She scrolled back to the message where he’d lied, his shameless Sorry, was in a meeting.

  Some meeting, Zaina thought, spurred to jump out of bed in anger.

  Wearing a long, loose grey shirt and blue jeans, she appraised herself in the lounge mirror. ‘Are you sure I can’t help you?’ she asked her mother half-heartedly – a good girl always offers help, even if she doesn’t mean it.

  ‘No, Zayyana, go. You need to chill for a while. We will be fine,’ Rabia said distractedly, surveying the arrangements. Precious was trying not to topple any of them over as she moved between them.

  Zaina slipped the strap of her oversized bag over her head, said goodbye to the other two women, and headed out the door, straight into a verbal tennis match between Ruki and Shirin.

  ‘Tell your girls to keep the racket down, Ruki! Or replace those old sewing machines of yours! Some of us are trying to relax!’ Shirin was outside Ruki’s flat with her freshly washed hair up in a towel. Her cream dressing gown hung on her shoulders like a cloak.

  ‘Oh, hah, because you work so hard! Your maid does everything for you! Does she even wash your panties?’ Ruki shouted through her gate, brandishing a yellow-and-red tape measure at Shirin.

  ‘Don’t ask my girl questions! Just stay in your own house and mind your own business!’

  ‘Oh! Now I must mind my own business, when you ask Joyce all the time about how much I pay her!’

  ‘Too little, if you ask me! I have better things to do with my time!’ This induced a lava flow of foul Urdu out of round Ruki.

  Zaina didn’t know the meaning of some of them, but she was sure they weren’t PG-13. Then she heard Aunty Julie join in the squabble, blaming the two other women for wasting their time fighting instead of helping her with the preparations.

  The wedding was in a few hours and the building seemed as if it was boiling with anticipation as emotions flared. Zaina needed to get out.

  It was a bright day, one that held the promise of a brilliantly blinding summer but still reminisced about the chill of a winter wind.

  Zaina loved the start of spring. The days were longer, and after the heavy rain of a few days ago, the world seemed cleaner. Besides, her heart had been reunited with its Creator and her mother, so Zaina enjoyed the weather just a little more. She’d freed herself from the shackles of her phone and Imraan’s incessant messages, leaving it on the dining table next to her designs. She wouldn’t think about Imraan or Facebook or Instagram today.

  Hopping on the first bus to town, Zaina anticipated the plethora of shops that awaited her. While she did love shopping in malls, it couldn’t quite compare to shopping in town on her own. She didn’t need to make conversation with anyone, except for the polite hellos to acquaintances on the bus.

  Treating herself to a window seat, Zaina played with the ticket, folding and unfolding it like a samoosa. The hotels along the beach sparkled in the sunlight, with their glistening windows, proud cantilevers and revolving doors.

  The PeopleMover meandered its way down Smith Street and around The Playhouse, passing the massive bank on the left and supermarkets on the right. Turning into Victoria Street, the Market came into view, with its lilac minarets and green-and-lilac borders. Zaina’s lips hinted at a smile. Ever since she could remember, she’d loved this building.

  Bounding out, she walked along the side of the Market, where the informal traders sat, spraying their ripe tomatoes and blazing oranges with cool water from old juice bottles. Somehow, their fruit and vegetables always seemed brighter and fuller, as if they’d sprung from blessed ground.

  Zaina walked faster, eager to explore. There was a way to walk in town, and Zaina had grown up knowing how. You walked as if you’d been there your entire life, with a bounce in each step and a casual hand on your bag – your money would be tightly imprisoned in your jeans pocket. With the look of being rich enough to shop here but hardworking enough to bargain, the ‘town walk’ was that of one who was unashamed.

  When she was little, Zaina had attended Jumma Musjid School across from the Market, alongside the Jumma mosque. Even with its greying walls and sad facebrick edges, she’d loved that school. Sometimes, on Fridays, their teacher would take the class through Madressah Arcade so they could pray in the women’s section of the opulent mosque. The arcade had captured her childhood in its narrow path and high first-floor walkways above their little scarved heads. On either side, shops sold buckets, pots, treats, watches. Her favourite store was the small café that sold Milky Bar buttons and tiny cherry jelly cups which she slurped into her mouth on sticky summer days.

