Rice crispies

It was yet again another peaceful evening with the house empty and the smell of chicken curry simmering. I had just returned from a walk with my friend Sam, with the sun having set already in the winter time months of July. Alone at home, I turned on the alarm and closed all the windows.   My little kitty, "KFC", falling over her oversized paws tumbled into the kitchen. I switched on a David Icke DVD, to end the silence which seemed to only emphasize the buzzing sound of my mums inherited fridge.  

Twenty minutes into the DVD, I see a flashing light shine through my bedroom window. Naturally, I walk towards it. 

I  see the large eyes of a foreign creature before falling asleep on a white bed, in a white room, with an unfamiliar smelling substance being fed to me through an inhaling mask. 

My alarm goes off promptly at 6 am. KFC has made herself comfortable on my neck in my bed.

Standing in the shower, I reach for my argon oil shampoo only to see three strange diamond shaped scars on my left arm. I know they are scars because after ten minutes of exfoliating it does not seem to remove the assumed marks. 

The rice crispies seemed to lack its usual " crackle and pop". 

Romeo and JulieT a continuation from The last Supper http://pinkmermaids.blogspot.com/2006/04/london-chapter-1-last-supper.html

Chapter 2

Romeo and JulieT

“Fuck”, that is all I am thinking and that is all that comes out of my mouth.

“Hi there Zuleigha, I could just about ask you the same thing, but much more eloquently, I should add”. He looked kinda miffed that my first reaction to seeing him happens to be the word Fuck.

I kind of just smile, I am holding a Barbie and have successfully managed to put a skirt on her head. Sameer is reeling closer, this must be some really juicy gossip even for him.

“ Hello Riyaaz, it’s a fucken small world” I say and drop the Barbie and walk away.

Sameer comes closer to me, I am sitting at the table, the roast chicken smells really good,

, “so you know Riyaaz”

“Uh Huh “ I say nonchalantly.

“okay, well have you heard about this new Movie, its with Daniel Craig in it”

“are you asking me if I know the new Bond movie” I ask him.

“yeah well…” and off he is chattering, about the new bond movie as if I don’t know that Dr No was the first movie and that Casino Royale is a remake which originally starred Sean Connery.

It was one of those days where I just needed to be alone, and what better heaven than a second hand book store, where you could get any cool book for under 20 bucks and just lock yourself away for a few hours.

I literally knocked into a guy, it was ridiculously embarrassing, I was at the stock of the small awkward stairs in that second hand bookshop in Mowbray, the Rural kids one, when I literally knocked a guy over, he nearly fell down the flight of stairs but was save by high pile of second hand Shakespere pileof books.

“Saved by Macbeth” he managed to say, picking up the brown tattered book.

I just kind of winced, and helped him up picking some books up.

“luckily there isn’t a sign that says you break it you buy it” he eventually says to me. He isn’t gorgeous, but he is really handsome, tall, fairish skin and dark curly hair.

I manage a weak smile and apologies profusively.

“Its cool, don’t worry about it”, and I realize he is still holding my hand.

This is UBER corny I am thinking to myself, I mean seriously.

“Hmmn Casino Royale” he points to the book I am holding in my hand and points to his pile which includes “To Russia with love”.

He does this retard thing with his eyebrow, its weird and its kind of like he knows he is kidding but it’s the kind of thing that you do after you really know someone.

“I am Romeo by the way, and you fair maiden, he mocks me, indeed he does” he asks me.

“ well, kind sir, I am Juliet without the T”

A ShOrT StOrY by Zoo Lay Gha

Short Story 1:

She picked up her red Nine West patent bag and let the thought linger a moment longer. It was ridiculous the exuberant prices one would pay for synthetic leather and yet it sold like CDs do on a R50 Musica sale. She chewed the extra hot Nandoes chicken and licked her fingers decidedly, moving a stray hair out of her face, which had just underwent a Arabella Spa treatment two days before and smiled at herself slowly, just for a minute she pretended that he was sitting in front of him. He had insisted on the facial even though it wasn’t really her scene. Nine West Bags was about as girlie girlie she got.

She got up and tossed the half drunk bottle of sprite and climbed into her legal car, she indicated to turn left and went right. She tuned into KFM and after hearing a Celine Dion song pushed her MP3 into her CD Player. An MP3 he made played.

It was aptly called, Sunday with FairyPlum. She can remember that Sunday clearly, they have been sort of dating for about a month, and spent the day at his place, when his overstrict grandmother had gone off on one of her religious rounds visiting all the sick people on the planet. They were hanging out in his room, listening to music, talking ok and kissing.

The front dor opens and in walks his very over protective grandmother with half her troop of equally religious spinster women.

Zara reluctantly hops into the first cupboard just in time before Hitler Granny steps into the room and finds him siting infront of his PC finishing off an Accounting Tutorial.

That song he said he loved played and although she wasn’t all that into Slipknot, listened to each sound, word and note as if she listened close enough there would be a secret message.

Sea Point was deserted, she climbed out in the empty parking lot, she undid the tie she wore with her work shirt and trousers.

*****

He smiled at her soft way she twitched her eyes. The way her nose wrinkles up looking like an overgrown newborn, her hair in an untidy bun, too long to leave loose and too short to plait.

She was certainly different, she had a slightly odd, delicately funkey and absurdly beaurecratic way of compiling an outfit. Especially for someone in Asset Management, very boring, very very ordinary.

He sees her at every corner, she indicates left and goes right, the cars maneuver around her like she is invisible and only he can see her.

She is talking and not listening to a word he has to say, but he doesn’t really mind just seeing her is enough.

He opens his eyes and she isn’t there, he doesn’t know where he is, everyone is walking past him, so fast so quickly and no one realizes his pain, no one can see that his insides have almost vaporized and all that remains is a vague outline.

She drives recklessly, she know she shouldn’t but it doesn’t matter anymore not after the fight, not after saying all those words, words that you just cant take back.

She picks up her cell and dials his number, even hearing his voice message will make her feel better will nourish and feed her insides.

But reception is bad or her phone is faulty she knows she charged it last night but the battery only has one bar.

She has to see him one last chance and drives to his house, only he isn’t there anymore. She knocks on the door but no one answers. She peers through the window and can see the fireplace they used to hang out at roasting marshmallows on sosatie sticks so often but the front room is empty.

She is concerned, yesterday he was there, 24 hours ago, the fight was bad but surely he hasn’t left, surely he hasn’t given up on her on them. Her heart feels heavy and she starts crying. Tears just pour out and she starts sniffing. She climbs into her car and starts driving, she indicates right and turns left, and goes back to Nandoes, where she has forgotten her Bag. She needs to get to his work. Jim is on the Mac working and slaving around, he isn’t there. Jim complains about him leaving and mentions it to David his son who works with him.

