‘Come in, Zaina,’ Aunty Shaida said warmly, moving the trays to one side. ‘I cleared some space on my sideboard for the kunchas.’ She let out a resigned sigh that coloured the air between them with heaviness. ‘I’m so tired,’ she complained, taking the large kuncha from Zaina and placing it on the sideboard. She had a round, shiny face, with bags under her eyes. ‘Mama isn’t well and I can’t manage without her. All those biscuits,’ she said, pointing back towards the front door, ‘she used to melt the chocolate and drizzle them on for me. I just can’t do it without her. And the children miss her too.’

  Zaina remembered Mama, Aunty Shaida’s helper. She could never quite tell her age. She was quiet and calm and had a beautiful way of speaking to children. As Aunty Shaida’s daughters grew and needed more motherly affection and supervision, Mama had started helping with the business of baking.

  ‘Oh, shame, what happened to her?’ enquired Zaina.

  ‘We had a small birthday party for her a few weeks ago. The girls and I baked her a cake and bought her a new jersey. And then that evening, before she left for home, she had terrible pain in her legs. So I tried to massage her, but she was so shy. She said she would go home and her son would take her to the doctor. Since then, she’s been ill,’ Aunty Shaida said sadly. ‘It’s arthritis and blood pressure. So she might only come back in a week or two.’

  ‘If you need any help, let me know,’ Zaina offered.

  ‘Thanks, angel,’ Aunty Shaida said, ‘but I don’t have the time to train someone. I only trust Mama with these biscuits.’ Zaina would’ve been offended if she’d really been determined to help, but she was a little relieved. She could never bake biscuits well.

  Aunty Shaida quickly packed some biscuits into one of her many plastic containers and gave it to Zaina. ‘For you and your mother,’ she said.

  As the door closed behind her, Zaina could hear Aunty Shaida warning her daughters not to touch the kunchas.

  Zaina returned to Shirin’s flat to fetch the chocolate and burfee kuncha to carry to Laila’s, for safe storage in her industrial-sized fridge. On her way out of Shirin’s flat, she bumped into Violet, who was leaving for the weekend. She was heading out on the long journey to her home, ‘the farm’ (as the madams called it), where she sang in the church choir, and smiled, and ate happily with her family.

  Violet, in her weekend weave and painted nails, looked nothing like the Violet Zaina knew – a simple maid. It reminded Zaina of a meme she’d once seen about domestic workers, which said, ‘Come to work like Khanyi, leave like a Kardashian.’ Staring at Violet, she realised that the maids may have seemed as if they belonged to their madams, but they too kept parts of themselves private. It was a world that madams weren’t allowed to see. In this instance, it was the maids who built the wall.

  Knocking on Laila’s door, Zaina was let in by Sibo, who was carrying sleepy little Fatima on her hip. Laila was busy in the kitchen, cooking supper. She seemed more relaxed, laughing with both her maids so much that her cheeks had turned completely pink. Her light hair was contained in a neat ponytail, which suited her sporty track pants and T-shirt. Zaina guessed Laila was in her early thirties, and was quietly amazed at her flat stomach, which seemed to bear no recollection of having produced four children.

  ‘Come, come inside. We’re all girls here, Zaina. Actually, we’re just chatting about boys. Did you know Robert likes Hlengi? He sends her texts every night.’ Laila laughed like a schoolgirl. Hlengi smiled down at her feet. ‘Ag, sometimes you just need to talk nonsense, you know,’ Laila said, waving her hand in the air and gesturing for Zaina to follow her to the large enclosed balcony.

  Laila’s fridge took up much of the space there. Zaina stood at its open door, looking into the treasure chest of confectionary, while Laila told Sibo which shelf was best for burfee and which for cake. Zaina stared, amazed, at the fondant roses, handbags and shoes inside, as well as the cakes at various stages of bakedness, and bags of different-coloured icing.

  Delivering the kunchas, Zaina learned more about her neighbours in one afternoon than she had for the entire ten years she’d been living in Summer Terrace. Chatting with Laila and the maids, she heard that Hlengi’s fifteen-year-old son had TB, that Sibo had dreams of becoming a baker, and that Laila’s name had once been Emma.

  Last, Zaina carried the kunchas of fabric and purses to her and Rabia’s flat, along with the biscuits from Aunty Shaida and some fruit Shirin had given her.

