Monday evening, Thursday afternoon Read online

  We were already in Grade Six by that time, both in Mrs Shapiro’s class. And it was break-up Friday so we were out early. I was sitting on your bed with that beautiful embroidered cushion of yours on my lap. While you were trying on your new clothes for mosque that evening.

  And then something you said, in one single moment, changed everything. Even the beautiful cushion felt suddenly harsh and unwelcoming under my hands, not part of the world where I belonged.

  I don’t think you even noticed. In fact, I’m sure you didn’t. I tried to pretend nothing was wrong, even while the silent chant from the walls grew louder and stronger inside my head.

  It was an awful, AWFUL moment.

  Only later when we came down here to our favourite place at the river, here at the bottom of Gap Falls, only then did that feeling finally fade. I remember you went off on one of your rhyming chants: “She’s Louise, she’s Louise, SHE’S LOUISE!” – as though you were a DJ introducing some famous singer. And then everything became normal and right again.

  5. gamsa

  This always was our favourite place, wasn’t it? From the moment we were old enough to be allowed to come here. Here on the river bank at the base of the twin cascades of Gap Falls. Sitting here on our rock in the sunshine or leaning back against the huge old tree trunk where there was always space for both of us. And arguing always about whose waterfall was best that day.

  Your waterfall was the one to the left. Mine, to the right. Separated at the top by the huge moss-covered rock that balanced on the edge of the cliff and split the cascading water into two almost-equal halves.

  Funny, for years when I was younger I thought all waterfalls had a gap in the middle like ours did. The way all pairs of eyes are separated by a nose. I remember the first time Kyle showed me a picture of Niag­ara Falls in Canada.

  “But where’s the space?” I asked. I must have been nine at the time.

  “What do you mean, ‘space’?” He frowned.

  “You know, the gap in the middle to make the two halves of the waterfall. The two sides.”

  Not that our town’s Gap Falls is in the same class as the Niagara or even the Howick Falls in KwaZulu-Natal. What with it only being about one-and-a-half storeys high. But it has always looked pretty impressive to us, especially when the inland rains are heavy on the mountains and the water comes crashing down the river, dragging logs and branches along with it.

  How did we ever decide whose side was whose? I don’t remember. But I do remember how much we argued.

  “My side’s been the best today, Louise. Definitely!”

  “No, mine, Faheema, you have to admit that. Yours has been boring!”

  Both sides were equally impressive, actually. Both waterfalls hurtled wildly down the jagged rock face, sending sprays of droplets in widening arcs, before tumbling and churning into the pool below that was suddenly so peaceful and calm after the mirror-image drama. Peaceful with gentle waves that lapped against the bank or rippled between the stems of the beautiful blue lilies.

  But still we argued.

  “My side’s fuller than yours today, Louise! It’s no good pretending. We both know the truth!”

  “No ways! You’re just trying to make yourself feel good ’cause you’re embarrassed about the netball, Fa­heema. You didn’t touch the ball once. It just went sailing over your head every time. Like a supersonic jet.”

  “Well, you dropped it – how many times, I might ask? And you foot-faulted when you caught it. ’Cause you don’t know how to freeze, Louise. Hey! Freeze, Louise, freeze, Louise …” You were off again.

  I tried to find a proper word that rhymed with Faheema. Baleema? Sadeema? I gave up.

  “And anyway, Louise, this has nothing to do with netball. This is supposed to be a fair competition. And your waterfall has lost. For sure. You saw the rainbow in my spray. Twice! Come on, Louise, admit it.”

  Actually, we had lots of fun arguing about our waterfalls. Even more fun than we had arguing about our hopeless netball skills! Or about what happened that very first day in Grade One. We never gave up on that argument, either of us.

  “I’m telling you, Faheema, it was because of your red crayon and that stupid clown’s nose. That’s what made us friends.”

  “And I’m telling you, Louise. There was no red crayon! No, it was because of my pink lunchbox at break and that horrible Sean Groenewald.”

  “Red crayon!”