  Madressah Arcade was an array of colour, a mini excursion. Every year her mother would take her upstairs to the bookshop there, to buy a new musallah or burqa to give away to someone who’d just embraced Islam at the adjacent mosque. She liked that about her mother.

  On those long-ago school days, Rabia would walk all the way from Smith Street to Queen Street to fetch Zaina after the bell rang. Sometimes, they would bypass Madressah arcade and come down through Ajmeri arcade, which was a little quieter. Its green tiled floor wound down to the end of the street. Holding her mother’s hand, little Zaina would take in the spicy smell of curry or the floral smell of incense. There was a photographer who made his living taking pictures of people and selling these to them for R4.50. In her dressing-table drawer, Zaina had a picture of her and Rabia: her mother wore a ’90s chartreuse top with black harem pants, and Zaina in her school uniform smiled at the camera unfazed by her two missing front teeth.

  Now and then, Rabia would spoil Zaina with a piece of deliciously smooth mawa burfee from Manjra’s next to Jumma Musjid. They always had chicken biryani on their ‘specials’ board. The shop smelled heavenly.

  Twenty years on, the school had closed, and these arcades and pathways had changed. Town had become synonymous with crime and dirt. Yet if she walked along the same route, or looked beyond the dust, she could still taste the burfee and feel her mother’s hand in hers.

  She missed the lustre of town. You had to search for it now, or know where to look. It reminded Zaina of those ‘Scratch and Win’ tickets. You might not win anything too exciting, but grime under your nails was guaranteed.

  The sparkly girls tended to stay away from town, horrified at the thought of taking their Jimmy Choos for an excursion onto unmanicured streets or of their Polo handbags being stolen. But worst of all was their fear of being seen in a place like this.

  Once, in the third year of their undergraduate degree, Zaina’s class had gone on a trip to Warwick Junction, a massive market opposite Victoria market where live, flapping chickens were sold alongside fake Prada sunglasses. Sabiha Adam, the sparkliest girl in their class, had shown up in her original Prada shades, teetering on her Louboutin heels, with her white Louis Vuitton bag hanging from the crook of her arm. She’d been teased behind her back for days.

  Zaina walked coolly into the shops she enjoyed. She especially loved the spice shop. Mounds of masala, like dunes in the desert, in their different shades and levels of heat, were positioned around the central mixing table where Mrs Habib sat. She created the most fragrant concoctions, often adding Kashmiri chilli, a bit of paprika and some orange pepper flakes to plain old chilli powder to give it the most tantalising aroma and flavour. She would pack it tightly into a plastic packet and charge only R20 for this magic mix that would last at least six months and have everyone asking for your chicken curry’s secret ingredient.

  Mrs Habib liked Zaina, and often gave her some popcorn seasoning to take home for free, or even a few packets of figs in a sour sauce that Zaina loved. Today, Mrs Habib gave Zaina a small bag filled with china-fruit powder, telling her to sprinkle some on some cut-up oranges. ‘Oooh, just thinking about it makes my cheeks tingle!’ laughed Mrs Habib, making Zaina giggle too. She gladly put it in her bag, resolving to try it at home.

  The market had an interior courtyard. Zaina remembered being ten years old, and her mother bringing her here to see the newly crowned Miss India SA. She was the most beautiful woman Zaina had ever seen, dazzling in a shocking-pink sari and gold tiara.

  Today the courtyard was filled with children, running around during the lazy bliss of the September school holiday. Dodging soccer balls and hurtling kids, Zaina made her way to the clothing shop where she always found bargains. ‘The Hunter’, as her mom and Billy called her, had her gaze fixed on a purple top hanging high on a display stand. As she reached for it, she felt a hand on her right shoulder.

  Prepared to elbow the would-be thief in his family jewels or poke him in the eye with her keys like her mother had taught her, she turned fast, with a vengeful slant to her lips, mercy leaving her eyes.

  ‘Wow, you’ve got quite a death stare,’ Imraan said sarcastically. ‘I’m impressed. Just imagine the injuries I would’ve suffered at your hands.’

  If Zaina was shocked to see him, she didn’t show it. ‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said, retaining her composure. ‘You shouldn’t scare people like that.’ She turned away from him. He looked like a movie star in his casual jeans and blue T-shirt.

