THE EVIL THAT MEN DO

What is it that compels some women to stay in an abusive relationship with a spouse for any number of years? Why do some women believe that they can change their husbands for the better after everyone, including their own children, begs them to end the union?


Let me tell you the story about Aneesa and her husband Salim (not their real names) and their three children, Fahima, Muhsin, and Malik, and the terrible events that took place during that fateful year.

I remember clearly the evening of 15 February, when I had been urgently summoned to their home, which was not far from mine.

Fozia, my wife, had not been very happy with me leaving the house at nearly twelve o'clock at night, especially since I had just started to recover from a stubborn cold that had refused to budge, no matter what I had doused myself with.

"Why can't she wait till morning?" Fozia had argued, grudgingly passing me my pants. "You're not well! She's forever doing this! I don't understand! Why doesn't she just leave that idiot!"

"But you don't know if it's about him, Sweetheart?" I had parried, not in the mood for arguments at this time of night. We were of course referring to Salim, her husband and the endless fights the two of them were having. "Besides, I won't be able to sleep now in any case."

"Gmf!" Fozia had remonstrated while I had just stared at her. "You are nothing of her. You teach her children, and that is that!

Fozia was probably right, I had thought while dressing myself. Aneesa didn't care what time of night she woke me up, and most of the time it was because Salim had hit her or the children or he came home drunk and overturned the stove with food and all onto the kitchen floor. How many times she had come to the Madressa (Islamic Religious and Cultural Institution), where I taught, to complain about his drinking habits and abuse I couldn't count. And how many times I had gone to their house to talk to him (when he was sober, of course) and even threaten him with 'Judicial Action'? (That is, to subpoena him before the Muslim Judicial Council, which is an Islamic Judiciary Body catering to the social and cultural needs of the Muslim community of Cape Town). He would promise me never to abuse her or the children again, and he would cry bitterly to emphasize his sincerity. But, as with most abusers it wouldn't be long before Aneesa was on the phone, crying that he wouldn't let her into the house.

"You are nothing to her!" Fozia's angry voice had broken through my thoughts. "Just because she always helps with fund-raising for the Madressa doesn't give her the right to invade our privacy! She's a damn nuisance!"

I didn't know what to say. Fozia wasn't one to hide her true feelings. If something troubled her, or got too close to her, she didn't think twice of lashing out. But I, on the other hand, felt I had a social responsibility towards not only Aneesa but to all the members of the Madressa. However, as Fozia had so grudgingly pointed out, Aneesa was the one person I could always rely on when it came to raising funds for the Madressa. No matter what the circumstances, she never said no to the Instituition.

"Don't wait up for me," I had said, leaving the house, knowing full well that Fozia wouldn't close an eyelid while I was gone. She was like that.

I reached Aneesa's place at about 12.30 that night and was surprised to find all the lights on and an emergency vehicle in front of the door. Aneesa and the two boys, Muhsin and Malik, were all standing in the doorway, their faces bearing the strain of great anxiety. I was just in time to see the paramedics load Fahima, their fifteen year old sister seemingly unconscious on a stretcher into the ambulance. Khadija, Aneesa's younger sister, accompanied her.

"Thank you, Muallim! Aneesa had gushed out as I approached them. "Thank you! Thank you for coming so soon!" (Muallim meant "Teacher"). And she had gripped my hand firmly, while her sister had peered silently through the back window of the ambulance as it moved off, emergency light flashing.

"What happened here?" I inquired, not knowing what to expect. "What's wrong with Fahima?"

Aneesa burst out crying. "She took an overdose of tablets!"

"What?" I couldn't help sounding incredulous. "What? When..? I mean..Why? I could only gape at her. "Is she okay?" It sounded silly after seeing her being taken away by the ambulance, but I just had to say something.

"Yes! We were just in time. Thank God! Malik found her on the bathroom floor!

"Oh, my God!"

Aneesa led me into the house, and offered me a seat in the lounge. A lot of questions went through my mind. "Where is Salim? Why isn't he here?"

She went to sit opposite me, wiping her eyes continuously. "I need to talk to you, Muallim! Please! You must help me. I don't know what to do!" She began to sob loudly.

"But why isn't Salim here?" I persisted, getting some of my composure back. "Where Is He?" I was somewhat perplexed at seeing Aneesa's sister accompanying Fahima to the hospital, and, more than a little peeved at Salim for leaving them alone at such a crucial time. How dare he!

The two boys had also come into the lounge now and she hugged them both. "Muhsin..? Malik..? You must go to bed...Please..!" She kissed them on their foreheads. "Mummy wants to talk to Muallim. Okay?"