It hits her like a rock, he really has left, he has packed up and left.

She should have made up with him, it was such a stupid fight she couldn’t even remember what it was about, he wasn’t at work, he wasn’t at home and she doesn’t know where he is. He could be in Norway with Sammy his best bud, he could be in Joburg, he could do what they were supposed to have done together, he could be in New York.

She could e mail him, that wouldn’t have changed.

Well unless he really has changed his name as he said he always wanted. He never had parents, he grew up in an orphanage and for the past three years they were each others best friends. Sammy his best bud had moved to Norway, Andy was in Joburg somewhere and everyone else, well whom ever else she vaguely knew and would never be able to locate.

Well, except Sherwin, and there was this glimmer of hope, he works at Beroocas in the waterfront so she gets in her car and drives as fast as she can.

It got dark awfully quick, time passes by so quickly she doesn’t keep track of it anymore and everything just seems so different.

Maybe in the dark things seem different, Baruccas is busy, Sherwins the chef there, but he is standing at a table talking to someone, a very special someone. Its him, he looks different older, he is wearing a very odd shirt, its stiff and fancy very unlike him. His hair is neat and short, he isn’t wearing his glasses, he is holding a glass of wine and smiling.

And as she walks closer, he isn’t alone at the table, there is a girl, an its not any girl it’s a girl who is holding his hand, but its not any kind of handholding, he is hooding her hand and kissing it like he used to, like he kissed hers last week.

He is kissing her hand and she realizes, she figures it out.

She couldnt figure out why he was acting so different, why he was acting so distant with her. It was as she wasn’t there anymore.

She did see him for lunch at Nandoes, it was their Truce meeting maybe that’s what he wanted to tell her then. But she was speaking, no shouting no begging him, but he just sat there silently eating as if she wasn’t there.

And here he was kissing this other girls hand.

It didn’t hurt, it made her nauseous, she wanted to vomit but nothing came out. Tears were coming out of her eyes, but her cheeks never got wet.

He doesnt love her anymore, he didn’t care about her and thats why he was so distant.

After all they have been through, she had wanted to make up with him so bad, but it was too late, and then she got angry, she wasn’t too lat, he was cheating on her and she got angry, almost venomous as she usually got when she almost became irrational..

He looked out of the window onto the waterfront and he could almost see her. She was standing there in the rain and he felt guilty.

He heard of being haunted by love, but seeing her everything, even when he made love to the new women in his life she was there looking at him, and orgasms are pretty difficult when your dead ex is looking at you.

The END

story 1

She stood at the door and peered through the umpteenth time into the far distance. The farm was in the middle of a desert or at least she felt like it was. She kicked her shoes off and flung herself onto the coutch, it subsided with a squeek and the receptionist/weirdo woman who booked her into the backbackers lodge looked at her with her nose pulled up just like her step mom would.

He promised he would come and no one else knew she was here. She held the necklace in her sweaty hand, she grasped it with all her might. He was coming for her.

****
He looked at her faint smile that was almost hidden on that angelic white face, cliche or not. He wished she didnt like the Spice Girls so, and that annoying habit of chewing straws after a drink only highlighted the age gap more.

He looked at his Seiko watch for the tenth time and the time was getting closer.

"Ladybugs in the den" N said as soon as he picked up his Sony Cell phone.

Code talk was so lame and amateurish. N was formal as ever, and could see everything with all the cadgets Ray and her team came up with. He felt a bit like in a James Bond Movie, only there was no Astin Martin, sexy woman to have casual affairs with, there was just Angie who desperately needed saving.

*****
She kicked her shoes off and glanced at the snowy tv set and walked accross to change the chanel.

It was then when she saw that the receptionist had a wooden leg. Her frock was frilly and green, and covered just ill above her knees. She wore a black pair of stockings but her left leg was really wooden. Like in old movies. THis place was weird, and Tash was supposed to be here somewhere. Tash who booked in with her and had disappeared early this morning before breakfast, or was it after. Angie didnt even know cause when she woke up it was 10 and all she managed to get was toast and apricot jam, well it looked like apricot Jam. The coffee was a dilution of something black and tasted like what she would expect coffee to taste like had it have an expiry date.

Tash left a note saying that she was going for a hike and then go for a train ride.
Erica was sitting in a corner, and it looked like she was on her cell phone. Erica she had met just earlier this morning, whilst attempting to eat the "sort of" breakfast. Signal, was she actually getting signals? She was talking of lady bugs. Lady bug? What was that about?

A Triangle has three Angles

Zaara

A gaze was all it was ever meant to be and desire ignited flames which would burn woods which housed many animals which weren’t due to die as yet. As I climbed into a more comfortable position between his arm and chest I smelled his hair and the guilt hit in. I felt nauseous for a brief moment, in my stomach like an invisible ball filled with sickly puss which settled along the lining of my stomach.

He looked at me, with warm eyes, eyes that cared, and I slid in deeper in that embrace, that forbidden embrace.

My phone rang and I let it ring the Beyonce tune, voice mail could take that, Saturdays one should not be disturbed even if it is your husband.

Shibeer and I have known each other four months, we met per accident at a work conference, he was at the Johannesburg branch , I was at the Cape Town branch. At the time I was a well still newly wed, blushing and glowing and blissfully happy.

My husband Sameer was everything husbands should be, epiphany of perfection, kind, sweet and trusting, the sort that cooks supper without being told and gives u unannounced massages without complaining.

I loved Sameer.

Shibeer and I happened by accident, a perpetual accident and like magnets were attracted t each other with a force a force that transcended logical judge ment and moral distinctions.

The first time we slept together, I just lay there, no one made me feel so good. Not that Sameer and I lacked in any way, it was just different, forbidden and something that never could happen again. But everytime I flew down, I gravitated to his bachelor pad and we made the same mistake over and over again until the guilt almost became comfortable.

I was two months pregnant, I always wanted children so it hardly came as a shock in the eighth moth of our marriage. Our parents were ecstatic, Sameers mother literally glowed that she was finally going to become a grandmother.

I looked forward to four months of maternity leave, my mum would help out with the baby and I had my full families supprt. Maybe this would even change me, change my behavior and feelings towards Shibeer

Sameer

He met her per accident really. She was standing in front of him at Seattle Coffee shop and was reading the Business papers. Her hair slightly curled at her forehead and her lips were a sft pinky red, her skin lterally glowed, she was cute, curvy, maybe a bit plump but in a cute way that made him want to cuddle her. But her eyes were deep, pretty, no beautiful and like in those corny romance novels it was love at first sight.

So he nearly stalked here until he realized that she would be at this coffee shop every Saturday morning at exactly 8.30 and even though he wasn’t a morning person, he made sure he could get a glimpse of her for 8 Saturdays thereafter, until one day she actually spoke to him, it really started as her asking to read the paper.