  Rabia arrived home at 7 p.m. She was exhausted and lay down while Zaina heated up the biryani. But in the three minutes of microwave time, Rabia fell asleep on her bed and Zaina knew not to wake her. Instead, she read Elif Shafak’s Three Daughters of Eve and contemplated the degrees of Islamic dressing she was most comfortable with.

  Some of the women in Summer Terrace and some girls on campus happily donned the niqaab, while she battled internally with wearing a scarf. Her mother was attached to her scarf, while Billy disregarded it completely. She wanted to ask Imraan what he thought. She’d like to dress for him.

  Later, Zaina messaged Billy, enquiring about her quest for an internship.

  Konichiwa! Billy texted, following this with a few sushi emoticons. She was learning Japanese. But there were no further texts and Zaina figured her best friend had fallen asleep.

  Lying in bed as the noises of the building quietened down, Zaina listened to some music, imagining her wedding to Imraan. She did everything but sleep and was still restless at midnight. Imraan had been oddly quiet.

  Then her phone lit up.

  Look outside, the text flashed.

  Zaina moved her curtain aside gently. There he was. In the rain.

  Heart racing, Zaina leapt out of bed. Tiptoeing across the hallway, she carefully checked on her mother. Exhausted, her mouth open, Rabia was lost in another realm. Zaina slowly pulled her mother’s door closed.

  Back in her own bedroom, she put on her black hoodie and jeans, and tiptoed through the dining room. Her heart was pounding loudly as she slipped out the front door. Quietly, she made her way around the back of the building and emerged from the driveway. Smiling, she ran to Imraan, but then she noticed something different about him. He’d been crying.

  He pulled her to him and hugged her. Sobbing, he held her like that for a long time.

  They drove up the north coast in his father’s grey Mercedes, the headlights slicing through the cold mist of the dark, leafy road. He drove fast, almost recklessly. Zaina sat quietly, her heart racing. Finally, along the jagged cliffs of La Mercy, Imraan slowed down, finally coming to a stop on a clearing near the cliffs.

  He got out and walked to a bench overlooking the sea. Zaina followed silently, joining him where he sat. The rain had slowed and was falling in tiny shards.

  ‘My father.’ Imraan’s voice was so shaky, Zaina instinctively reached out to place her hand on his as if to steady him. ‘I’m nothing to him, Zai. Like I don’t exist to him.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Zaina asked quietly.

  ‘It’s because I’m a failure. All this stuff. All the campaigns and the debates and everything. Everything I’m known for. It’s all nothing. To him, if I’m not bringing home a shitload of money like him, or buying a car, then it’s nothing.’ He clenched his jaw as he spoke, disgusted with his situation.

  ‘No, Imraan, surely he can’t feel that way. You’re successful at anything you do.’

  ‘No … no. It’s always been like this. Always. He resents me. He said … He said he wished my mother had taken me when she ran off, but even she didn’t want me. He said she was clever, that she knew I’d just be a failure.’

  ‘Oh, my God, Imraan, I’m so sorry.’

  ‘I miss her so much, Zaina.’ He leaned against her heavily – she could feel his heart against her arm – and cried hard for a moment. Then he sat up. ‘But you know what? I hate her for leaving me. She left me. How can a mother do that to an eight-year-old?’ Angrily, he drew the back of his hand across his eyes. ‘I just try so hard. I want to make a name for myself. I want nothing from either of them. I just want to be me. One day I’m going to change my name. Move somewhere new.’ He looked up and into her eyes. ‘Say you’ll never leave me. Please.’

  ‘I won’t leave you. I promise you, Imraan.’

  Hand in hand, they headed back to the car with new resolve.

  Zaina couldn’t wrap her mind around it – that for all the times she’d feared he would leave her, he was the one who’d needed her to assure him she would stay. She turned to him as he got into the driver’s seat. ‘I love you, Imraan,’ she said.

  Sitting, he leaned in close to her to secure her seatbelt, and swiftly kissed her cheek. ‘I love you too, Zaina.’

  Then, holding her seatbelt down tightly, he leaned in quickly until his lips were a breath away from hers.

  She pulled her head back. ‘No, Imraan,’ she said. ‘You know we can’t do that.’ She’d told him that there were certain limits, boundaries that even he couldn’t cross.