Muhsin was 11 and Malik was 9. They were all beautiful children and very well behaved. They greeted us and left.

Aneesa waited until they were out of earshot and said tersely. "Salim is in jail, Muallim!"

"What!"

"The Police came to pick him up earlier on. The rubbish!"

I could only stare at her confused.

"He molested the child!" And she burst out crying again. "She's pregnant, Muallim. Fahima is pregnant!

I felt as if someone had thrown a bucket of ice water into my face. "Pregnant..? Surely you don't mean..?"

"Yes. The Bastard! She's pregnant with his child! Her own father!"

I blew out my breath; Aneesa stood up. "I need to show you something.." she said and left the lounge. I just knew that this was going to be a very long night for me.

She came back after a few minutes and held out an envelop to me. It was a letter from Fahima.

I opened it and saw there were something like twenty pages inside. My mind was suddenly blank. I read out half aloud:

"Dear Mummy. By the time you get this letter I shall cease to exist. But I want you to know that I love you very much. I love you and I love Muhsin and Malik. But please do not cry for me, because where I'm going to it is safe.

Daddy has done something very bad to me and now I am carrying his child. I've tried to tell you about it many times, but you are always working and when you come home at night you are always so tired and there is hardly time for anything else. You are just working and working.

On weekends, you and Daddy fight so much that we, your children, cannot sleep at all.
You tell us to clean the house and you punish us if we don't do it the way you want it to be done. You always brag about me to the family. You tell them that I am a straight-A student. You tell them that I have been offered scholarships from the most accredited collages. But what's the use of that? Even if I was the most brilliant person in the world- how do I face the world with a child from my father?"


There was lots more, mostly about how unhappy she was with her home situation, and how her father had systematically started to seduce her. She was very explicit and she did not hide any details. Aneesa just kept on crying and crying.

I must confess, that I just didn't see a quick-fix as to what has transpired in this family. How was that child, Fahima, going to go forward from here? I could, of course, tell Aneesa that she should've got rid of Salim a long time ago- everybody had warned her! She should never have trusted him alone with the children. Never! But what's the use of that? The harm has already been done!

If you are in an abusive relationship or if your partner shows signs of a deviant nature: Get help, or get out! Go to a clinic or any institution where the appropriate treatment or advice is offered. Don't wait till it is too late. Don't subject your children to anything unbecoming to them. Don't think for one second that nothing bad can happen to them, because you have given them a good upbringing. Life has a nasty way of surprising us all at times.

KAMILLA'S JOURNEY INTO HELL

This is the story of Kamilla Sambora, a very pretty young Ugandan woman, who was lured to South Africa by promises of a modeling career and untold fame and fortune. She was one of the many black African women who annually find themselves lured from different parts of the world for the express purposes of sex slavery and, to a lesser degree, domestic work.

Some of these girls (those destined for South Africa) are sold into various fraternities and have to obey their masters diligently. Those who do not toe the line consequently find themselves on the street, where life can be ten times worse than expected, especially in places like the rural areas of Johannesburg and the Cape Flats, in the Western Cape.

Kamilla was lucky. After initially being inducted into a sex ring in Johannesburg, she managed to escape her captors and landed up in Cape Town, where a Somali friend of mine brought her to our Madressa (Muslim Religious and Cultural institution) on the outskirts of Cape Town, commonly known as the Cape Flats.

She had told me what had happened to her, and that she was only interested in getting back to her parents and brothers in Uganda, but that she had no money and no passport(The modeling "Agency" in Kampala, Uganda, had said they would see to everything!)

She couldn't speak English very fluently, and on occasions she mispronounced certain words, but what she had told me was shocking. My jaw had dropped when she had told me about Samantha, a sixteen year old girl, who had been raped by a Government official, then found dead in her room not long after that incident. The police had concluded that it was suicide, and, seeing that there was no next of kin to notify, they had left it at that. No one else had dared to say anything — the guest house (where she had stayed), and its staff were forbidden to speak to anyone. She was further victimized when she was labeled a whore. What else could you expect from someone coming from a foreign country, being bold enough to ply her trade in South Africa?

This attitude was something not uncommon in a land where the borders had been open to anyone (from the African States) since APARTHEID had been abolished. Day by day, whenever you watched the news on television, hordes of Zimbabweans and Angolans and anyone else could be seen making their way across the border, either by climbing over dilapidated fences or crawling under them.

But, I must confess, I was shocked to discover that there were people out there active in the sick practice of human trafficking and wholesale rape of unsuspecting young girls.

Kamilla cried bitterly when she told me about Samantha. I remember clearly the look on her face as she had pleaded with me. "Please, Sir..! You must help me. I do not want to die like Samantha did! I don't care what the police and everybody else says. She was murdered! I know she was murdered by that man! I AM A MUSLIM, SIR! I AM A MUSLIM!"

