Back yard on fire

A dream woke me. As soon as I became conscious, I knew it was significant and must capture its details before they faded.

The dream had started off urgently – I was trying to ring Dirinda. But Kheila would not let me use her phone. She was furious because (get this!) she was jealous of my relationship with Dirinda.

This is most unlike the real Kheila. Kheila is a revolutionary and her activism is what powers her. As for Dirinda, she is naturally self-contained and only cares for her family. If anyone is jealous in our little triangle of women, it is boring bourgeois me.

Anyway in the dream, I was in the area behind Kheila’s apartment. In real life this is a barren place with rusty broken things. Only now – in dreamland – it was a well-tended yard. Sturdy walls enclosed the green space. It felt like my grandmother’s place, somewhere I felt secure.

No safety now. The overhanging dry branches were crackling with bright orange flames.

But Kheila had not noticed. She was too wrapped up in feeling hurt by my need to ring Dirinda.

This was no time for jealousy, I thought. I screamed to Kheila: “Your garden is on fire.” Then I woke up.

The dream was dramatic – the urgency to ring Dirinda, the fire only I had noticed. But what also struck me was the veracity of the feelings. Kheila’s passionate possessiveness, the way it could obscure a life-or-death situation. The dream seemed to carry a coded message. But what?

I lay in bed, going over the details, trying to commit them to memory.

I had read somewhere that every protaganist in a dream is a part of yourself. So was Kheila’s jealousy actually my own?

I could not see how any of this fitted with my real life-and-death dilemma of whether to sacrifice my (relative) safety to take in Dirinda’s son.

Someone’s jealousy was obscuring a danger.

Rye bread and tea

Dirinda and I usually hugged on parting but something stopped me. Several thoughts  flew into my mind, simultaneously. I did not want to give Dirinda false hope – I had not decided to take her son, and a hug might have given that impression. I did not want to be a hypocrite either, pretending to care for her when actually I was about to let her down. In addition I did not want to stimulate my emotions for I certainly did not trust them to decide actions that could so radically alter the course of my life.

Dirinda and I stood at the street corner on the main avenue, where the trams rattle noisily in the day but were now stationary, silent.

“Well, call me tomorrow,” said Dirinda.

She turned right down the avenue towards her home in the city’s eastern suburbs. She was not showing the love either. Perhaps she felt physical closeness might confuse me and she wanted me to make a clear decision. One that I could stick to.

My home was near, a few turnings away, in a comfortable old house once belonging to one family but now apartments for many more. I unlocked the heavy door to the building and closed it quietly behind me. In the ground floor gloom, I walked the few paces to my flat. Once inside I felt guilty knowing I was safe while Dirinda was still making her way home at night.

She would have found her bike by now and be pedalling furiously, with her scarf flattened under her cap, looking more like a boy than a woman, and so (we hoped) unlikely to be stopped.

I went into my kitchen and lit a ring to boil a kettle. Oil was so expensive now but nothing soothed like a glass of hot tea. I made a pot and covered it with a knitted cover to keep it warm for longer. I cut a slice of dark rye bread and, standing at the kitchen counter, I tried to eat it as slowly as I could. Perhaps if I slowed my life down to a basic act like chewing, clarity would come. You can’t argue with a bodily function.

I noticed how tight my stomach was clenched and I breathed out, to help it relax. I tried another mouthful, but my thoughts were not slowing. I was worried about the soldier having a record of us being together. He had inserted our ID cards, one after another. Our names would be logged at a similar hour. Unless Dirinda went on a separate database because of her religion?

If I did take Natal to live with me, and anything happened, then my contact with his mother – if it came to light – might incriminate me. I would be a suspect, observed, under scrutiny. It would make having Natal here impossible; it would endanger us all.

At this stage losing liberty was my fear. I cleaved to the security of my flat, with its kettle on the hob and cupboards with grains and spices. Its wooden floorboards, with beat-up lino in the kitchen. Shelves weighed down with stacks of books. Carpet, worn in places, leading to my bed, and its duck-feather duvet.