  ‘You’re not people.’

  ‘What am I, then?’ she asked, turning to face him. Then she walked quickly out of the store, to the edge of the courtyard.

  Imraan followed her. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked, looking at her curiously. This was a Zaina he hadn’t seen before.

  ‘Never mind,’ she said, adjusting her bag roughly and making to leave.

  ‘No, tell me, Zayyana,’ he said, pulling on her arm and sounding irritable. ‘And while you’re at it, you can tell me why you’ve been avoiding my calls and messages.’

  ‘I’m just busy. With work. Besides, I’m sure you have other people to occupy yourself with.’ She said ‘people’ like it was a swear word.

  He looked confused. Handsomely confused.

  ‘Your meeting,’ she blurted out, her fingers painting the air with imaginary quotation marks, ‘with the lovely Miss Paruk.’

  Finally, a look of recognition appeared on his face. Sometimes, you could actually hear the penny drop when people plopped into the pool of enlightenment.

  ‘Ah. That’s why you’ve been ghosting me. Look, Zai, I don’t know what you’ve heard, but there’s nothing there.’

  ‘Then why did you lie to me?’ People were beginning to stare at them, a Muslim girl and boy quarrelling in the open like this. ‘You know what, I really don’t want you ruining my day, so please, let’s just leave it.’

  ‘Okay, okay,’ he said, lowering his voice. ‘Let’s talk about this. Even if it’s just for a minute. My car is parked over there,’ he said, motioning vaguely.

  ‘Fine. What are you doing here, anyway?’ Feeling ambushed and angry, she walked briskly to his car. This part of town was hers and he had no business here. She wished he’d stayed in the leafy snootiness of Westville, where he belonged.

  ‘Well, if you must know,’ he said, teeth clenched, ‘I came to visit my grandfather’s grave. Nobody else bothers to come any more.’

  ‘Oh,’ Zaina said, a tinge of softness creeping into her stiff disposition. Her grandparents were buried here too – across the road from the market, in the Badsha Peer cemetery. Its minarets rose above the tented stalls of Warwick Junction like shimmering white crystal amid the flurry of blues and reds.

  Imraan pointed to an old dirty-brown Corolla parked under the bridge. A plump woman in traditional Zulu dress sat against the market wall, mixing herbs and talking animatedly to her neighbour.

  Zaina clambered into the car, wondering archly if it doubled as a time-travel device when he wanted to visit the 1970s.

  ‘It gets me from A to B,’ he said, reading her thoughts, as he got into the driver’s seat. ‘I usually use one of my father’s cars but this one is mine.’

  ‘Right. What did you want to talk about? I don’t have much time. It’ll be Zohr soon.’ She had to be strong for herself, even though her knees were shaking.

  ‘Zaina, I’m sorry. I really am. It’s just that Naaz and I, we’re … our fathers are friends. And I knew it would upset you if you knew we were … friends.’

  ‘Define “friends”.’ She stared ahead at a policeman issuing a ticket to a taxi driver. The driver was pleading with him, offering him a pink banknote.

  He shrugged. ‘You know. Good friends.’

  ‘Good friends who have what? Fooled around?’ She hadn’t wanted to believe the rumours that he was a serial flirt.

  ‘Please, Zaina, I want to be with you. We can tell our parents. It will just be us from now on.’

  ‘Wait, so it wasn’t just us all this time? You know, I knew you were a jerk, but I didn’t know you were a user too.’

  She sat in silence. She’d heard of Muslim boys who messed around but looked for an innocent, virginal Muslim girl to marry. She still couldn’t reconcile this with Imraan. She looked straight at him. ‘Are you … in love with her?’

  He looked out the window at the cemetery and then looked back at her gravely. ‘I don’t know.’

  A thorny hot lump formed in her throat. The three words sat in the air between them like an unpleasant stench.

  ‘My father likes her for me. But Zaina, just give me some time to sort this out. Please.’

  She swallowed hard. She thought of her father. His blurry face. Her childish confusion when he’d hit her mother. The confusion that had grown up with her into anger. Sitting in Grade 3 making a Father’s Day card for a man who didn’t care for her. English orals about ‘my holiday’ when she’d had to stand in front of the class and talk about the books she’d read, when others went on about their trips overseas with their mom and dad. The pity. The infuriating injustice of being different.

