Imraan had asked his father where his mom was. His father had said that women were complicated, and that she’d come back soon. The weeks and months of waiting for her had turned into years. Over a decade of bracing himself in the pull and push of his father’s rage, in the waterfall of his father’s regret; and now, in the shadow of his indifference. They spoke, now and then, over takeaway dinners. But Imraan had learned never to speak of his mother in front of his father.

  Over time, Imraan had become that elusive young man who evaded questions, dodging them with charm and playful jokes. He’d grown sarcastic, sometimes riding on the crest of the Imraan he imagined himself to be – someone completely unlike his father, someone who would make his feelings known and love his wife unconditionally. He would never be wishy-washy with his feelings.

  But here he was, stuck in this hereditary loop.

  The days passed languidly. In the middle of Ramadaan, the stomach grew quieter, but the mind and eyes still hungered.

  In Summer Terrace, no family would go hungry, that was for sure. Children raced between the floors, delivering and exchanging savouries. Laila’s son appeared at Zaina’s door before iftaar with a plate of pies and lagan. Sometimes, Aunty Shaida would send her famous cappuccino Romany Creams dessert for a taste of decadence after a day of fasting. The fridge was evidence of the eye’s appetite versus the stomach’s capacity, as Rabia tried to cram as many containers of leftovers as possible onto the glass shelves.

  After iftaar, Zaina cleaned the shower door and used an old brush to scrub between the tiles. She’d noticed that Precious had become more careless, and that the taps didn’t sparkle like they used to. It was almost as if the more visible the dirt became, the more visible Precious became.

  Zaina and Rabia existed contentedly in this world of cleaning and containing. The silence was therapeutic, and their time was devoted to things that held tangible results, like a clean shower door and a neat fridge.

  Their rhythm was interrupted by a knock on the door. Both had one thought: dessert.

  But Rabia opened the door to a young man standing there like a lost puppy. The stubble on his jaw made him appear hungry; his eyes were red and his hair longed for a brush. ‘As-salamu alaikum, Mrs Moosa,’ he said, eyes cast downwards. ‘Please may I come in? I’m … I’m Imraan.’

  Rabia drew in her breath sharply. The boy reminded her of a young Yacoob, wounded and lost. She’d taken on the task of fixing him and creating a home for him because she’d loved him more than she’d loved herself. She finally understood what Zaina had gotten into. ‘Um, Zaina?’ Rabia called, in an unnaturally high-pitched voice. ‘I think you need to come out here.’

  Curious, Zaina, with her messy hair piled on top of her head and rubber gloves on her hands, walked to the door. She stopped in her tracks. ‘Oh, Imraan, I’m so happy you’re here!’ she exclaimed. She found herself babbling, ‘Did you come back early from the retreat to meet my mom? You didn’t even tell me. This is a surprise! I really want this to work …’

  As she rattled on, she realised Imraan wasn’t smiling. He was looking blankly at her. Well, at least he came. He’s here, she thought.

  But then Imraan held up a hand. ‘Wait,’ he said, softly. ‘Zaina. I just … I need to say something.’

  Rabia let the young man in, clearing a seat for him at the table. Zaina went quiet.

  ‘I can’t stay long,’ he said, then the words rushed out. ‘I want to apologise to you both.’ His voice broke.

  Zaina tried to make eye contact with him, but he focused on the fish tank instead. He looked smaller, as if he was ashamed. ‘My father has arranged for me to marry someone,’ he hurried on. ‘It’s his friend’s daughter. I can’t go against them. My father is in business with her father … and he insists I need to get married.’

  Zaina felt frozen. She wouldn’t have cared if he’d seen her cry, but the tears didn’t come. She just sat there with her mouth open, trying to figure out how this had all gone so horribly wrong.

  ‘I’m sorry. Zaina, I tried to delay this marriage, but I need to listen to my father. It’s the right thing to do … Islamically.’

  Then the tears arrived, and the rage. ‘Even after what he’s done to you? It’s not the nineteen-fucking-fifties! You have a choice!’ Zaina shouted hysterically.

  ‘I love you. I will always make duaa for you,’ Imraan sniffed, looking at the floor. He stood up and turned to the door.