I longed to speak to someone, to lift off the top of my head and let out its compressed thoughts. I was still standing at the kitchen counter, taking sips of warm tea. All this was at risk. Was there anyone I could unburden myself to?

Kheila was my first choice because she knew what was going on. I would not have to waste time filling in the background details. But I had a feeling I knew what Kheila would say.

“It’s too late. You are already in too far. You might as well go the whole hog and do something to be proud of,” said the Kheila voice in my mind.

“You don’t have to play the revolutionary martyr,” said another voice. “Be sensible, think of yourself. Charity begins at home.” That last sentence gave me a strong clue I was listening to my Grandmother.

My grandmother and Kheila stood at opposite ends of the spectrum. One was the voice of passion. The other the voice of reason. How could I reconcile these two disparate views into one whole that I could unite behind? My mind was in pieces, going in different directions.

The soldier had unnerved me too. I had never been up close to a rifle before, let alone the naked steel of a bayonet. I reminded myself that nothing bad had happened, yet. But inside my core was trembling.

A sip of schnapps might settle this tremor and I poured myself two fingers worth, feeling its fire go straight into my belly. I wanted to help Dirinda. But this was set against my fear of doing something reckless I may live to regret. I wanted to be brave enough to do it. I wanted to be sensible enough not to.

“Between a rock and a hard place,” went another voice in my head, noting my dilemma from afar, a commentary that did not do justice to the turbulence I felt inside.

As the schnapps took effect, my analytical self came to the fore. I had to admit that I was excited by the prospect of helping Dirinda, of taking a central role. If I bowed out, saying, sorry I can’t help, I would lose that feeling. I would feel empty again.

Ever since I had met Dirinda I somehow felt more essential to life. I had a purpose.  I felt sad at the thought of losing that. Losing what, I asked sternly? Was it an illusion, and I merely getting caught up in the drama of someone else’s life.

I went into my bedroom. It was too cold to get undressed so I lay down under the duvet with my clothes on. I left the bedside lamp on, and soon, without realising it, I had drifted off.

The intractable sound of steel

I have been haunted, these past few days, by the memory of a sound.

The metallic clash of soldiers’ bayonets. A trap door snapping shut that no amount of charm or wit can open. Helpless in front of a power greater than yourself.

The military of my country is well trained. Not only in war and bullying, but also in how to recognise an enemy. No expense has been spared. They are subsumed in hogwash and truly think that people of Dirinda and Natal’s tribe are dirty, defective and out to murder our countryfolk in their beds.

I can’t blame the poor soldiers, really. When I say poor, I mean they own nothing. Of course the soldiers believe everything they are told. Dependency renders them childlike.

What does it take for a rookie to ignore what his seniors tell him? It would take a mind of steel. Or maybe it’s another element – that of water.

A fluid mind may ask: Why are they telling me this? Do they have a motive? Can I judge for myself?

But where does the fluid mind come from? I often ask myself this. Kheila, for instance, has never slavishly followed her elders. If anything she has taken the opposite course. Was she born like that? Or was there something in her family upbringing that made her feel secure enough to trust her own thoughts?

Sometimes, out of three children with the same upbringing, you get one maverick. While two are docile, the third asks questions.

I have spent my whole life toeing the line and admiring the mavericks: Kheila, and now Dirinda.

I thought I would never have the courage to join them. Until the night of steel.

Dirinda and I were hurrying across the square. The moon was full and Dirinda’s moon shadow tagged her, bumping over the cobblestones.

The bayonets came from nowhere, barring our paths. The clash of metal made my breath draw in so sharply, I couldn’t breathe out. I sensed Dirinda stiffen, beside me.

“Permits,” ordered a disembodied voice.

The lights from the square shone yellow on his outstretched hand. We fumbled in bags and pockets.

“Are you being slow on purpose?” said the second soldier, with a hungry voice.

The one in charge held his bayonet at ease.

“Your scarf,” he said to Dirinda.

