secrets in this building.’ Joyce let out a resigned sigh and carried on with her work.

  Just after 2.30 p.m., a glorious vision appeared before the building – a small white Manjra’s truck. By then, everyone had returned refreshed from their flats. Robert and Jabu hauled the degh onto the cleared table as the steam billowed through the doughnut hole.

  Zaina salivated at the thought of the glorious mixture of rice, lentils, chicken and soft potato, saffron romancing the freshness of the mint and the sweetness of the onions. She reminded herself that it wasn’t proper for a Muslim girl to be the first to eat. She wasn’t a hongrah – not publicly, at least – and had to maintain some decorum. To distract herself, she took to pouring cooldrinks into the paper cups.

  Aunty Julie brought down the wedding jewellery that had arrived with Zara to show everyone before it was stored away. The jewellery was a good indication of whether Zara’s in-laws had gaudy or simple taste, and overall of their standard of living. It was a striking teardrop pendant surrounded by diamonds, strung on a platinum thread as thin as a hair. The matching earrings were as delicate. The women oohed and aahed, approving of the groom’s family’s choice. Even Precious’s often preoccupied eyes widened at the sight of such shine.

  Aunty Julie went back up to her third-floor flat, where she stowed the jewellery away safely in her locked cupboard in her bedroom, and then returned to Ruki’s side.

  Ruki rolled up her sleeves and dug a saucer down into the depths of the degh, dishing perfect portions of biryani out into the paper plates. ‘Come, come, don’t feel shy,’ she called, inviting everyone to relax and reap the rewards of their hard work.

  ‘Arreh, Shirin!’ She shouted up in the direction of the first floor. ‘Come now, we won’t eat if you’re not here.’ She laughed, and the women giggled at her audacity.

  Slowly, the maids and madams arranged themselves around the tables. As usual, the older and younger women gravitated towards their own circles, while the maids sat on the periphery.

  Violet took her food to her room. Even then, when they were all together, and the boundaries between madams and maids seemed to blur, the inviolable beams of race and class shone bright. Violet saw these lines brighter than anyone else. She wouldn’t let them watch her eat their food. No, she preferred to eat alone, in her own space, where there were actual walls between her and them.

  Revelling in her late entrance, Shirin and her entourage of a few women joined in. Zaina couldn’t help but notice that Aunty Shaida and Thandi looked like scared schoolgirls who’d been bullied by their ringleader.

  Ruki, Mrs Hassim and Aunty Julie tucked into their food, eating with their right hands and savouring the feeling of lentils, rice and chicken between their fingers. Shirin picked at her food with her fork and complained there was no salad.

  The mood soon turned jovial as Zara glided down the stairs, as her mother had instructed. Aunty Julie winked at her daughter; ‘A bride must always make a grand entrance,’ she’d told her.

  Zara had Imraan’s casual way of walking. She seemed relaxed with the older women, smiling at their jokes and offering them tea. She was a chameleon. She could fit in anywhere. It made Zaina a little jealous.

  Soon the foyer resembled a dining hall, everyone animatedly discussing the wedding plans and reminiscing about their own marriage ceremonies and sharing funny anecdotes about their experiences as new brides.

  ‘You know, Zara, on my wedding day,’ said Mrs Hassim, ‘I was so nervous that my hands couldn’t stop shaking. My mother gave me something to make me calm down.’

  Zaina couldn’t imagine Mrs Hassim being young. With her large eyes, which were often either closed in prayer or looking heavenwards, Mrs Hassim seemed to have a stern, religious demeanour that made it seem impossible for her to ever have had fun or have been a child.

  ‘What about me,’ Aunty Julie laughed. ‘My menses decided to come! Poor man didn’t know what to do with himself. We just sat in the room and got to know each other.’

  ‘Oh, ja, back then we didn’t even know who or what we were marrying, eh,’ Ruki said, recalling her inner turmoil when her mother passed away. ‘I was so young, so upset about my mother, I didn’t even have time to wear a proper wedding dress. I wore one of my mother’s fancy red outfits and married Solly. Ooh, Allah, lucky Joyce was there with me.’