  ‘No, please! Please! I won’t be able to live without you,’ Zaina begged. She stood up too, knocking her chair over backwards. ‘Please stay. Mom, tell him!’

  Rabia gave her daughter a quick hug. ‘Zaina, don’t beg. You don’t need someone who won’t even fight for you,’ she said, coldly. Then, indicating the front door with one arm, Rabia saw Imraan out.

  That image of him leaving, the back of his neck, the stoop of his shoulders, would stay in Zaina’s memory for years to come, breaking her heart over and over again. But she’d always known that she loved him more than he loved her. That part that he’d kept to himself, the serious Imraan who’d shed his ego, would never fully reveal himself.

  Love is like that. One always loves too much – the dreamer. The other, the realist, loves practically.

  Zaina refused to speak to Rabia that evening. She didn’t know where to channel her anger, so she directed it at her mother. Rabia had taken Imraan away from her. She hadn’t liked him from the start. She’d insisted he come to meet her.

  Rabia let Zaina rage in her room. She could hardly bear to hear her daughter crying but Zaina had to feel this in its entirety.

  After the evening prayer, Rabia called Billy over. She arrived in an Uber. She wore a black cloak over her space-themed pyjamas.

  She hugged Zaina, not once saying ‘I told you so’.

  Zaina woke many times during the night, and Billy was there, next to her, holding her hand. Reliving Imraan’s words, Zaina wondered if it had all been a nightmare. She felt physical pain in her heart every time she realised this was real. As a child, she’d always wondered if it was better to endure psychological pain or physical pain. Now she knew the two were linked.

  The next morning, Zaina met her mother in the kitchen as Rabia whipped up some scrambled eggs and power smoothies for sehri. Wordlessly, she hugged Rabia.

  Rabia hugged her back. ‘You will be okay,’ Rabia said. ‘You are my daughter, after all.’

  Billy stayed for a few days. Zaina cried and laughed and stalked Naaz on Instagram. Both Billy and Zaina had their periods, which meant a break from fasting, so they ordered food together and watched a bit of television. Rabia allowed it.

  A few days later, Zaina and Billy went to campus together. They were on their way to the jamaat khana when they saw Naaz, the fair sparkly girl. Billy reminded Zaina to smile as if she was incredibly happy, but it hurt.

  What hurt more was that Imraan walked past her as if he didn’t see her.

  RAMADAAN POWER SMOOTHIE

  1 banana

  1½ cups milk

  1 tablespoon almonds

  1 tablespoon oats

  2 pitted dates

  1 teaspoon honey

  Blitz everything together in blender. Store in a bottle and refrigerate for sehri. Mix well before drinking.

  Makes 2 glasses

  22

  BEFORE SUNRISE, SHIRIN SAT ON HER MUSALLAH, her legs tucked neatly underneath her. The mat knew her well: the shape of her knees when she knelt down to pray, the delicate lines of her forehead when she touched her head to its velvet softness.

  Tracing its intricate patterns with her wand of a finger, Shirin felt herself drawn into the curls and points of the design, each taking her further into herself. Lost in the labyrinth of her own thoughts, she heard herself fall into the rhythm of zikr, the remembrance of the Almighty. The familiar words of praise for Him pitter-pattered between her lips as if they’d shaped them over time.

  If Shirin was protective of her appearance, she was even more protective of her prayer. And it in turn protected her. It bathed her in her angelic light, or noor, and often it was this subtle glow that most men and insecure teenage girls found alluring. Women, on the other hand, found it infuriating. Women like Ruki.

  Ruki reminded Shirin of her mother-in-law, albeit a more forgiving one, with a wicked sense of humour. Ruki seemed to have this inane desire to cover Shirin up, or to teach her about Islam, because apparently her way of dressing revealed an uneducated ignorance of the expected standards of modesty. It was just not the way a Muslim woman was supposed to dress. If you didn’t cover yourself, it meant you didn’t pray. Ismail’s mother had had the same compulsion.