She pulled it back from her head, revealing her black hair. There was enough light to see its shine.

He inserted Dirinda’s card in the scanner attached to his belt. A weird electronic glow lit up his face as he studied it.

“A religious one, are you?” he asked. “Your elders don’t like their women out so late. Can’t see the problem myself. No one would want to touch their dirty holes anyway.”

He gave both cards back.

“You won’t be so lucky next time, witch woman. Even if you are in the company of a legitimate.”

As we turned the corner away from the square, I could hardly walk, my legs were trembling so. Born in this country, I was safe, a legitimate. But Dirinda?

“Now do you see?” said Dirinda. “It’s getting worse. I knew it. Now do you understand why I have asked you to take Natal?”

The challenge of sharing

Dirinda was Natal’s mother only I didn’t know him then. I was vaguely aware Dirinda had two teenage sons but I wasn’t curious. They were shadowy figures in my mind – my relationship was with her.

Women can be possessive of their female friends. We are like lovers, bristling with jealousy if forced to share our loved one with someone else. So I wasn’t interested to hear about her children (my rivals to her attention).
“Sharing is the hardest thing,” said Dirinda. She had, as always, the knack of expressing the very thing I was thinking – but did not dream of voicing. Dirinda’s talk of sharing was not personal was not personal however; she was talking about a nursery kid in the school where she worked.

Or did it apply to us too? The three of us sitting in the Night Owl cafe.

Kheila as usual took a theoretical approach.

“The current system rewards greed with big salaries,” said Kheila. “We need a law that makes sharing compulsory.”

“Not exactly a vote catcher,” I said. Kheila was my best friend but I didn’t share her political convictions.

Kheila and I had known each since we were little girls, living in the same concrete high rise block. We never ran out of games because we were endlessly inventive.

We lost touch in our twenties when Kheila went travelling. Our separation was like a river, which splits in two. Our lives went on energetically but separately. We built different worlds for ourselves. But as soon as we met up again, the two streams reunited.

It was Kheila who introduced me to Dirinda. They were colleagues, as well as comrades. Then Dirinda and I hit it off so well, I worried about leaving out Kheila, my oldest best friend.

My country was marching towards dictatorship and here I was obsessing about my female friendships. I was 46 going on 14. Would I ever grow up?

Death makes life neater

Death makes life look as if it happens in a straight line. Beginning, middle and end. Death tidies up the loose ends. A broom to sweep the old bits into a neat pile.

It was because of Dirinda that I took Natal in. She asked me to look after her son and I could not refuse her. Well, I did at first. I knew what hiding an infidel would mean. You live looking over your shoulder, careful who you trust.

See how I am darting around with the telling. Like I said, life is not linear. Our memories pop into our heads at random. Children of my unconscious, they have no thought for order.

I must say I thought the concept of an “infidel” laughable – a cartoon attempt to find a scapegoat. Surely no one would take those newspaper headlines seriously?

But some did. Maybe they needed someone to blame for their own violence.

That’s why Dirinda asked me to take Natal, because it all got ugly and he was in danger.

Dirinda’s scarf

I love a rebel – I find them glamorous and long to have their daring. Dirinda was wild at heart but circumspect in her behaviour.

So she kept silent on the new laws and registered as religious in order to wear her scarf.

I couldn’t help teasing her.

“Are you giving up chillum too? That’s also forbidden by your elders.”

“You think I am wearing this to please those old men?”

I was relieved to hear her spirited reply. A cowed Dirinda would be like grass flattened to mud.

“My scarf is a symbol that freedom will come again. Bad laws don’t last. You just have to live long enough to see the back of them.”

“That’s the trick then,” I said. “Staying alive.”

Chapter two. Only a note

In my twenties I chose to be an academic. I knew I had no head for business, finding it more natural to bargain up than down (“Oh that’s too cheap, surely I need to pay you more?”). As a child, I loved libraries, the ordered way the books sat on the polished wooden shelves. The atmosphere was deceptively demure. Just about any book I opened transported me to another world, often wild and unknown.