  She couldn’t scream or shout. This was just the way it was.

  She gracefully got out of the car. Ignoring Imraan calling her name behind her, she made her way past Madressah arcade to the bus stop.

  When the PeopleMover arrived, silently, she got on. She left town, abandoning her heart on some dirty pavement between the market and the graveyard.

  BURFEE

  500g Klim or Nestlé milk powder

  1 small tin Nestlé cream

  2 cups sugar

  1 cup water

  2 tablespoons butter

  2 tablespoons icing sugar

  1 teaspoon elaichi powder (ground cardamom)

  ½ cup flaked almonds

  a few drops red food colouring

  a few drops green food colouring

  • In a large bowl, mix the milk powder and cream together. Blitz this in a food processor until it resembles fine breadcrumbs. Set aside.

  • Bring the sugar and water to boil in a pot on the stove, stirring until the sugar is dissolved. Simmer until a syrupy consistency is achieved, 10–15 minutes.

  • Add the milk powder mix and stir until the mixture is cooked through, about 5 minutes.

  • Add the butter, icing sugar and elaichi. Mix well.

  • Pour into a 20×20cm tray and leave to cool.

  • Separate the almonds into two small bowls. Add red food colouring to one bowl and green to the other. Mix well so that the almonds are fully coated.

  • Sprinkle the almonds over the burfee and put in the fridge to set overnight. Cut into squares.

  Makes 36 squares

  19

  RABIA STOOD IN THE MIDDLE OF THE DINING ROOM, looking at Zaina coldly. ‘Here,’ she said, throwing Zaina’s phone at her. Between pursed lips she said quietly, ‘I have never been this disappointed in you.’

  Precious, who was helping load vases and flowers into the truck Rabia rented for functions, tried to avoid Zaina’s eyes, dashing in and out as quickly as she could. But nothing could defuse the seething tension between Rabia and her daughter.

  Zaina’s eyes were wild, like her hair. But she was also afraid.

  Mother and daughter stood there silently until Precious had taken the last vase to the truck. Then Rabia picked up her large grey handbag and prepared to leave.

  ‘Mommy, I’m sorry, I wanted to tell you. I didn’t mean to lie.’ Zaina started to sob. She was finding it hard to breathe. ‘I … I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘Oh, save the crocodile tears!’ Rabia snapped. ‘I don’t have time for more lies, Zayyana!’ She moved towards the door, gritting her teeth.

  ‘No, no, please! Can we just talk about it?’ Zaina pleaded.

  Rabia looked at her daughter in disbelief. ‘Zaina. I don’t have time for this shit! Are you out of your mind? Going around with this boy, lying to me, meeting him in secret, and God knows what you and him are doing together!’ Rabia was shouting now, her voice echoing down the corridor.

  Precious froze outside the door.

  ‘I didn’t do anything with him, I promise. I love him. We want to get married.’

  ‘Oh, wow, mubarak!’ Rabia chuckled sarcastically. ‘Listen, Zaina. Go be with him, stay here, get married, do whatever you want, okay? I have work to do.’

  Rabia slammed the door so hard that the noise reverberated around the corridor and up the doughnut hole. It was the sound of an ending.

  The building was silent. Nobody had ever heard Rabia shout before.

  In the flat, sitting on her bed, Zaina cried for a while. She couldn’t bear to look at her phone at first, but when she did, and she re-read all the messages, she imagined it was her mother reading them – the midnight drive, the campus meetings, the naughty jokes.

  She fell asleep, feeling as if she were spiralling into an endless black hole.

  She woke with the Asr azaan and another slam of the gate. Rabia was home.

  Rabia walked into Zaina’s room. ‘Get ready. Go wait in the airport shuttle for me.’

  Zaina followed her mother’s instructions. She dabbed concealer under her eyes and applied some mocha lipstick to complement her peach sari. Usually, she would’ve helped Rabia get ready, pulling up her zip or doing her hair, or holding up her skirt while she slipped on her gold sandals. She almost offered a hand but had to stop herself.