  It was true that she’d married average, sometimes boring Ismail, but there had been times before her wedding when she’d envisaged moments of domestic bliss. Like in the movies she’d watched, she’d imagined a perfect life with a doting husband and two children, and sometimes even an approving nod from her mother-in-law. Yet, even after her death, Gori’s disgruntled presence still loomed above them. It was alive in the disapproving glare in Ruki’s eyes and the ‘tsk-tsk’ of her tongue against her teeth when Shirin walked by in her heels.

  Gori also lived between herself and Ismail. Shirin blamed herself for lodging her there. Youthful fury.

  Tracing the lines on the prayer mat, Shirin realised she hadn’t spoken to Ruki for a few days or received a text from her. Usually, Ruki would send some pictures of Madina on their WhatsApp group. While she’d initially relished the absence of Ruki’s judgemental gaze, she was slowly realising that she missed the attention. She missed the naughty excitement that stirred to life knowing she could evoke such a reaction in someone just by wearing a figure-hugging dress or carrying home three new pairs of shoes.

  The notion that she missed Ruki’s taunting surprised her. Ever since Solly had returned from Saudi Arabia this last time, Ruki had been sweeter. She hadn’t said a mean thing to her. Her tone had even lost its sharpness. Melodious Islamic songs that Solly enjoyed swam out of her kitchen window, past Shirin’s door. An even more enticing smell followed the tunes, as if infatuated with them.

  Shirin wondered what people thought of her relationship with Ismail. With Zara’s wedding still on her mind, Shirin recalled hers and Ismail’s wedding night. Shirin’s semi-smile slowly became flat, unmoving. The words of prayer ceased. She rolled up her prayer mat and sat behind it on the floor.

  She’d noticed Ismail looking at her on the night of the wedding. He’d even paid her a compliment, as she’d removed her foundation and lipstick, saying, ‘I like when you wear less make-up.’

  She remembered that night in the minibus as they rode past the promenade after the wedding. Shirin had watched the sea become illuminated by the full moon. It had glowed a hypnotic, suspenseful silver, as if it might fall into the black, sweeping sea. Her mother had told her not to stare at the moon for too long, for it would tell her its sorrows of being blanketed by dark clouds, and its resentment of the sun, its beauty a mere reflection of a burning yellow ball. She imagined the moon deciding to fall, to jump; floating on the tide for a second, before being consumed, its glimmering glow weakening as it sank beneath the waves.

  For so long, Shirin had flaunted her beauty in front of her husband as he half-lay, beached in front of the television like a whale. She’d used her body and the fabric, the make-up that enhanced it, as a slap in the face of those who desired to cover it, or those who ignored it.

  And, finally, he had seen her.

  ‘Medem?’ Violet asked timidly, sticking her wrapped head through the doorway. ‘Mister Ismael let me in.’

  Even though they’d told Violet to call him Ismail, she found she could only wrap her tongue around the name if it was preceded by ‘Mister’. Judging from the way Muslim women covered their bodies and sat separately from men at functions, she felt it was the respectful thing to do. And she never looked him in the eye, even though she knew by heart the curve of his socks and the folds of his boxers.

  ‘Come in, Violet,’ Shirin said softly. Still cloaked in her burqa, she was sitting with her back to the door.

  Violet walked gingerly into the room, barefoot. Her sandals waited for her outside, where the tiles met the carpet. She wasn’t used to seeing her madam like this.

  She made sure not to touch the dressing table, for a holy book sat on its edge, within Shirin’s reach. Violet felt suddenly impure and clumsy.

  ‘I want you to take that pile of clothes over there,’ Shirin said, pointing to a large packet on the bed. ‘They’re for you.’

  ‘Hau!’ Violet said, opening it to reveal some of Shirin’s finest fitted skirts and blouses. ‘Are you sure, medem? Clothes are expensive these days.’

  ‘Yes, Violet, I don’t think I’ll be wearing those ever again.’ Shirin looked at Violet’s reflection in her dressing-table mirror. ‘Make sure you wash the windows today, okay? I want them to sparkle.’

  Violet for once was lost for words. She didn’t know what to make of Shirin’s sudden interest in the windows.