  “Pink lunchbox! And your hair shining like a gold crown.”

  “Oh, come on! How could my hair ever look like a gold crown? You’re making that up!”

  We argued until we both burst out laughing. That’s what friends are for, Faheema. Someone to argue with, knowing with absolute certainty there will never be any bad feelings, any discord, between you.

  *

  Sometimes when I sit here scribbling away, I can almost hear echoes of your voice above the crashing of the waterfalls. As though all our arguments and discussions are still vibrating through the molecules of air around me. Maybe they are. Didn’t Mr Pitlo say something like that in Science once: that nothing ever truly disappears? It just changes its state, but it can never cease to exist. Something like that. Not that I ever understood much of what Mr Pitlo was on about. You were always having to explain things to me at break. You don’t want to see the state of my Science marks these days, Faheema!

  Sometimes I think I catch a glimpse of you walking towards me here between the trees. But when I look up and squint my eyes, it’s just a trick of the light and the breeze. Or somebody else completely.

  My hand is aching from all this writing. Maybe I should use Dad’s laptop. He said I can use it. But I’ve started in these notebooks, so maybe I should just carry on.

  Will it all be for nothing, all these endless afternoons of scribbling when my homework is still waiting? Is it all pointless? No! I refuse to believe that. And it makes me feel better, thinking about all the great times we spent together. With never any bad feelings between us in all the years since Grade One and Miss Walker.

  *

  Well, almost never. Except for that one time there in your bedroom with the cushion on my lap, halfway through Grade Six with Mrs Shapiro. That Friday morn­ing when school had just broken up.

  Your mom was in the kitchen, cooking for the weekend. Spicy smells drifted through your doorway. And Yasmiena was out in the yard singing while she hung up her washing. She was starting a new job on the Monday: her first job as a fully qualified hairdresser. She’d finally passed all her practicals.

  Together you and I sat chatting in your bedroom. With your new turquoise prayer dress and scarf hanging against your wardrobe, ready for Friday prayers. Somehow we got onto the subject of how different our religious services were. We’d talked about stuff like this before, now and then. But somehow this time it felt different.

  I told you about sitting in church with Mom and Dad and Kyle – with his hair brushed and looking almost tidy, even though by now he was at the technikon so he could wear his hair any style he liked. I told you how much I loved singing the hymns, especially when Pastor Drayer’s son brought his band to play for us: three guitars, a violin and a drum set pounding through the speakers. And a very pretty woman with a tambourine and long flowing dresses that I liked.

  Then you said that at the mosque women had to sit upstairs away from the men so that no one would be distracted. At the mosque, musical instruments were never allowed. Never.

  “We go to the mosque to worship and pray, not for entertainment,” you said sternly. In a voice that hardly sounded like yours. Not looking at me because you were busy taking your scarf off the hanger.

  A jolt of anger shot through my chest. My head churned with thoughts that hardly felt like my thoughts at all. Who did you think you were, criticising my church? How dare you judge something you knew noth­ing about? I had such an urge to defend our ways against you. It was like you and I were in some desperate netball match, but on opposite sides. Like I had to ge
t the ball away from you, even if it meant pushing you onto the hard tarmac.

  I said nothing out loud. I was too overwhelmed by anger and incomprehension. Why would you want to say such a thing to me? For the first time ever, I felt that I didn’t belong in that room I knew so well. Like I didn’t belong there on your bed with your embroidered cushion on my lap. As though it was an enemy camp or something.

  You didn’t seem to notice there was anything wrong. Instead you were at the mirror trying on your new prayer scarf, wrapping it round and round your head. Until all your beautiful long black hair had disappeared from sight. And your face was so serious that not even a hint of your dimples showed.

  I looked at your reflection there in the mirror, Fa­heema. And in that moment, you seemed so alien. So foreign. Who were you? What connection could there possibly be between us?

  Even the smell of your mom’s cooking was suddenly unpleasant.