  ‘Zaina! It’s just a kiss!’ He punched the seat in fury as his voice rose.

  Zaina looked at him, horrified.

  Realising he’d scared her, he said, ‘I’m sorry, Zaina. You deserve better than me.’

  ‘It’s fine. Just calm down. You’ve had a rough day,’ Zaina said.

  As Imraan drove, she watched him quietly. He had an angular jaw and a lithe frame, and, yes, she did want to kiss him, but not in this state. Imraan was someone who was very lost; he needed a true north. And she was sure she could be this for him. She would get his anger under control.

  As the car turned towards the beach road, lined with sleepy hotels and deserted roads and beggars sleeping on the sand, Zaina became nervous. What if her mother woke to find her gone? She’d never betrayed Rabia’s trust like this before. What if everyone was looking for her? She imagined the women emerging into the corridors in their kaftans, looking concerned, comforting Rabia.

  But as Imraan switched off the headlights and pulled up to the side of the building, Summer Terrace, bathed in darkness save for the entrance lights, appeared to be deep in slumber. Even Robert was asleep at the front desk.

  Zaina crept back into her room, breathless. She was wired, her heart still high on the thrill of the adrenalin rush. She’d never been so tired but so awake.

  Until the exhaustion suddenly overtook her completely, and she fell into a deep, unmoving sleep, as if it was all a dream.

  The filling and folding had taken the wind out of Ruki. She’d exhausted herself and the pallor of her skin worried Joyce.

  ‘Ruki, I think we must go to the hospital. Let’s phone the ambulance,’ she said gently.

  ‘No, ma, I’m okay. I’m just tired. I had too much fun,’ Ruki said as she lay in bed. Then, turning her head to the side, she slurred, ‘Joyce, I think I’m going to be sick.’ In a series of heaving movements, her body purged itself of every morsel she’d ingested that day.

  Joyce tried to mop her fever away, but it seemed determined to simmer underneath Ruki’s soft skin. Shaking with anxiety, Joyce reached for the cellphone on Ruki’s bedside.

  ‘No, no. No hospital,’ Ruki murmured. ‘I don’t want to miss Umrah.’

  Joyce understood.

  Finally, the fever abated and Ruki’s cheeks regained some colour. She drifted off to sleep.

  Joyce stayed by her side the entire night, praying.

  If only Zaina, creeping back into Summer Terrace in the early hours of the morning, had just looked up, she would’ve seen it. The slightest movement of a curtain at a window as a pair of judgemental eyes stared down at her from a bedroom on the second floor.

  MILLIONAIRES’ CHEVRO

  3 cups Cornflakes

  3 cups Rice Krispies

  2 tablespoons oil

  1 cup raw peanuts or flaked almonds

  1 cup raw cashew nuts

  1 cup flaked coconut (some like to colour the flakes with green food colouring)

  2 cups pretzels

  1 slab dark chocolate, melted

  1 cup sugared dried fruit cubes or pieces Turkish delight or speckled eggs

  salt and chilli powder to taste

  • In a large pan, fry the Cornflakes and Rice Krispies in the oil. Drain very well and set aside. Leave to cool.

  • Preheat oven to 180 ⁰C. Line an oven tray with baking paper. Sprinkle the nuts and coconut evenly over the baking tray and roast for 10 minutes, making sure the coconut flakes don’t burn. Leave to cool.

  • On another tray, lay out the pretzels and drizzle with the melted chocolate. Allow to set.

  • Mix all ingredients together and season with salt and chilli powder. Serve as a snack. Store in an airtight container.

  Makes 5–6 500g tubs

  12

  AFTER THAT DARING NIGHT DRIVING UP THE COAST, Imraan and Zaina shared an emotional bond that tied them even more tightly together, like the bracelet that seemed to be etching into her skin. Imraan had apologised for scaring her that night, and he appeared to be trying to make up for it with an extra dose of doting. She didn’t mind. She’d forgiven him in an instant, anyway.

  But since then, she’d also become all too familiar with anxiety. She was constantly on edge, afraid someone would shame her, afraid her mother would find out, afraid Rabia would take one look at her and just know. But she didn’t have a choice. Imraan needed her. She loved him. Besides, she was an adult. But then why do I feel like a guilty child? she asked herself.