She was funny if not a tad bit shy, her fingers were chubby, and she was not wearing the most flattering t shirt, it looked like she had woken up and jumped into a track top, but it didn’t really matter.

He adored her and would always adore her.

Her kisses were soft and enduring, she had infectious laughter at the arbest thins, a tad bit ditzy, smart in that quirky way. She loved him, he could feel it, and she professed it in letters she wrote on pink Garfield paper, maybe it wasn’t as mch as he loved her but it was enogh and that was all that mattered. Love really wasn’t an equation that had to balance out.

Shibeer

It always hurts, but the pain was unbearale at times, so much so that a few times he would literally stalk her. He flowered her to the coffee shop they used to go to and there she sat, with him, him holding a new guys hands, kissing another mans lips and it burnt him, his wound was infected with hurt and hate.

He was not possessive, he was actually qute a gentlemen, kind and sweet, funny and loving.

He had invested a year in her, he bought her flowers and a gold bracelet for her birthday. They even walked past jewelry stores looking at engagement rings, he envisioned it all with her, a home, a wife, a mother, every single thing. She was part of him, such a big integral part, the heart, the main valve, and she had just messed it all up.

He didn’t understand the excuse, it really wasn’t even one, it was a pathetic excuse, it made him feel weak and frustrated, how could she do this to him. Three months he mourned, silently moaned, to his friends and family he pretended to be happy and okay, inside he was decaying.

It was at a work function where he nearly cracked, when he saw her with the new man, at his work function. She was in the same industry as him, but surely she new that his friends and colleagues would be there, did she have no dignity? No respect for him? He rushed out to get a breath of air on an empty terrace and there she stood, her name was Zaara, and she was spewing her ghuts out.

Zaara

She was happy to be going to Joburg, she needed to be away from a perfect ness which was nearly choking. Sameer and her had been married for four moths and she was having second thoughts, serious second thoughts.

He was getting to her. The clinginess, the doing everything togetherness, maybe she really wasn’t the marrying material. Wasn’t that what Adam had told her. Adam was her first boyfriend the one who broke her heart, the one who told her, she just wasn’t the sort of girl you married, the one who messed her up so bad it took a long time to get strong and regain her self respect again.

Adam was in the papers again, some big deal, some millions he brought into Alaan Gray.

Sameer was perfect too perfect and it was bugging her. She took into consideration her period was due, due ay moment now and that usually made her a tad bit irrational, and emotional.

Four days later, it was very over due and in her stay in Joburg she needed to take a pregnancy test after a very embarrassing encounter of spewing her guts out on a balcony at a la did a work event with a man who was kind enough to get her a tissue.

Love and a Kitten

She smiled at him innocently as he picked up the kitten. She didn’t hate cats but she wasn’t particularly fond of them, tolerated them really, only because toleration was the only affection she could really convey to those tiny feline creatures.

Fond memories of a tiny black kitten named Peanut Butter sifted into her head as she tried desperately to forget. She never ever found out Peanut Butters gender but Peanut Butter seemed a uni sex enough name as opposed to Oprah which was her next option.

He picked up his kitten with such tenderness and studied her as if her personality was vividly displayed by her every move. Her face revealed hidden emotions only he and other cat lovers could really decipher, she stood there like a dead duck feeling very artificial for saying “Ah how cute.” and cursed herself for sounding like an idiot.

What she really wanted was to let him know that she cared about things that he cared about purely because she cared about him.

He put the kitty down and it played by his feet purring for more attention.

She almost felt like she was intruding on this world he transported himself to, him and his kitty and she felt awkward.

He disappeared into the kitchen and she patted the kitty on her head between the ears and it purred.

He returned with a glass of juice and she realized she was thirsty and dropped the Nine West bag Nine times fuller than it needed to be.

He slipped his hand into hers and it felt sticky and moist. It didn’t matter really and he stared at her with adoration just as he did a few minutes ago with the cat.

Adoration is what most women yearn for. That feeling of being admired like a Goddess somehow comforts the wickedness and message the media infringes on us for not being, thin and pretty enough. That gaze seemed to comfort that endless nagging magazines message of imperfection, an adoptive mother who constantly pointed out her inadequacies and the real mother who just didn’t care from the start.

She shook that negative thoughts off her like dandruff on a black Melton coat and he kissed her hand and gestured her to sit. They lay there in each others arms with the cat at their feet watching a movie without any sound, the remote not found.

He kissed her again, on the tip of her nose and she closed her eyes to receive it.

When she opened her eyes he was gone and the purring kitten was at her feet.

His death was sudden and they said almost painless.

When he rushed in front of a car to save her Peanut Butter.

F A I T H F U L

In front of God these vows are said

To be forever yours till either of us is dead

I am a person on my own

But next to you I sit on my thrown

We are not one, but from one bread we eat

No races we run no one to beat

We help each other with what needs to be done

And never forgetting we are not one

Cause death will come and then we must be strong

But for now and seven lives after to each other we belong

We drink from one cup and the water is blessed

With each others hearts and heads we will never mess

We wont hurt each other, but fights will come

Silly moments, where we both will be dumb

We both know this but its part of this pact

Marriage is hard, it’s a known, unbeatable fact

With joys and sorrows and all imbetween

And tradition, family and Islam as our deen

I hereby take you as my man

And by your side I promise to stand

And be your wife till death do us part

I hereby give you my whole heart

Respect it well and treat it right

With kindness and delicacy with no spite

Understand and challenge it, it comes with a brain

And when it weeps help to take away the pain

And when it needs a shoulder to cry

Comfort it dearly and don’t ask why

And if you can promise to do all of this

I can promise you darling eternal bliss

U N F A I T H F U L

I give him a long stare, I breath deeply as he takes my hand in his and whispers my name in my hair. He holds me close and strokes my hand with soft kisses on my forehead.

I look at him and he kisses me and whispers, “I love you”

“I love you too” I respond and my eyes goes watery as I think of the night before.

He ushers me into his car and we leave his flat and head off to the movies, I am quiet all along the drive, contrasting very much from my constant verbal diarrhea. He parks the car in the basement and we head off to the movies as we have done a thousand times before. He buys a popcorn and shakes on some cheese and chives flavoring and balances a giant Coke in his free hand.

We get comfy in uncomfortable cinema seats, he holds my hand and asks if I am ok, I Lie and say I am fine.

But I am not really, I am feeling guilty and trapped.

This perfection we have, ought to be enough, but it just doesn’t suffice and somewhere between being inlove and today I fell out of love with him.

It happened a while ago but the exact date I cannot decipher, the emptiness replaced the love that resided in my heart. I know he still loves me. I see it in his eyes, and I wonder if he can see in my eyes that I no longer love him. I suspect he does, cause he holds my hand with a tight grasp, anticipating I m going to leave him.

As the movie progresses he occasionally kisses my forehead and holds me tight.