  ‘Well, my mother didn’t tell me anything about marriage,’ Shirin said, rolling her eyes. ‘Or mothers-in-law. My one was a real witch.’

  ‘Well, He has made us in pairs, isn’t it?’ Ruki laughed, coughing on her joke. At the end of the table, Joyce watched quietly, making sure Ruki recovered from the fit of coughing. ‘But nowadays the brides are very modern,’ Ruki continued. ‘They don’t mind talking back to their mothers-in-law. You know, Tariq’s wife actually told me what to wear to their wedding! Can you imagine? She didn’t want me to clash with the décor or her mother.’

  ‘Ay, but mothers-in-law haven’t changed, huh,’ said Mrs Hassim. ‘They still love their sons too much. How’s Zara’s mother-in-law?’

  Aunty Julie thought about it for a while. ‘Well, she’s okay. She’s from Cape Town. You know, they have different traditions and all that. They’re not like our Muslims. They’re just different, you know. They kiss or hug when they greet. Even their male cousins. But she’s okay, I guess. She didn’t say or do anything bad …’

  ‘Yet!’ Shirin said.

  Everyone, including Zara, broke into laughter.

  ‘Yeah, once they get married, then the mother-in-law’s jaat really comes out!’ Shaida said.

  Sitting next to Aunty Julie, Kadija turned to her intently. ‘You must pray. We will pray for her too.’

  Joyce nodded in agreement. ‘You have been a good mother. We know. We have seen her grow up. This boy is getting a good wife. I pray he treats her well.’

  ‘I’m making duaa. I just hope it goes well. You know, I just want her to be happy,’ Aunty Julie said, hugging Zara and bringing her close.

  ‘Mom, everything will be okay.’ Zara smiled reassuringly.

  ‘But, you know, she is your only daughter,’ Aunty Shaida said. She always had a way of making people tear up with her sad perspective on things. ‘Zara, don’t forget your mother and all she’s done for you …’

  ‘No, no,’ Ruki interjected. ‘You know, sons will come and go, but daughters! Even when they get married, they still worry about their mothers. My Dilshad checks on me every day, even though she’s in Joburg.’ Ruki licked her fingers clean. ‘Oh, and there’s one important thing that you will need to keep your husband happy.’ Ruki winked, holding her index finger up in the air, making all the other women blush. Then she said, ‘Food! What else?’

  The women erupted in laughter.

  ‘Zara, you know how to cook?’ Joyce asked her.

  ‘You think I’ll let her get married without knowing how to cook? What will people say about me?’ Aunty Julie admonished Joyce jokingly.

  Zara elegantly excused herself from the older women’s company and poured herself some diet cola. Moving across to where the younger women were sitting, she seated herself between Laila and Zaina.

  ‘Zaina, right?’ she asked, looking directly at Zaina. ‘I think I’ve only met you once. Thanks for agreeing to do my mehndi.’ She smiled.

  Zaina nodded, her mouth full of biryani.

  ‘Ooh, Zara, you looking so byooriful, yoh! He’s a lucky man!’ Sibo, Laila’s second maid, pretended to swoon.

  ‘Show us a picture!’ Laila demanded, voicing what everyone was thinking. They’d all wondered about this doctor from Cape Town who’d courted the graceful Zara.

  Curious eyes fell on the photograph of the tall, fair graduate in his black gown and mortarboard. Just as the elder women had oohed and aahed over the jewellery, the younger women made approving noises about Zara’s groom.

  ‘I can’t wait to go back to Cape Town and start our life together,’ Zara said, her cheeks full as she smiled.

  ‘Are you going to live on your own?’ Hlengi asked.

  ‘Yes. We managed to get our flat ready just in time,’ Zara said, scrolling through pictures of the new sofa and curtains and showing them around.

  ‘Girl, it’s best to not live with your mother-in-law,’ Laila confirmed. It seemed even her whiteness hadn’t protected her from mother-in-law drama.