  Her mother had always told her to be honest. ‘If you do something wrong, it will be revealed somehow. Allah has His perfect timing,’ she’d warned Zaina on the night they’d moved into their apartment together, minus Zaina’s father. After double-checking and triple-checking the doors, Rabia had sat down and faced her daughter in the double bed they’d shared at the time. ‘You and me. We’re a team. You don’t lie to me; I won’t lie to you. We must never go to bed angry with each other. My job is to work hard. Your job is to study hard. You can always talk to me about anything. Deal?’

  ‘Deal,’ Zaina had said, smiling.

  They’d cuddled up and eaten popcorn in bed while watching a movie on Rabia’s old asthmatic laptop. It was bliss.

  Zaina cursed herself for not having crossed her fingers behind her back the night she’d made that deal with Rabia. On the outside, it was as if that night with Imraan had never happened but inside she was tortured by guilt.

  She wished she could confide in someone, share the weight of this secret with a friend. But Billy had warned her. Her mother had warned her. The inkling of rage in Imraan’s eyes had warned her.

  To make up for lying to her mother so brazenly, Zaina couldn’t help but be overly loving towards Rabia. She cooked her mother’s favourite dishes. Buttery date crunchies filled with Marie biscuits and sprinkled with coconut. Deliciously tender roast chicken with sweet baby carrots. Grilled hake with lemon butter and dollops of butternut dusted with cinnamon and sugar. Rabia seemed to love these fresh, simple meals that combined sweet and savoury in a sophisticated way.

  Zaina paid careful attention to Rabia’s recollection of her flower arrangements, and to customers who reminded her of proud lilies or scatter-brained dandelions.

  Zaina absolved her sins in these ways, but she also hoped this closeness with her mother would help to soften her view of Imraan.

  She washed the dishes as if the soapy suds would cleanse her soul. She loaded the washing into the perennially hungry washing machine. She even instructed Precious to wipe the top of the fridge and dust the skirtings, like Rabia had asked.

  She persuaded herself to feel secure.

  A few days later, as Zaina’s 4.30 a.m. Fajr alarm was clearing its throat and preparing to call the azaan, a sudden scream broke through the peaceful silence in Summer Terrace. It was still dark, and the air was filled with a chill and the echo of the shrill scream.

  She was confused at first, unsure where the noise had come from. Immediately, in her sleepy surprise, she thought it was her mother, having found out about her dalliances with Imraan.

  ‘Zaina? Are you okay?’ she heard her mother’s voice ask frantically. Rabia appeared in Zaina’s doorway in her dark-blue pyjamas. She switched on the light without warning. Her eyes were sandy with sleep, her hair sticking up in all directions as if it too had been awoken with a jolt.

  ‘Mom? Yes. Are you okay?’ Zaina asked, squinting in the sharpness of the sudden light.

  ‘Did you hear that? I think it came from upstairs,’ Rabia said.

  Rabia put on her gown and Zaina slipped on a cloak to venture outside. People began emerging into the middle of the doughnut, thinking the worst. It was almost like the picture Zaina had imagined when she’d returned from her drive with Imraan.

  ‘Ya Allah! Ya Allah!’ Aunty Julie was moaning in disbelief, standing outside her security gate and clutching her dressing gown to her chest. Aunty Julie’s husband emerged into the corridor in his pyjamas, looking as bewildered as the residents as to what had caused the ruckus. Zara, of course, looked serene in her emerald gown.

  As everyone gathered around Aunty Julie, the news spread that the most expensive piece of wedding jewellery that the groom had gifted the bride had been stolen. Aunty Julie had been arranging the wedding gifts in the 4 a.m. delirium of a mother of a daughter who was about to be married, and had found the velvet Vawda Jewellers box empty. The royal-blue interior looked back at everyone, bare, as if it had no recollection of the diamond necklace that had once lain there.

  Over and over, Aunty Julie relived the jewellery’s journey from Cape Town to Durban and then into Summer Terrace, when it was last seen on that Friday when everyone had gathered to fill and fold samoosas, before being locked in the cupboard.

  Some made Aunty Julie and Zara retrace their steps, checking if the necklace had been dropped somewhere, and going into their home with them.

  Eventually it was announced by Ruki that, yes, the jewellery had indeed been stolen.

  ‘Ya Allah! How will we face the groom’s family? What will they think of us?’ Aunty Julie wailed, her voice breaking into sharp shouts.