I don’t touch the popcorn.

Midway through the movie I feel nauseous and run to the bathroom.

I vomit.

I don’t have much in my stomach but for three days in a row I have been waking up and vomiting.

He runs after me and into the cubicle I am crawling in. He pats my back and hands me a piece of hard paper, the kind you wipe your hands with not your mouth with.

He isn’t that stupid, he knows and because we never ever did it he knows it’s not his.

And even through all that he holds my smelly hand and we walk to his car.

We sit silently all the way till he gets to my place.

He leans forward and kisses my forehead.

I hug him tight.

The emptiness dimmers and I remember why I love him so.

I get out of the car relived, feeling somewhat safer and a bright light blinds me.

I wake u in a hospital bed, and a doctor standing next to me with my mother.

I barely make out what they are saying but I decipher the doctor with a heavy Durban accent saying, “She lost the baby” and I remember her astonished look, perplexed and puzzled.

They realize I am conscious and the doctor urges me to take it easy but I need to explain.

“He’s dead now.” She tells me.

I didn’t want the baby anyhow, it would have complicated life and mine was complicated enough. But having him with me I realized that I was stupid to have doubted this love he has for us, more so stupid for not realizing what a great thing it was that we had, that he and I were meant to be. That this was my Leo and I was his Kate, and then it hit me, it was way too early to know whether the baby was a girl or boy and the he my mother was speaking of wasn’t the he I had assumed it to be.

The end

DVD - SNL

He looked at me with those eyes, hungry wasn't the word to describe it, I wasn't edible, I was that meal he was going to devour after being lost in a desert for days and I was the main course.

I teased him a bit and smiled so shyly, attempting to talk of everything else. I picked up a DVD in the Look and Listen store.

"Hmn, this looks good, a bit melodramtic, but I like that" I say matter of factly, looking at him out of the corner of my eye, half my view is hidden by my fringe.

He jut stares at me, not listening, not commenting not participating in my conversation at all.

"Don't you think so?" I ask politely, persisting, passing the DVD on to him.

"I can't quite think right now." he says, almost like subtly commanding me to shut up.

I like seduction games, where you kind of play with your prey first and then eat them alive.

Thats seduction, when you don't even know you're in danger. When you so unsure on what is, when reality's rigid structure falls apart, when you're too late to evacuate a building thats going to explode. My passion builds, I want him, I want the same things that he wants, if not more, so much more, and my insides starts to burn with a forbidden desire, that temptation of forbidden fruit, some things are just worth being banished forever for.

He moves closer to me and very gently grabs my arm. Its almost like in slow motion.

"This way Zuleigha, that lady can't pass through"

"Oh" I stammer, I thought he was going to embrace me with a kiss and was anticipating for him to do just that.

His mask falls back on, those brown eyes, mystery eyes, as cliche as it may sound are covered once more, behind that mask hides my man.

"Titanic?" he asks, looking at me perplexly, absurdly, holding the DVD that I had passed on to him.

"You got to be joking." he laughs at me and places the DVd back on the shelf.

yeah, i must be fucken joking!

p L a Y e R S

Have you ever played chess? It’s a very interesting game of strategy with the object being to outsmart your component by maneuvering different pieces in such a way so to capture the king of your opponent.

The queen (self esteem) has the most power and is your strongest piece. Your pawns are your supposed weakest pieces, however if they reach the other side of the board then they become a queen or another more powerful piece.

Bishops are so cleverly disguised and make me believe that they really do care. I am quickly side tracked, tricked and trapped, I need to sacrifice my queen once again.

But Knights are the best, they pretend to rescue me from a fate worse than death. They are the biggest liars because you really believe they going to save you, instead they end up hugging you and stabbing you with a dagger in your back, yes die in my arms they would say smiling and kissing you as the blood oozes out of the wound you were waiting for to heal. That very wound that you had told the knight of, the wound he said he would tend to, only the tend you assumed he was talking of wasn’t the same one he had in his mind.

Come the trusty castle, that guy friend who was always your best friend, who protects your king (heart) who comforts you.

Unfortunately he also always gets seduced by your opponent’s queen and often leaves you in the lurch. Unrequited love leaves a bitter taste on the tip of your tongue and nothing tastes sweet thereafter even if it really is a sweet treat.

In the end all that remains are the pawns and they are disguised cause if they reach the end of the board they could evolve into queens, knights, bishops or castles, you never know which.

In the end, its all about strategy, love my dear is just a game of chess, and even if you do end up checkmating your opponent, you’re still just a PLAYER.

My Nine West Boots with Nine inch heels

So yesterday I have this interview in town at 12. I wear my Nine West boots which I got at half price in December, cause its the only boot high enough to wear with flared brown pants, which matches perfectly with my see thru white shirt which is so complimented by my black grey long tailored Marion Lyndie Jacket I get from My aunt Hanifa.

I am not a designer wearing kinda person, but I do have these occasional items Vogue magazines brag about.

My mother looks at me and says, " In that shirt, in those shoes?",

and my sarcastic know it all reply is, " Yes in this shirt and in those shoes."

" You are going to be late, you cant do anything in those shoes, and its cold outside"

and my sarcastic know it all reply is," I wont be late and I have jacket."

I walk down my road in pain and agony and I catch a taxi at 11.15. But it was a kind taxi, the "sliding door operator' sees me walking very slowly down the road and reverses for like 100m to come pick me up. Bless his kind soul. My feet are very grateful.

Unfortunately the taxi also takes all the "draaijies" into Brigetown, Silvertown and chases the rabbit down the hole only to find out he's on his way to Wonderland.

I get at the terminis at 11.45 and I got no idea where the building is.
It starts to drizzle.
I am "helilig " over my hair as everyone knows.
So drizzling waters sure as hell messes up my do.

But off I galavant, and a kind lady at a stall selling kitchenware tells me where I need to be.
10 minutes to get there, 9 inch heels, mincing hair and crazy traffic, obstacles which a Surrey Estate 'meisie' handles everyday.

I arrive five minutes late luckily the person conducting the interview is late!!

But everything goes off well, and I am on my way back home.

My feet are killing me, literally. I manage to get a Mannenburg Taxi, not a Heideveld one which means an extra 15 minute walk. Its starts to pour, and I mean buckets of water. Cape Town should NOT be worried about unfilled dams. I get off at my stop, and my mom is not even at home to pick me up (an ideal opportunity to complain on why she NEVER carries her bloomin cell phone). I mentioned its a see through shirt, its pouring, and my jacket is literally soaked.
I am dripping with rain, and a taxi passes me, and the driver feels sorry for me (oh at this point I should mentioned I forgot my purse at home, meaning I had just enough money for one taxi) picks me up and I say, " I have no money!"

He looks at me and asks, " Where did you go to in the rain all dressed up?"

