But there was another side to her that remained fixed. Only a few people, like Zaina, saw the uncertain side of Rabia, the part that craved control, micromanaged every detail and trusted no one. It was why Rabia had never employed an assistant. Precious had asked to help her on Tuesdays, when she didn’t have other work, but Rabia trusted only Zaina (to an extent) to help her during university holidays. Now and then she let Reggie, a vagrant who hung around this side of town and who was too proud to beg, sweep up at the end of the day – and because only then would he see it as a fair exchange.

  Peering through the Barbie-pink roses, Rabia noticed the sun had begun to dip into its slumber. She’d been working on the arrangements for most of the afternoon for Sandra Rajkumar, one of Durban’s most eccentric socialites and a former hairdresser for the Miss India SA pageant. Her daughter was turning sixteen the next day at a party that would rival many weddings in cost and costume.

  For every person Rabia knew, there was a flower. Mrs Rajkumar, or Dolly, as she liked to be affectionately called, was no wilting gerbera. She was a large, intimidating woman, with piercing eyes, pointy eyebrows and thin, sharp lips. She was more of a strelitzia, sticking out at odd sharp angles, but striking nonetheless.

  Rabia recalled the peacock-like headdress Mrs Rajkumar had worn the day before, when she’d come in all the way from La Lucia in her gold BMW to place another order, and smiled to herself. The woman was certainly not shy to try something new, and despite her garish get-ups and flamboyant facades, Rabia admired her for not being afraid to try something different every day, and not worrying what other people might think.

  ‘Salaam!’ Mrs Rajkumar had announced, dominating the space in the little store. She’d raised both her ring-embellished, well-manicured hands. ‘Rabia, my son is getting engaged next month … to that girl he met in France. I want you to make something spectacular, something dazzling, something that says, “Ma cherie, you have no idea how lucky you are to be marrying my little rajah!”’

  ‘Nothing but the best for you, Dolly,’ Rabia had said, immediately conjuring up an idea for the arrangement. ‘Something like this?’ she’d asked, showing Mrs Rajkumar a quick sketch she’d been working on for a flower show.

  ‘And that’s why I keep coming to you, my dear,’ Mrs Rajkumar had said, her shiny red talons tapping on the paper. ‘You’re the best. Just let me know how much it is and I’ll send Florence to fetch it.’

  Turning, Mrs Rajkumar had screeched into the air outside, ‘Florence! Come, come, ubona ulady lapha, uRabia. Come fetcha lo flowas from here kusasa iafternoon, kapiche?’

  ‘Yebo, medem,’ Florence had replied, coming into view for the first time. A frightened bird with the plumage of an extravagant parrot, she was a mishmash of colours from the forehead down: Florence had the misfortune of being Dolly’s pet project.

  ‘uFetcha the flowas and come straight to ekhaya. No khuluma with lo other maids from uShiela’s house, uyaz?’ Mrs Rajkumar had warned. ‘And iphi lo necklace mina I gave you to wear?’ Turning her attention back to Rabia, Dolly’s eyes had been larger than ever. ‘These maids! I tell you, I’m trying to make her dress nicely, I give her my clothes and my hats, but she just looks sad all the time. Just tell her how stylish she looks!’

  Stifling a laugh, Rabia had nodded.

  Dolly’s peremptory treatment of Florence had perturbed Rabia, though, as she thought about it on and off throughout the day. She told herself not to get involved in other people’s issues. ‘Tissue issues’, she and Zaina called them – those issues that will result in nothing but tears. Besides, for all she knew, Florence might enjoy those pink shoes and the yellow skirt.

  ‘Other people,’ she sighed, thinking of the community in which she’d grown up. ‘What have they really done other than criticise?’ she muttered to herself, thinking about how they scrutinised single parents, especially women like her, and almost waited for her or her daughter to falter somehow. She wouldn’t give them that satisfaction.

  Rabia added the silver glitter spirals Dolly liked, poking them into the oasis. Giving the arrangement a final glance, Rabia gently patted down the stubborn petals of two of the daisies, as if she were neatening her Zaina’s rebellious hair. Moving the ethereal floral creation into the glass walk-in fridge at the back of the shop, she noticed a sad, world-weary carnation on the floor, ready to be thrown onto the compost heap. It reminded her of Reggie. He had the pride of a lily, but somehow the soil he’d grown out of made him appear to be nothing more than a common flower used to fill in the spaces between other, more radiant ones.