  She carried the bundle of clothes to the corner of the flat where she kept her bag, and carefully placed it next to it, like a lethargic teddy bear. Later, as she scrubbed the kitchen floor, she anticipated the money she would make from selling the clothes. Madams always thought they were doing an act of charity by giving their clothes away. Maybe they were. But their clothes were strange and hardly ever fit. And you couldn’t pick what you wanted: you couldn’t say, ‘No, I don’t like this dress.’ That would be ungrateful. ‘Too much pride,’ as they say.

  If only they could see their clothes, being sold in the townships for fifty, even a hundred rand. Being worn by a black woman, with a new scent. It was almost funny.

  This Saturday, Zaina would accompany Rabia to the supplier at a morning market in Hillcrest.

  To Precious’s surprise, they were ready to leave when she arrived. Rabia reminded Precious to wash the taps and mirrors and dust the skirting boards around the flat.

  Precious knew her mind had wandered in the last few months. While she held a faraway look in her eyes, her mind was far closer to home. It was in her belly. For almost half a year now, the bean in her belly had been growing. It had flourished like the tree your mother warned you about when you ate the seeds of grapes or swallowed a piece of bubblegum.

  She could hardly believe the young Indian doctor when he’d looked at her and said flatly, ‘Three months along.’ She’d been expecting a pill for her nausea or an injection for cramps, not an eighteen-year commitment. It had turned a careless night into a life sentence.

  But while she hadn’t been thrilled with the news, she wasn’t devastated. She was simply indifferent. Precious knew she’d love the child; she’d always liked the idea of being someone’s mom.

  For now, she wore her baggy uniform over her belly as if it didn’t exist. None of her madams had noticed. Nobody looked long enough at a maid.

  She felt the baby move now and then, when she washed dishes or ironed her madams’ clothes, but it had let her do her work.

  It. She needed to start calling the baby ‘he’.

  He was kicking when she’d knocked on Rabia’s door that Saturday morning in Ramadaan to tell her the news. She was nervous, unsure of her reaction. You never knew with these madams.

  As Rabia rattled off a list of instructions, Precious had blurted out, ‘Medem, I am five months with a baby.’

  ‘Five months?’ Rabia had exclaimed in disbelief, ogling Precious’s tummy as if a bowling ball was going to fall out and Precious would say, ‘Just kidding!’ ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ Rabia had asked, regaining her composure. She’d ushered Precious to the couch. ‘Sit, sit. How are you feeling?’

  ‘I’m fine, medem. It’s a boy,’ she’d said.

  ‘Babies are a blessing, Precious. God has blessed you,’ Rabia had said.

  Precious had nodded wordlessly. ‘Medem,’ she said, ‘I won’t be able to work for a while. But I will find a girl for you. I will train her to clean the way you like.’

  Precious had known this was a risk. She knew that she couldn’t just expect to train someone and then take her job back four or five months later. But she’d felt that she owed it to Rabia, for she’d employed Precious in the beginning when no one else would. Now, it was her time to bring someone new into the world and into the building.

  She had someone in mind who would suit Rabia. Hlubi, her neighbour. She was young and hard working. Most of all, she was quiet and didn’t ask questions. Madams liked that.

  ‘Don’t worry about that now,’ Rabia had said, genuinely. ‘Why didn’t you tell me sooner?’

  Precious had stared at her, nonplussed. Of all the reactions she’d expected from Rabia, empathy wasn’t one of them.

  ‘And the father?’ Rabia had asked.

  Precious had shrugged.

  ‘Okay, don’t worry about that,’ Rabia had said. ‘Today, just relax. You can do some ironing since you’re here, but you must go home early, okay?

  Precious had suddenly giggled and put her hand to her tummy. ‘Zaina, come feel,’ she’d said.

  Zaina, who’d been standing in the lounge doorway, watching this intimate exchange between the two women, didn’t know what to do with herself. She’d never touched another woman’s belly before, let alone a maid’s – a pregnant one at that. But when Rabia had placed her hand on Precious’s belly, Zaina followed suit. Precious had pressed their hands into the spot where her son was kicking.

  ‘Wow!’ Zaina had exclaimed.

  Rabia had smiled. ‘You have a real soccer player in there!’

  The women had stood there, hands connected on Precious’s belly, marvelling at the miracle of life.