So I had opted for the sanctuary of studying. There was so much going on in my imagination, and no limits on the ideas that could feed it, that I congratulated myself on making the right decision.

But I was intrigued by people who threw themselves wholeheartedly into the real world. Take Kheila, for instance, my dear childhood friend. When the exit laws relaxed (a temporary measure as it turned out), she took herself off travelling. She was not satisfied with reading a book about the desert, she had to see the never-ending baking sand for herself.

When the exit laws got tough again, Kheila returned. Perhaps she was worried about exile and never seeing her family again. Anyway, before long, she was caught up in all sorts of shenanigans. I had lived in our city of birth all my life but it took Kheila coming back to realise what it contained.

Kheila teased me for my intellectual existence while I marvelled at her recklessness.

I once asked Kheila: “How did you get involved in the Resistance?”

It turned out she had started as a nurse, before she went travelling. When she got back, in her early thirties, she quickly found her old contacts, and found the atmosphere more charged, more serious. It was no longer a talking shop but a place of action.

Kheila took her long draw on her chillum and blew out the perfumed smoke. It was thanks to people like Kheila that women could do that in public now.

“Like everything momentous, it started small,” she continued. “Someone asked me to deliver a note. Secretly of course. I did it for the excitement.”

I thought Kheila brave.

“I didn’t realise what I was doing,” she said. “So it’s not bravery, really.”

Kheila’s words never left me. They made sense: that an act of insignificance can jump-start your new life.

Because if we really knew what lay ahead, surely we would stay at the crossroads forever, clinging on to that wooden post for dear life?

I meet Natal

At the appointed time, my doorbell buzzed, twice. I opened my flat door, checking no one was about, and ran to open the communal door, quietly. Dirinda’s son was waiting on the doorstep. From behind the big door, I gestured him to step inside. Not the usual way to greet your friend’s son, and on first meeting too. But these were strange times.

My flat is on the first floor and I fairly flew back up the stairs, with Natal close behind, shutting my flat door gratefully behind us both.

I gave him a reassuring smile. Then my stomach told me something that might matter to my heart. Natal was beautiful. What would he see when he looked at me? A woman, flushfaced, his mother’s age.

He might judge me for my extra years. I might judge him for his youth. Either way it’s wrong. As for his beauty, (black eyes, red lips and slender nose), it’s a lottery. “You can’t judge a book by its cover,” my grandmother said. Of all the things to pop up into my head – her words must be embossed on my bones.

When my friend Dirinda asked me to hide her son, I could not refuse. Natal depended on me. No wonder my grandmother was appearing centre stage in my mind, to remind me not to fall prey to my seduced eye.

Worried he might think me unfriendly, I turned warm.

“Ah Natal, it’s good to meet you at last,” I said.

Natal followed me down the corridor. Trying to get my bearings, to keep me pinned to ordinary reality, I noted everything. I am not sure how reassuring this was. My bicycle glinted, as if to say: “Things will never be the same again. We may look like your everyday objects but tonight it’s all going to change.”

I hurried to the stove when we reached the kitchen, the cook’s role being a good diversion. Doing something practical, central to life. My wooden spoon stirred the kamut grains bubbling in hot water, and I lifted the lid to the steamed carrots and wild garlic.

“No one saw me when I came in,” said Natal.

We all reach crossroads in our lives. Even if the signposts are well displayed, the names of the destinations legible, nevertheless they can only give an indication of what to expect. We are like tourists, dependent on guide books, which give a sketch – a place’s potted history, where to stay depending on your budget. But it is not until we reach the our chosen destination that we really get a sense of where we are have landed.

But we are not tourists. We cannot simply return to our familiar homes after the excitement of travelling. Once we are on a particular path, we have to stick to it, or take another one. We can spend the rest of our lives looking back to that crossroad, saying: “What would have happened if I had taken the other path?” But really, we will never know.

Natal was 19, the same age I was when I chose not to carry on with my pregnancy.

Future Story

The future is happening now. It is in the making.