  Maybe Mom was right. Maybe it would be better for me to have friends that came from Christian homes and backgrounds. Like Susan de Lange. Or An­net­te Winterton. Girls who did things that seemed normal to me. Girls who didn’t have to sit far away from their fathers and their brothers while they were praying. Girls who didn’t think guitars and tambourines in a service were bad.

  I was still feeling like that as we sat down for lunch with your mom and Yasmiena. They were speaking about your family, about Nazeem, about Uncle Faisel and Auntie Faieka who had just been on their Hajj and returned from Mecca. Strange, weird-sounding names and words that shut me out. As though I barely existed.

  *

  I was still feeling like that when you and I got down to the river. And by now you knew something was wrong. Of course you did.

  “What is it, Louise? Are you upset about something?” You truly had no idea.

  And how could I tell you the truth – that right now you felt like a stranger. So I made up an excuse instead.

  “Kyle says he wants to work in London next year. ’Cause he’s finishing his technikon course in November. And my parents are arguing ’cause my dad thinks it’s a great idea. But my mom says it’s an awful idea. She nearly starts crying every time they talk about it.”

  “Oh, Louise, I’m so sorry. That’ll be terrible if he goes. You’ll miss him so much.”

  And there it was: you were back to being my best friend Faheema, whom I knew so well, caring about me as you always have. The kindness showing in your huge brown eyes. And with your dimples deep as you pressed your lips together in sympathy. Instantly I felt lighter, unburdened.

  “Forget it,” I said. “It probably won’t even happen. And anyway, my waterfall is looking better than yours today!”

  “Never! Look at all the spaces on your side. Your waterfall is half bald. It’s pathetic! You can hardly call it a waterfall at all. More like a trickle.”

  But my waterfall won in the end that day. Suddenly from out of the foaming river above us there appeared a tricycle. A bright red tricycle – well, except it had one wheel missing! But it was on MY side! It dangled on the spiked edge of the cliff top. It teetered for the longest moment. And then down it battered, knocking and scraping against the cliff wall, bouncing spray in all directions. Until it fell with an adamant plop into MY side of the pool.

  The contest was over. Way over!

  “I won!” I yelled. “I won. You’ve got no chance now. You can argue as much as you like, but we both know the truth.”

  And you graciously admitted defeat, jumping up onto the rock beside our tree, announcing like some DJ: “Ladies and gentlemen, we have today’s winner. She’s Louise, she’s Louise, SHE’S LOUISE …” You were laughing as you chanted, so that the dimples showed in your cheeks. As deep as ever. And all the bad feelings I’d had earlier were swept away like broken glass. You were Faheema, my best friend in the whole world, the person who always made me feel special and extraordinary.

  You jumped off your rock-stage. You began to tug me away from the river bank, through the thick undergrowth between the trees.

  “What now, Faheema?” I laughed from behind you.

  But you kept tugging until we reached a small clearing that smelt of damp earth. It was like a secret room, hidden from the whole world, with high walls of bark and branches and tightly packed leaves all around us.

  You stood in the middle and said solemnly, “You have to promise me, Louise. Promise me we’ll always be friends. No matter what happens.”

  “I promise,” I said.

  “Cross your heart and hope to die?”

  “Cross my heart and hope to die,” I repeated. I meant it.

  But I didn’t think to wonder why you suddenly seem­­­ed so desperate. After all, what could possibly ever threaten our friendship?

  “And when we grow up and have children, they’ll be friends too, won’t they?”

  I nodded. I wasn’t about to argue with that.

  6. sietta

  But there were arguments going on in both our homes­ ­as we started Grade Seven the following year, argu­ments that didn’t end with everyone bursting out ­laugh­­­ing. ­The arguments disturbed us both, I think –­­ ­even­ though we were so happy to be in Mr Abrahamse’s class together. Especially since Mr Abrahamse was the best English Language teacher in the whole school and gave us lots of extra time to do creative writing.

  Remember how he always used to say: “Reach deep, everyone! Reach deep into the most honest part of your being!”