  ‘And!’ Sibo almost jumped up as she said this. ‘Please don’t get pregnant too quickly. Enjoy your life with your man!’

  Zara giggled. ‘Yes, Sibo. Calm down. I don’t plan on having babies any time soon.’ Precious sighed.

  The leftover biryani was packed into styrofoam containers which were distributed among the women for supper or a decadent Saturday lunch. Zaina kept her mother’s container safe. She knew how much Rabia loved biryani.

  One of the best things about these Fridays that came once a year was that the madams were relieved of their cooking duties for the evening thanks to the leftover biryani their husbands and children would enjoy, and got to stretch out like contented cats after eating their fill.

  Before they left, the maids crumpled up the brown paper and threw the large biryani-stained balls into the green bins near the parking lot. Together, they folded the tables and stacked them away. Made from heavy steel, they’d been passed down through Mr Bhoola’s family and eventually came to belong to the building, stowed away in Robert and Jabu’s store room.

  The tables always seemed heavier with the digesting biryani weighing down the women, but they were maids. It was at times like these, when they would’ve loved to relax too, that they were reminded of their place in this space. This infuriated Joyce – when she felt this distance, it was as if she was admitting that Violet had been right in what she’d said the night Joyce had moved out. Black women were known to be strong, but they were women, after all: they had period pains, and other aches and pains, and marital issues, and children who clung to them. And, yes, in the end, they were paid workers.

  The bitter distance between being family and being like family seemed awfully far in these moments.

  SAMOOSAS

  500g washed chicken mince or lean mutton mince

  2 tablespoons oil

  ½ teaspoon salt

  ½ teaspoon chilli powder

  ¼ teaspoon turmeric

  2 onions, thinly sliced

  2 teaspoons lemon juice

  1 teaspoon dried mixed herbs (mint, origanum, parsley)

  ½ bunch fresh dhania

  2 spring onions, chopped

  100 sheets samoosa pur

  1 cup cake flour and a little water (to make lei)

  oil for deep frying

  • In a large pot, braise the mince in oil until it begins to brown, about 20 minutes.

  • Add the salt, chilli powder and turmeric. Cook on high until the mince starts to dry, about 10 minutes.

  • Add the onions and simmer on low until they’re soft, about 15 minutes. Stir often with a fork to ensure the mince isn’t lumpy. Once all moisture has evaporated, remove from the heat.

  • Add the lemon juice, mixed herbs, spring onions and dhania. Leave to cool.

  • Place a teaspoon of the filling onto one end of a sheet of pur and fold into a triangle. Apply lei to the end of the pur to close the samoosa and ensure no filling will escape when frying.

  • Deep-fry in hot oil until golden and crispy, and serve with various chutneys.

  Makes 100 samoosas

  11

  ZARA HAD CHOSEN EACH KUNCHA for her fiancé and packed them all neatly in her luggage. Now, they stood proudly on display in Shirin’s flat, a kind of testament to her love for him. There were nineteen of them including the ones Aunty Julie and her friends had made in the preceding weeks, and they took up most of Shirin’s dining table and lounge.

  Shirin had counted and recounted them – an odd number was meant to be good luck. They were a strange reminder of her wedding to Ismail.

  As much as Ruki was talented with food, Shirin was skilled in the art of presentation. She’d ensured that the women who helped her were careful and shared her vision: the kunchas were meant to look classy yet understated, not the usual mishmash of coloured cellophane and gaudy glitter most weddings seemed to be covered in.

  The perfume stood in an intricate wooden box, surrounded by chocolate coins, like a treasure chest. A Liverpool shirt and branded soccer boots and ball stood at an angle on a tray covered with artificial turf. Scoops of burfee appeared to float in a large crystal martini glass, while an expensive watch rotated in a glass box above a formal shirt and pants. There was also an array of gifts for the groom’s family: metres of soft silks, purses, chocolates and biscuits.