  She wondered why she hadn’t seen him all day. He was dirt poor – and dirty. It was as if he slept in ash, coughed ash and bathed in ash. This wasn’t for lack of showering. No, it was just the way he’d been born.

  Rabia couldn’t imagine Reggie as a young boy. He seemed to eternally sit on the edge of death, even when he smiled through the bars of his sparse yellow teeth.

  Despite his frailty, he made his way into town every day to do odd jobs for money and treat himself to a cup of black tea and the Daily News. He had his priorities and his pride.

  Rabia could respect that. You had to have priorities in life and stick to the plan. Zaina would finish university and then they would set up a business flipping homes.

  Rabia had made her daughter independent, like her. She ensured Zaina knew how to get around on public transport, cook a meal and do the laundry. She knew how to survive, unlike some sons who couldn’t even boil water. At times, though, when she saw bits of herself in Zaina, Rabia worried that she’d made Zaina too self-sufficient. Recently, she’d noticed something different about her daughter. There was a glint, the tiniest inflection in her voice, that was unlike her. She’d asked if something was the matter and suggested some retail therapy, but Zaina, who usually shared her worries with Rabia, was keeping a part of herself silent.

  ‘Ay, Rabia!’

  She heard the familiar call as she started packing away the oasis. He seemed to appear out of a tornado of dust on the pavement.

  Reggie was a scribble of a man, almost drowning in his old grey jacket and jeans. He liked Rabia. She was a single mother with a busy shop, but she always had time for him. He was ashamed to ask her for money due to his masculine pride, which didn’t allow him to reveal any kind of weakness in front of a woman.

  ‘Almost closing time,’ he said, looking at the imaginary watch on his left wrist and sauntering in.

  ‘Would you like to help me clear up?’ Rabia asked.

  ‘Eyy, I don’t have much time, but I will try.’ He didn’t like to make himself seem too available.

  There were many Indian men like Reggie. They lived in the townships designed by the architects of segregation, clinging to the edges of the settlements. Now and then they made their way into town in the early hours of the morning to wait in line for medication at the state hospital or to walk around aimlessly seeking work, bent over from the weight of their indentured ancestors. They didn’t have much to their name besides tradition and some stories from the past, but a cup of tea and a newspaper made them feel like part of the world out there.

  Rabia handed Reggie a broom, and they settled into their regular routine of brushing the stray leaves into a neat pile near the bin, to be rolled in newspaper and thrown away.

  An article in yesterday’s paper had Reggie in a state as he bundled up the crinkly chips of leaves. He was ranting on about the ‘gowment’ and how ‘things were better back then’.

  Rabia tried to change the subject to his wife. It was a bad idea. He rattled off a string of foul words related to his wife’s cooking skills and something called an ‘oomb’, which Rabia later realised had to do with their not being able to have ‘chirren’ and her subsequent ‘isterectomy’ at the ‘gowment ospital’.

  Rabia didn’t want to get into a debate about politics or respect for women with Reggie. She handed him a crisp twenty-rand note. ‘For your trouble,’ she said.

  He accepted it graciously, with a gappy grin, as if it were his entire month’s pension.

  With Reggie gone, Rabia switched off the lights and pulled down the shutters. Standing outside the store, she grinned up at the pink-and-green sign: ‘Faith and Flowers’. Business was better than she could’ve imagined. Just a year ago, she was working next door, in the brown-and-grey law firm, which had felt like a musty shoebox.

  She made her way quickly from the shop in Smith Street and turned into Broadwalk arcade. She slowed down, as always, in front of the wedding store: she enjoyed seeing which wedding dresses were on display in the glass box in the middle of the thoroughfare. Often, as Zaina grew older, she imagined her daughter in one of the dresses. While she did want Zaina to be independent, she also dreamed her daughter would marry one day and have a life better than hers. But it made a part of her hurt to think of Zaina moving away some day, so she moved on briskly.