"For an interview for a job." I replied.

At which point the 'gaartjie' chorused in and said, " You will get that job, but even if you do you might need to take a few days off."

Perplexed I turn around and ask, "Why do I need days off?"

His reply, " Cause girly, in this rain, and those heals you definately going to get the flu!"

Mums and 'gaartjies are always right, ATCHOOOO!!!!

PS: Nine West boots are no longer used for my job interviews, just letting you know.

London : Chapter 1 : The last Supper

The potent smell of dhanya and curry was in the air. If I closed my eyes I would pretend I’m at home. It would nearly be lunch time, on an Eid day, when my mum would make her legendary crayfish curry. My aunt Hanifa would of grilled a pan full of prawns in a delicious combination of garlic butter and chillies and our lunch table would be laid in such a way that a table separated the room in half. We manged to squeeze close to 17 of us on that table, cosy, clustered and cramped. But those were the only complaints, the food was good, company better and dessert with the after party the best.

For three weeks I have been in London, with my cousin Sadiqa. It was all per accident actually, she was a applying for a visa for the UK and I very spontaneously applied too. After being approved and granted the visa, I managed to find me a very larney job as a market researcher for the London Stock Exchange, my credentials and references managed to secure me employment for the next year or so.

So here I was at a friends of a friends place waiting for supper to be served. The house is nice and spacey not so cramped as our place in London. There are 4 of us in the house, luckily Dickie and I got to share our own on suite. We share a communal kitchen , TV room/lounge and a sort of dining area.

In it my room is a s a double bed, two cupboards, a bookshelf and desk, for my books and laptop and a mini hifi.. Sharing a house is different, sometimes the kitchen is messy, so messy even untidy I cant stand it. Breakfests are simple, cereal or toast. Lunches are at work, and suppers, is a twenty minute pasta, or if I’m lucky, ill fix up a curry or breddie. But today I had the luxury of being served and it was heavan!

Dika’s friends, well they a couple, invited us for supper, it was the guy (Cassiem) birthday. I was just tagging along to uhmn meet more people? Truth be told I was finding it hard to adjust, to the cold wintery winds, the few hours of sun, the desperate need to smell the ocean, hearing the words “kanala, vokol, jintu, kant and sumba” amongst other things. But I was here for just that reason, to find out what its like to live away from home, to pay bills, to take a subway (not a taxi refer to “different shit, same day).

As per my personality, I was at first very quiet in London, everyone thought I was unhappy and sad. But I wasn’t, I was just getting used to my surroundings, trying to figure people out and select friends.

Someone whom I had gotten very close to was Ashiqa, a fellow CT gal, who had been in the UK for two years now. She was also working in the finance world, we worked in the same building (but not the same company) and lived like three blocks away from each other. She was sweet, quiet, funny and very soon I realized a good confidant, a fellow “china”. We did all the girly stuff, movies, shopping for clothes, facials and she loved museums and galleries which was so cool so we planned to check all the galleries out, well in the year I had ahead.

Leaving home was anything but easy, I missed home, I missed mum, I missed mums food, I missed dad’s talks on UFOs, ghosts and life, I missed my siblings quarreling, I missed my cousins birthday parties and braai,s, I missed my friends and I missed my ex boyfriend even.

Two weeks ago I was at theairport with half of Rylands waiting at DF Malan Airport.

Uncle anwar was their with his digital camera, my mum cried causing Sitchie mamoe to cry, mumany gives me a prawn solomie as padkos, Aunt fowzie gives me some magazines, Aunt Zaida is snapping away and my Uncle Riedwaan arrives with a box of Biltong and Droewors.

Goodbyes are teary, I chunk as I say goodbye, Toughedah and Sumaya my best buds in the mix, and then my aunt Hanifa gives me a reassuring hug telling me I will be just fine.

I know I will be.

Im sitting in this lounge, on a red sofa. I’m wearing my dark blue levis, the brown Nine West boots I got at half price sale, the white jersey with fur collar I bought with my friend Nuri just before I came to London. My hair is longer now, almost on my shoulders, all blown out, two shades lighter than it used to be. I’m wearing eye makeup and a pinkish red lipstick I got from My aunt Hanifa in my very chic Bobby Brown case.

I am feeling a bit awkward, I don’t know anyone here but luckily Cassiem and his wife Fatima has two very cute little girls, I smile at them and quickly we become friends. Kids can be so cute, and so easy to befriend for me. Very soon, they are laying either side of me wearing pink jamies and big slippers, whilst im reading to them a story of Barbie and the nutcracker very animatedly. Barbie always fascinated me, have u seen all the bloomin barbies you get, my one intention was to go to hamley’s just to check a whole floor of barbies. That would be so awesome, in my next life im going to be a Barbie, like paris Hilton, I think he is just perect. She’s blonde, got blue eyes, legs that reach my neck, models for Guess, this having brains and being clever is so over rated! Then Fatima comes over and tells them to go sleep. Momies do that brilliantly, they just say, “ Come girlies nite nite time” and they obey. Im not a mommy, im the aunt that spoils, that paints and plays, but give me a kid to live with for more than 24 hours I’m sure I would feed her a Bar one for lunch so they can have a 25hour day.

“Aunty Julie, you goin to come visit u again hey, and we goin to watch the new Barbie movie next week, Mummy doent need to take us you can!” a five year old doesn’t ask but commands. She reminds me so of my little cousin Sara. I smile and tell her I will make a plan.

Whilst playing with the kids I did not notice that more guests had arrived and were sitting on the other side of the room. Three guys and two girls. Sofia was one of them, I knew her cause she had come down to CT before and stayed with my cousin.

Sofia knows them and is chatting and hugging and laughing making me feel even more out of place. No one introduced us as with the others, perhaps its because I was busy with the kids, I don’t know.

Im busy taking my phone out , cause I heard it beep and can imagine it’s a long sms from one of my CT friends, when a guy comes up to me, very good looking, tallish, well built with nicely styled hair and eyes that remind me of Seif Ali.

“Hi and you are..?” he asks me in that dashing Hugh Grant British accent.

Stunned and shy as always, I smile and reply, “ Zuleigha”

“Julie” my cousin rushes in, “Sameer don’t flirt with my baby cousin” she adds.

Two things I hate, firstly I’m 24 not a baby anymore, and secondly my name is Zuleigha. All my old friends know me as Julie, but I prefer to be called Zuleigha here in the UK. I’m not sure why, its just a preference I guess, cause there were millions of Julies in the world perhaps.

“ Whos a baby, Dika?” I ask her.

Sameer is very charming, too charming if you ask me, he ends up sitting next to me, and right opposite m are the other two guys whom I’m still to meet. When I finally do look up to see them and be introduced properly I am stunned to see him. What was he doing here?