  The building sank into quietness post-biryani. Zaina was to help carry the kunchas from Shirin’s flat to the other women’s flats around the building, for storing until the wedding. She waited for Shirin’s instructions as she surveyed the glittering kunchas. Her eye fell on a simple set of matching musallahs and tasbeehs. She imagined Imraan’s tasbeeh next to hers someday. Someday soon, she hoped.

  Shirin reminded Zaina which kunchas were meant to go to which flats, and she went to great lengths to make sure Zaina understood how to carry each one. As she rattled on, Zaina was distracted by the fact that this was her first glimpse into Shirin’s home. She’d often heard the old, shrill Bollywood songs floating out of Shirin’s flat, but she’d never actually been inside.

  It wasn’t what she’d expected. In the open-plan layout, the dark wooden kitchen counters overlooked a black leather couch that sagged on the one side, as if someone had spent an eternity watching the television it faced. The space was clean and modern, without pictures on the walls or a woman’s frilly fragrance in the air. The kitchen was a cook’s dream: every appliance was European and had been either barely used or cleaned exceptionally well.

  Violet sauntered in after lunch had long been digested, smiled at Zaina, and proceeded to make herself a mug of tea. Zaina’s eyes must have popped at the sight of a maid using a Maxwell & Williams cup, because Shirin looked at her and laughed. ‘Zaina, don’t stare, it’s rude,’ she said wryly.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I’m just admiring your kitchen. And Violet. She’s very … at home.’

  ‘Well, why wouldn’t she be? She cleans my home. She should share in it too. I’m not like everyone else, as I’m sure you’ve heard.’

  Zaina smiled and blushed. ‘I haven’t heard anything,’ she lied.

  ‘Tell that to your face!’ Shirin exclaimed, laughing.

  Flustered, Zaina laughed aloud. Violet too. ‘Well, I’d better get these out of your way,’ Zaina said, picking up the two kunchas destined for Aunty Shaida’s flat. ‘I’ll be back.’

  ‘Stand up straight, Zaina,’ Shirin reminded her.

  Zaina sometimes had an apologetic way of walking, unlike her graceful mother. Rabia nagged her about her posture like a school principal. The more she nagged her, the slouchier Zaina became. She resented Rabia for trying to change her, make her more like her.

  But listening to Shirin was different somehow. And she found that once she’d extended her neck, squared her shoulders and sucked in her tummy, she could carry the kunchas better. She felt more in control and confident. She smiled at Shirin. So, this is how the sparkly girls do it, she thought.

  Walking elegantly, Zaina carried the gifts to Aunty Shaida’s flat. As usual, an array of biscuits were cooling outside. The aroma of Aunty Shaida’s buttery vanilla and choc-chip cupcakes, ginger nuts and airy chocolate puffs that she left to cool outside her flat, in the couple of metres between her front door and the security gate, was inviting. Sometimes, Zaina liked to walk past the flat after a difficult day, to see what Aunty Shaida had made and to inhale their warm loveliness.

  Today, as she marvelled at the golden bites of heaven at her feet, she was reminded of Rabia. Paradise, she remembered, lies at the feet of your mother.

  ‘Don’t tell Ma!’ a little voice said in an urgent whisper.

  Giggling, another said, ‘Put it in your pocket!’

  Zaina noticed two biscuits had disappeared off the tray. Looking at the front door, which was slightly ajar, she noticed a tiny hand pull a chocolate puff away so quickly that she would’ve missed it if she’d blinked.

  ‘Sumi! Someone is watching!’ One of the girls ran inside to the safety of the flat. Two curious little eyes peered out at Zaina through the gap between the door and the wall. They crinkled into a guilty smile. Zaina smiled back.

  The silent smile exchange continued until Aunty Shaida crept up behind little Sumaiyah and swiftly lifted her up into the air, invoking a series of even louder giggles. As Aunty Shaida pulled the door open a bit more, Zaina could see the bigger daughter openly eating her loot on the lounge floor, a pool of crumbs surrounding her.