  Rabia emerged into a bustling West Street. It was always busy during the day. Minibus taxis bristling with whistling taxi-door operators veered dangerously towards potential passengers, music blaring. They raced along, against traffic lights, against each other.

  Like speeding bullets, taxis had a reputation for killing people. They were reckless and risky, but sometimes the bus would take so long to arrive that Rabia would read her duaa for safety, and get into one.

  Today she said a silent prayer that Zaina had got home on time. Her daughter usually sent her a long message about her day, but today’s was a curt one: ‘I’m home, going to nap.’ Rabia knew not to press Zaina. Only children were a little strange. As Zaina grew up, Rabia realised that, as an only child, Zaina communicated awkwardly and greatly valued her time alone; and then sometimes she would crave attention. She would either completely lose herself in books or designs, or she’d have verbal diarrhoea.

  Rabia was anxious to get home. Her daughter’s unpredictability sat uncomfortably with her.

  ZAINA’S CHICKEN JALFREZI

  1 onion, roughly sliced

  2 tablespoons sunflower oil

  1 teaspoon mustard seeds

  ½ teaspoon fresh ginger

  2 tablespoons spice mix made up of ground chilli, turmeric and Osman’s Extra Special Dhania & Jeera Powder

  500g chicken fillets, cubed

  1 red pepper, cubed

  1 green pepper, cubed

  1 tomato, puréed, or 2 teaspoons tomato paste

  ½ tin coconut milk

  dhania to garnish

  • Sauté the onions in the oil until golden, about 10 minutes.

  • Add the mustard seeds and wait until they start to pop furiously, about 5 minutes, then add the ginger and spices. Add a little water and stir-fry the spices until the mixture thickens and the aroma fills your kitchen, about 15 minutes.

  • Add the chicken and cook till half done (it should still be pink in the centre), about 10 minutes.

  • Add the peppers and cook until they are soft but still hold their shape, about 15 minutes.

  • Stir in the coconut milk and the tomato purée or paste; the sauce should be a light red. Simmer until the gravy is thick and the peppers’ colours peek through, about 8 minutes.

  • Garnish with dhania and serve on a bed of rice or with naan.

  Serves 4

  5

  RABIA’S FAWN JACKET HUGGED HER FRAME. Her cheeks were rose-pink from the cold air, and the black scarf framing her face gave her an air of Arab elegance. She wore a silver ring with a pointy cubic zirconia on her ring finger to shield herself from strange men. They would either see it on their way to approach her and make a u-turn, or she was ready to punch them on the nose, leaving the painful imprint of the stone.

  Town was dangerous. A woman had to take precautions. But Rabia hated wearing that ring. It symbolised that she was attached to a man, and she therefore deserved respect. That’s what was wrong with people. A woman alone couldn’t be respected. She had to be some stupid man’s wife.

  In the reflection of the large shop windows, Rabia grimaced at the ring and then surveyed herself. To others she seemed youthful, but she knew that Age had crossed her path, albeit gently; it had marked fine lines around her neck that only she could see.

  Rabia felt her reflection walking side by side with her along the busy pavement, a parallel acknowledgement of all the trials and triumphs she’d endured and endeavoured. And then, without warning, she looked for her reflection and it wasn’t there. It had become bored and found another, more colourful soul to stalk.

  Quickening her pace, she waved to get Fatima’s attention as she crossed the road to reach the bus stop. She made it in time to see the fat lime-green PeopleMover bus shuffle its way to the stop and let out a depressed sigh like a hungry caterpillar that had eaten its fill. As they climbed onto the bus, Rabia smiled and greeted other passengers who were all part of the world of 5.10 p.m. There were just two seats left.

  A difference of just five or ten minutes could throw you into a different world. Rabia hated that kind of uncertainty. When the buses ran late, she felt a shudder of anxiety run through her, the sinking feeling of a loss of time and, ultimately, control.

  At least she’d made friends who shared her dependence on the bus. Taking the bus was like riding around in a secret mobile community for a small part of the day. Meeting the same people every day, Rabia had learned the routines of others she wouldn’t ordinarily have met, and had begun to care for them. That was how she’d met Fatima. They’d ended up sitting next to each other on a cold day like this one, and had immediately clicked.