The wedding and a speech

Sunday at 5.30pm

I couldn’t believe my cousin was getting married. He was the little boy who used to scare me with spook stories when we slept over at my grans place, but there he was with this smile, so huge if it could it would have engulfed the room.

His bride looked beautiful; she glowed, like brides are supposed to. I smiled to myself and stopped the tears from falling but when the couple walks in to the music of Veer Zara, it is hard for one not to get sad with nostalgia knowing that the person is starting a new life.

Sunday at 11.30am

My uncle Adil and Hanifa dropped us at the hall. We folded serviettes and placed them in long champagne glasses. We tied organza bows around white chair covers. Aunty Shami skillfully arranged flowers and scanned the room, her eye for feng shu or just decorating was excellent (I got jack talent in that department), the way it looked at 11am and the way it looked at 3pm was amazing. Rest assured it looked gorgeous, and I felt proud, after months of talks, here we were at the wedding. My stomach grumbled, in an hours time I needed to be back, I needed to bath and do make up and hair all in an hour. Where was my mum with that car?

Saturday eve around 8pm

We pick up Reyaaz, and he seems eager to join. I am glad he is, taking a guest along who is not sociable would only make it harder for me to mingle. But I needn’t worry, when we arrive, he befriends them all, and my uncles start to talk to him. My mum introduces him to all and chats with him. I’m running a bit around between cousins and aunties, we having a braai. Tomorrow is the wedding.

The table is decked, full capacity, with meats, sosaties, every salad mentionable.

We drink coke and eat cake for dessert. Everyone is there, and all these little kids running around. I like little kids, they have an interesting perspective to life, so new, fresh untainted.

There is always a fascination with my beauty spot (moesie). I have three little boy nephews (well they my cousin kids) all so cute and tiny, asking questions requiring you to think of a proper answer.

The boyz, my three little cousins I grew up with are now big boys, 17,14 and 11. They all sitting on Mixit! All of a sudden they grown up and I realize I’m nearly 25.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, time waits for no one they say, in ten years time I will have wrinkles.

Sunday at 10.30am

My aunt saves me. She brings me a beautiful wrap dress to wear the one I got made just doesn’t seem appropriate anymore. She brings me some makeup as well, my sister and my 5 year old cousin (Sara) mess around with it.

Sara approaches her dad (who can’t refuse) and she puts some blusher on his cheeks. It does not do him justice

Sunday at 5.45

Reyaaz my Mauritian friend is sitting next to my brother and they are talking of the stock market. My mother is fanning herself with the fan, Reyaaz’s sister, Farha had bought my mum. My gran is sitting silently and people come to greet her

But now there are speeches being said so everyone is silent. Junaid, Shaheens best friend is saying a few words. I think of who will say a few words at my wedding. I’m hoping its Farha or Toughedah. I would say Sumaya but I know its not her cup of tea. She will be the loyal one at my side, fixing my hair, telling me to smile, telling me to make a shy face, brides have so many faces. Noticed how they pull the “I’m so shy and innocent one” I think you have to practice for it, I know I would.

I think of her wedding and it feels like yesterday but it’s nearly two years ago. Marriage scares me, yet I’m so surrounded by it.

It’s my turn and I get a few jitters.

My uncle ,Sitchie Mamoe, calms me, and I start bit rushed at first. But once the formalities are over I just start talking.

I offer him some advice (“the wife is always right”), and I relate to a humorous story when he was 7 and I was 5. I then go corny and soppy, I recite a poem by Khalil Gibran and I officially invite the bride to our family. I totally forget to say Asalamualaykum!!!

Sunday 9.45pm

We drop Reyaaz at home, well at his hotel and I say my goodbyes including the traditional kiss on two cheeks. It was a nice weekend with him. I miss my friend Farha, whom I last saw three months ago in Mauritius.

But such is life when there are vast distances between u. Sms’s, phone calls and e mails substitute chats and sleepovers.

We had visited the bride and grooms new house which looks beautiful, new, fresh and clean. I wish that upon their marriage, I mean after all that is what its about, it’s a new start to a new life, you start from a clean slate, a fresh beginning to a beautiful life with the one you love.

Maybe I sound like a Daniel Steel novel or an Indian movie but hey, weddings are supposed to sound like fairytales.

No Electric and a Vote

Its 7 o clock in the morning. My father is already working on a car in the yard, and i can smell kidneys being fried in a pan. My parents like having loud conversations in the kitchen, it is either that or they both going deaf. It does not help that we did not have a architect design our house, had it been so they would of advised not to have my bed room next to the kitchen.

Today is not Sunday, the only day none of us works (apart for my father and his odd hours as a mechanic), its ELECTION day.

For some odd reason, my father and i have to drive out to Mannenberg school (5 minutes away from home but if u from the flats you would know where and what Mannenberg is like) and my sister and mum vote in Surrey Estate my home town. Different areas/zones are allocated different voting stations and apparently these barrier lines separating the various zones runs through our house. The logic I cannot fathom but so do the posters hanging on the electric poles!

My father thinks that the world should wake up when the sun rises. At six in the morning you will awke to the sounds of a Bollywood hit or memory (not by Mehboob Bawa on KFM tho) on his magic radio which can pick up frequencies from here till Timbuktu!! On one occasions I was having an in depth conversation with a friend on the phone when I heard my voice echoing in the room, my father had managed to pick up our conversation on this radio. I don’t know how and I don’t wish to know, all I do know is , it must never happen again. But today is different, today there is an added bounce in his step, its election day.

So he drags me out of the bed just past seven, before I managed to grab a cup of java or any other stimulant to wake me up from a late night out with some colleagues, with my hair resembling Marge Simpson on a good day, off I go to vote.

I feel a bit proud as I get to the station, as my father predicted we are the only cars parked but then again, people here mostly travel with the infamous taxi.
There are people who are in wheel chairs, old people, aunties and uncles all coming to make a cross or a tick next to a person who has promised them a better South Africa.
I am proud in their faith, i am proud that they realize that they can make a difference and that their vote does count.


there are people out there, who complain about the state of the country and comment on Tokyo Sexwale and why he is so rich. Jealousy makes u ugly, i want to say. I am not naive i no that there is a lot of corruption, i know what the state of the country is. But people seem to forget, people forget we lived in a country of oppression where I would not of had the opportunity to study at UCT, or go to Mugg and Bean and have a much needed cup of coffee.

So now i am walking around with a black mark on my thumb nail, returning home very quickly to have a quick breakfast before the electricity cuts again.

The night before i am sitting at Spur canal walk with these above mentioned friends, and there the electricity cuts. I cant believe it!!
The waitresses hurry around lighting candles, some people rush off without paying and the entire eating arena is making a raucous noise, Pandemonium.