  And remember the poem we wrote together about Gap Falls? And he said that it was so evocative and filled with hidden meanings and metaphor straight from our subconscious? And you were so pleased with yourself, you whispered to me, “Not meta-PHOR. I reckon this is meta-FIVE!”

  And then we had to read it out in Assembly that Friday, both of us together. That was a special time, wasn’t it, Faheema? Even though we felt shy with the microphones making our voices sound strange and unfamiliar as they echoed in the hall. Even with Marcus Singer and Colin Gottschalk mocking us from the back row, until Mr Abrahamse gave them one of his famous Meaningful Looks.

  That was when we decided that when we grew up we would become poets and writers and share a cottage beside the sea, where we could create even more amazing metaphors and become very famous.

  Even better, in Grade Seven, we both got picked to be in a proper netball team. Well, it was the E team. But still – at least we got to play real, actual matches every now and then once the netball season started.

  *

  In my house the arguments about Kyle’s future plans went on and on. His technikon course was finished now and he was adamant about going to London. Dad thought it was a great idea. He kept trying to explain why to my mom.

  “Don’t you see, Esther? He’ll get superb experience there. The field’s wide open and I hear they are really keen on employing South Africans. Our kids know how to work hard and how to show respect. Plus, he’ll be earning pounds. It’ll set him up for life! We should be encouraging him. Not standing in his way and sending him on a guilt trip!”

  “But he’s not even twenty,” my mom wailed. “He’s too young to be all alone in the world.”

  “Don’t be silly, Esther! He’ll be with Helen and Geoff. You know they’ll take good care of him.” Aunt Helen was Dad’s sister. She and her husband lived in a house in Wimbledon, just outside London. With a spare room.

  But even that didn’t stop Mom wailing and shaking her head.

  “But what about the cold? He’s grown up in the sunshine. How will he cope with that cold? And it’s so far away. What if something happens to him, Mike? What if we can’t get to him in time?”

  I could hear the tears in my mom’s voice. And I knew it wasn’t only the cold and the distance. She couldn’t bear the thought of Kyle not being home. She always said he was her ray of sunshine, brightening up the worst day.

  “Well, it’s really up to Kyle, isn’t it, Esther? It’s his future. We can argue all we like, but he has to decide …”

>   Then Kyle would come home from his shift at the restaurant and the arguments would start all over again. Between Kyle and Mom this time.

  Sometimes I had to shut my bedroom door. But that didn’t always help. Sometimes I had to put my fingers in my ears to block out the sound so I could try to sleep.

  *

  And there were arguments in your home too, weren’t there, Faheema? Even if the arguments were quieter, conducted late at night when you were supposed to be asleep. Your dad wanted you to go to an Islamic high school the following year. He had already put your name down for Habibia College, the Muslim school on Driscoll Street. But your mom knew you wanted to attend Riverside High. Where anyone was allowed. Where I was going.

  “She’ll be happy at Riverside. I want to see her happy.”

  “Happiness is not the only important thing, Salama. At Habibia College our daughter will learn what it is to be a true Muslim. She will be able to make good, lasting friendships. This friendship she has now with this Christian girl is all very well. But Faheema is growing up. She must learn to understand and appreciate and participate in her own culture.”

  “But they don’t play netball at Habibia. And you know how much Faheema loves her netball.”

  “Oh, come now, Salama, think about it. She does not excel, does she? And sport is not the most important thing ­either.”

  “But we never sent Yasmiena to Habibia …”

  “Exactly! That is my point exactly! And look at Yasmiena now. What is she doing with her life? Her head is full of ridiculous notions. She barely listens when I speak to her. She has become a deep worry to me. No, Faheema will go to Habibia College next year. That is the end to this discussion.”

  From your bedroom you didn’t block your ears. Instead you strained in the dark to hear, begging silently for your dad to change his mind.

  *

  “IT’S NOT FAIR!” you exploded one April afternoon as we sat against our tree by the river.

  “Why don’t you just tell your dad?” I asked. “Why don’t you just explain how badly you want to go to Riverside?”