  Fatima was the only one who’d believed in the success of Faith and Flowers when Rabia had told her she was quitting her job as a lawyer to deal with the more peaceful world of plants. ‘Who cares what people think,’ Fatima had said. ‘Do it for yourself.’

  Rabia had a short conversation with Veronica, the woman who worked at Beares furniture store, before plopping down on the seat next to Fatima. That was the magnetism of Rabia. She could relate to anyone, no matter where they came from or how much money they had.

  Or what they smelled like.

  Fatima smelled like pies. That was the burden of working in a pie shop – you always seemed to take your work home with you. And the burden of being a florist was that your olfactory glands kept working even when you weren’t.

  Today, like many days before, Fatima placed a warm brown paper packet labelled ‘Pied Piper’ in Rabia’s bag, as if they were two schoolgirls smuggling samoosas into a movie theatre. Rabia’s nose could tell that today’s special had been chicken and mushroom.

  As the porous night began to mop up any traces of the sun’s yellow yolk, Rabia got off at her stop, inhaling the faint fishy smell of sardines that hung in the July sea air. She walked through the park towards the glow of Summer Terrace. The sight of the building always thrilled her. She liked its roundness and the way the large white-rimmed windows reminded her of vanilla icing.

  These days, the atmosphere in the apartment complex was tinged with excitement. Aunty Julie’s daughter was getting married in a few weeks, so there were always gifts being delivered or kunchas being made.

  As she stepped into the entrance, Robert greeted her warmly. He and Mr Bhoola’s bald heads reflected the spotlights above them, as they sat bent over the window-washing roster for Jabulani. The two reminded her of shiny round emojis.

  Rabia nodded at them courteously; her smiles weren’t meant for men who might mistake them for an invitation. In her heart, though, she delighted in living in a secure building with a guard and the perennial smell of the sea.

  Starting off in a bachelor apartment in town after her divorce, Rabia had always hoped to one day live in North Beach. She loved being near the calming sea, and the convenience of Sunday-morning walks to the flea market. She knew the value of small pleasures, like delving into the Sunday newspaper, cup of tea in hand. Contentment lived in the little things. People often chased the big things, and bypassed the small wonders.

  Rabia was excited to see Zaina and exchange stories about their days, and today she was also pleasantly surprised by the aroma of something delicious.

  ‘Mom! I made chicken jalfrezi and haleem!’ Zaina said, hugging Rabia excitedly and taking her bag.

  ‘And look! The kitchen is still standing,’ teased Rabia. ‘But really, sweetie, thank you. You didn’t have to. I know you’re busy with your work. Didn’t you nap? You really cooked up a storm here. I was a little worried when I saw your message.’

  Zaina smiled questioningly – she’d forgotten her lie. ‘You worry too much. I’m totally fine,’ she said, remembering her message to her mother. ‘I couldn’t nap. I just felt like getting creative in the kitchen.’

  Rabia took off her jacket and scarf, stabbing her glittering scarf pins into the pincushion on the counter as her curly hair settled on her shoulders. She made her way to the kitchen and stood at the stove, stirring Zaina’s cauldron of chicken, peppers and broth, which was simmering enthusiastically, before going to pray.

  This simple act bothered Zaina slightly. She wished sometimes that her mother didn’t have to have a hand in everything she did. But that was Rabia’s way. She sometimes micromanaged Zaina as if she were a toddler. Zaina’s skin zinged with annoyance – but also at the scintillating thought that her mother knew nothing of Imraan. For once, Zaina was in control of something. She suddenly felt justified in her actions, and her nervousness subsided.

  Zaina set the table for two, placing the pie from Fatima on a plate next to Ruki’s bowl of kheer.

  ‘Thank you, honey. And take it easy with the cooking, or I’ll start getting used to this,’ Rabia warned jokingly. ‘What else did you do today?’

  ‘Just some research on design, and trying to find an idea for my thesis that won’t make me want to slit my wrists,’ Zaina said confidently, then added, casually, ‘Hey, how’s Veronica? Facebook reminded me it’s her birthday today.’