Twenty minutes of huddled in the darkness we contemplate on what is really happening at ESKOM and we agree that, "EKS DOM" is a new more appropriate name change. Sabatoge before elections, spare parts we Eskom cannot afford, the only person who can fix the reactor terminal is on holiday in France and his cll phone is off cause he cant afford cell phone roaming are all plausible possibilities however, the real reason is discovered or uncovered)Homer Simpson was employed at ESKOM! It might have been funny at that time, but the inconvenience is phenomenal, especially in the evening when I chose to check my mail and surf the net.
No TV, no warm coffee, one is resorted to either talking with your family or fall asleep at nine!

So I want to get home before the electricity cuts, and manage to make it is time to make a warm cup of Nesquick and a slice of toast and Nutella.

As I sit at the table, with my mum on the other end, cutting biscuits for a wedding on Sunday, there the electricity cuts.
My mother shouts something I dare not repeat, and I say those words she so often tells me, " i mos told you so, but noooo you dont want to listen."

Two hours pass. My aunty (my mums sister) comes to visit with her two parrots, Raja and Rani, drink tea made on a gas stove (every Indian house has to have one, the reasoning is beyond me, but at times like this, one ponders less on it, and is grateful for its existence irrespective of its origin) and resort to eating lemon creams (no baking required).

My sister hops around the house listening to her new MP3 player, my brother skids off on his bike off to play cricket with my cousins in Rylands.

My father listens to Indian music, on a radio powered by a huge orange car battery looking very out of feng shui, in my parents bedroom.

My online withdrawl symptoms starts to kick up and I retire to a sun lit lounge with the Da Vinci Code that I have been reading since 2005.

The streets are quieter for some reason, and as the night creeps in there is an eeriness outside, like in a spook movie.
At 9.30pm, I hear my pc switch on and smile to myself inside and out.

My sister is happy (relived and orgasmically ecstatic), just in time for Desperate Housewives, my brother is on his PC playing his computer games.
My father turns the battery off, plugs the plug into the socket and listens to his Indian music, and my mother, well my mother can finally bake the Blooody (oops) biscuits!!!

Random Thoughts: October 2005

I am not sure how the situation became what it has become.

Our song plays and I am not sure anymore on whether it still is our song.

All of a sudden I am unsure on whether what was, ever was true. I do not know what is anymore.

Perhaps I would undo and redo a lot in these last three months.

But it doesn’t matter anymore, you wont reply to anything, so I see no point in speaking with very little hope of being spoken to.

And if I were to say a line I am not sure on what that line would be or the one thereafter.

All we do is fight, there is no more fight left in me.

I do not know if you lied or if you spoke the truth or if she lied and was confused of the truth. I know neither and am therefore transported back to Limbo.

But even then I must let go and pretend that you are dead as you pretend I am dead.

Yet I don’t blame you, cause I have behaved most inappropriately I know.

But no more sorries can be said, I have exhausted and abused the word so much so that its meaning, no longer means what it used to mean.

And in the midsts of this confusion, I must let go on the thing I hold so dear and tightly.

I wish you could understand, I wish I could explain but if I cant understand it, and if I cant even logically converse it with myself, there is very little hope if not any that you will ever understand what I am going through.

That was neither an excuse nor an explanation, it just is what it is.

Oh god, help me understand love because I am drowning ithout the instruction manuel, I am commiting a slow suicide as I tortue myself with thoughts of a past which I thought would forever last.

Blood stains smells and if enough is lost, can be fatal.

I am dieing a slow death, but I cannot live with you. I neither love or hate you, it just all is what it is.

Arranged Marriages...and the like

My paternal grandparents had an arranged marriage. She was 12 and he was 16, and they were betrothedt o each other I cannot tell you much on their love lives, as many people who come from India, their generation did not show much affection as they do today. WAtch any indian movie where you will find the guy to be so romatic he would and does die a couple of times for his 'jhaan'.

Titanic looks like a joke compared to Indian movies. Sharukh is a hero like no other hero, he seduces with his smile and quirky expressions, wherever he goes has an adoring fan base.

Yet in the end love does not win at the end.

A friend's ex girlfriend ended a two year relationship when she married someone her parents chose.

And now a boy whom I lost my heart to is marrying a girl his parents have chosen.

Now I sit and wonder is there some truth some secret power to this arranged marriage concept. I am plagued by the West and the East, movies dictating, stating no PROMISING that LOVE WILL concur all, yet in reality, loe exists for a fleeting moment and then its gone.

I always believed in love, but today I admit its nothing more than a chemical reaction as the pessimistic masses have been saying for a long time.

I have fallen inlove out of love! I have sworn to give up on it, I have dared to be different and not carry my heart on my sleeve.

I have contemplated friends with benefits, I have tried to understand what love is before so wrecklessly engaing in it, playing a game whose rules I know nothing of.

But the kama sutra shows u love making but not love. Philosophers have debated it, and yet still its unexplained, unexplored yet experienced by the masses.

There must be some kind of formula, there must be some hidden secrets, codes, passwords to this unexplainable phenomena.

But now I will yet again mend a wounded heart, with a needle that prinks and hurts, with a thread that leaves an ugly scar but a heart that continues to beat…

Papa dont preach...

Im sitting here wondering whether i should even bother telling them.
I will have to eventually. I just never ever expected to be in the position i am in.

I come from a carefree happy family, actually they are close to perfect. Through all my difficult moments they had been there for me. Support and love i never was short of. My family are good people. They dont lie and steal and are respected by all in the community.

My grandparents will be so dissapointed I am happy they are not alive not now, not when im pregnant. Im 20 and pregnant. I still have two years left of my degree, i dont know what to do.

It all happened so quickly, he was so sweet, rough and uncultured, i think thats what attracted me, the dysfunctionalness, the total opposite to me. He was older than me, maybe too much older, working already.

I met him at Exclusive bookstore when we both reached for the same book. When our hands touched and eyes met in a permanet gaze. I fell inlove instantly and that it was recipricated only made me more happier.

I met him on the sly, bunking lectures, talking, whispering enjoying his company and being enjoyed.

My freinds didnt like him from the start, he was not like me they would say.
He didnt have a similar upbringing, didnt have an education.
He had a mother whom he had to look after since his father had left them a long time ago.Hhe had a younger sister to care for, all of a sudden education becomes a luxury.
He was troubled, and was betrayed so many times, i wanted to fix him up, give him love and attention he was so deprived of.

Why could any of them not understand that?

So i see my freinds less and less, i become more quieter at home, i feel guilty that im lying to them but at the same time I feel guilty having all this around me when he has nothing.

Im sitting in my room thinking of the day that has passed Tears roll down my eyes, i saw him this morning. I tell him i have taken three tests and im pregnant.
He looks shocked as expected, he screams, he shouts and he says it not his.

One night, one moment, three minutes and he now claims its not his.

He was my first everything, my first kiss, my first love, the first man i trusted who wasnt my family, the first person who really knew me, who knew my soul, my mind my innermost secrets and dreams. We couldnt get closer.

But love is very blind.

I have really good freinds at least that i chose well.

They come and tell me a ugly truth. His mother is not sick and his father did not dessert them. He's got older siblings and he's the lazy spoilt brat who messes with girls minds as a recreational activity. They met three girls who he has whood and dumped after they served their purpose.

I feel sick and run to a bathroom to vomit. They comfort and hold me as i cry. They say its okay, they say at least i found out the truth. They dont know its morning sickeness.

Little do they know, its too late.
Im sitting in my room still hoping for my phone to ring, for him to say its all a mistake, that he loves me.

Three hours i stare at this Samsung phone that i eagerly spent most of my nights with smsin a certain someone.
My mother comes into my room and asks me what is wrong, am i okay?

I lie and say im fine. My older sister comes in with my cute three year old newphew. She is also worried of me. How do i tell her, " Im pregnant" and i hate the father.

I had my whole future mapped out for me, finish my undergrad in Law, work in a la di da firm and eventually become a top notch advocate.

I pick up a pamplet i collected from the clinic this afternoon. I pick up my Samsung and dial the number.

The guilt will kill me i am sure, but the pain and agony to break my parents hearts, the dissapointment will be too much to bare. Worst still to be constantly reminded of HIM, growing inside me, makes me nautious and suicidal.

" i dunno what to do, but i think im pregnant but i dont want this child. Do you do abortions?"

Different Day, same Shit

i gran taxis primarily because they make it their misssion to get you at work on time no matter what obstacles lie in their way.

The scenario, I have overslept, i wear whatever needn't be ironed, grab a chocolate steri stumpie and run like zola bud on drugs down the street to Klipfontein road.

I anticipate that 50% of the Ct population are heading in the same direction as me. There is a Cape Town bus coming along, at a very slow pace, but its so full i know that if i enter it I'll get out looking as if i never bothered to iron my clothes which would defeat the purpose of wearing clothes that looks like its just been ironed.

Packed buses is not the reason i prefer taking a taxi, the real reason is the music. Now you might ask me how do i select a taxi, easy depends which taxi vibrates and 'skuds' more.

Now taxi drivers only play two types of music, either old school, Good Hope Stuff but including the latest taxi numbers like, "Pussy Cat Dolls, Shaggy and Enemim, and Destinys child" or SLOW JAMS which include any DIva who isnt white, like Mariyah, Tony Braxton, Aretha Franklin and oh yes, Vanessa Williams. Actually i lie, there is one white diva which taxi drivers do listen to, Celine Dion, that Titanic song was played one too many times, i wished that Kate Winslet died with Leo.
But have you ever gotten into a taxi to hear Barbara Streisand or Allanis Morrisette play.
Unlikely, impossible, aint happening.

But i like taxi numbers, the music is always too loud and the 'gaartjie' goois chorus to the slow jams and i only laugh.

Excuse me, did i say gaartjie i meant 'sliding door operator'

So im standing at the bus stop, and shake my head to the sardine packed bus. A taxi passes by, hooting like a lunatic, and i hear Beyonce only 'klopping' and the gaartjie smiles at me with his one gold tooth and ferari cap.
"Cape Town, kanala" i say and he organises me a seat, the single one on the left handside. If u drive in a taxi you know what im talking about, and off i go.

I close my eyes cause i can imagine how many points hes losing breaking every rule in that yellow "learners book" i studied so religiously.

The driver stops in the middle of Klipfontein to pick up an old lady that just shopped at Elite, with three big packets of groceries, i can see the fish oil in one. Im thinking, its 7.45am who shops at that hour, but she answers my question when the gaarjie inquisitively asks it. She replies, "its a specia, R3.99 for the fish oil,l seunjie' and gets off near Bridgetown. He politely helps her with the bags and adds a 'totsiens ma'.

At Athlone terminus four people get out but six more get in which means those magic seats which comprise of a piece of wood covered in material gets slotted in the empty space next to me.
Now im all squashed and no better off than in the bus, but at least here i can listen to music.

The traffi is thick but the driver is persistant and takes every conceivable free road driving through pinelands escaping the highways traffic. Cars hoot as the taxi squeezes into the tiniest of places without even putting an indicator on. I failed my licence because of that move but thats another story.

8.15 and I am in one pice in Town on time. Mt stomache grumbles, so i decide to quickly go to the Golden acre and grab a lekker doughnut frosted with chooclate icing. As i bite into the delight that weigh less and even more so my dentist would not approve of, i see that same bus full of even more people pull up into the terminus.

I slowly walk towards the Shell house building, licking my lips which are covered with icing, singing the sweet tunes of Beyonce. A different day but never the same shit in a taxi!!

My Mauritian Tale

PART ONE

im sitting at the airport watching the planes enter and leave the strip. ive been wanting to do this since the first time i saw hafa off. But i always leave the airport clutching a sweet from Sweets from Heavan. This time round i got an oprah mag and a pkt of stimorol. I greeted my parents like 20 minutes ago, now im alone and its ilent and empty. But silence and empytiness never made me lonely, i love silence and i like being alone where u can can console with ur soul.

My gate opens and i get an uneasy feeling in the pitt of my stomache.

Five months ago, im in the bathroom crying. i need to stop, i need to go back to work, i got management accounts to complete, but i cant stop thinking of him and i cant understand. last week he came to visit me at home, all of a sudden hes just gone out of my life.

The bathroom in the plane is small and akward.

The music on the plane is cool but the headsets are crap. I smile at the baby infront of me, playing "peek a boo i see you"

Ive read the oprah magazine twice, i look at the clouds outside and smile to myself.

Makes me think of the time we were at chapmans peak when he kised me so softly on the lips and held me so tight like it would last forever. Its the song tahts reminding me of that time, that song and looking at the blue sky and marshmalowy clouds.

The mild vibration of the plane wakes me and i look at the watch on my arm. Its nearly landing time two hours had passed so very quickly, im excited now.

Customs is a nightmare, with my surname and oh o muslim name, im attacked like im Osama Bin Ladins daughter, my preseants are opened and luckily they dont confiscate the nandos chicken ive secretly brought along. Probably cause i smile sweetly at the customs man, youngish, cutish, im soooo on holiday!!

After ten minutes of interogation on whether i have a kilo of coke or dagga in my toiletry bag they let me go. Im off now, and as i walk into the airport i see a colgate smile in the distance, its my freind Farha.

My Uncle Adil said Mauritian boys take two weeks to wink at a girl s imagine my surprise wen Farhas brother gives me two cheek kisses on my cheeks, i need to get used to that.

It feels like 12 months have not passed. It feels like yesterday we were at Penmaric drinking Vanilla Mauritian tea and those left over labarang (Eid) buscuits.