I had made up my mind, there and then, that something had to be done to help this girl, no matter what the cost! But let me continue Kamilla's story in her own words, and pray that this will serve as a warning to all those lured from foreign countries under the false pretext of coming for a modelling career or any career under the auspices of bogus organizations. MAKE SURE OF THE COMPANY'S CREDENTIALS AND REPUTATION FIRST!

Kamilla pulled the scarf around her neck tighter. It was not yet 7.00 pm, but already the evening breeze was biting into her flesh. It was strange, she frowned, as she watched a ramshackle horse-drawn cart making its way down Main Street, strange that Uganda was experiencing this kind of weather, she mused, especially at this time of year, when it was supposed to be the start of Summer. But never mind, she grimaced and shifted her weight onto the other foot where she was leaning against a pole, it wouldn't be long now, then she would be on her way to South Africa for a modeling career and a new life that was waiting for her. She couldn't wait to see what was on the other side.

Kamilla was tall and graceful, and, good looking with high cheek bones and the stance of a model. In fact, she had gotten the job from some agency that had advertised for models to work in Johannesburg and Cape Town. The man, a Nigerian, had said that she fitted the profile perfectly.

She frowned as she looked at her watch — it was getting late and she had been standing here for the past half an hour now. She was feeling worried because it was rapidly growing dark and Uganda wasn't safe after dark. Why couldn't they pick her up at their offices in Kampala, instead?

She wiped the perspiration from her brow and stared down the road. She had heard of the government soldiers patrolling the streets for rebels and any young woman, on her own, was fair game.

A car suddenly stopped by the curbside, and she cringed. Nervously she watched the driver get out and approach her. He was big and heavily built with a clean-shaven head and the car, a black BMW with dark, tinted windows seemed new. There were other occupants in it as well.

"Are you Kamilla?" The man wanted to know, his beady eyes scrutinizing her from top to bottom. He had a huge gold watch on his wrist and he reeked of an expensive male fragrance. "I am Josef and I have been sent by the modeling agency to accompany you to South Africa."

Kamilla gave a sigh of relief and nodded as Josef opened the rear passenger door for her.

"I'm sorry that I'm late," he said, after getting into the driver seat once again. "But I was held up at another appointment." He spoke with the accent of that peculiar to the Nigerians and he seemed anxious to be off again. Their was another man sitting next to him.

Kamilla had to squeeze in next to three other girls who all peered at her in the semi darkness of the car. They were all from the Jinja district on the north eastern side of Uganda, they told her, and they were all unmarried.

She shivered involuntarily as a sudden feeling of uneasiness swept over her. She sat still while the BMW weaved its way through a string of vehicles until it reached the freeway that led out of the city. At least she wasn't the only girl going to South Africa, she reassured herself. One of the girls, as a matter of fact, she had met at the agency's head office in Kampala; the other two she hadn't seen before, but they looked like, and acted like models themselves and, they were chatting and laughing non stop.

The man next to Josef turned round in his seat and stared at Kamilla. She frowned- he was a white man!

"Hello girls," he said, smiling, but keeping his gaze on Kamilla. "It won't be long now then you will be on a plane to South Africa. Isn't it exciting?" He was small and round and spoke with a South African accent. His name was Marius.

They all stared at him breathlessly. "Are we going by plane?" They exclaimed in unison. "Ugandan Airways?"

"No." Marius laughed. "We have our own charter plane. It's much quicker and much more exciting!" He took out a packet of chewing gum and stuffed a strip into his fat cheeks. He stared intently at Kamilla. "You'll be booked into a posh hotel in Johannesburg. What do you think of that?

"Kamilla didn't comment, she was thinking instead, of her mother and father and the scene she had had with them when she had told them about the modeling job in South Africa. Her father, a devout Muslim, had wanted to hear nothing about her plans. He had shouted at her that modeling was not for a decent Muslim girl, and, that if she persisted with her intentions, she would not be regarded as part of the Sambora family any longer. She had told them, in the end, that she had managed to secure a job in the Agency's Kampala office and as PA to the head director she would be required to travel to South Africa frequently to accompany the models. Also, there would be two mature ladies in attendance, acting as chaperones to those girls who may find it difficult to adapt in a foreign country.

She sighed unobtrusively, cringing at the lies she had told them that no one else, except the applicants, were allowed on the agency's premises at the time of departure when her two brothers had insisted on accompanying her to Kampala. She had managed to convince them that there were lots of other girls as well and that the manager had told them that the office couldn't accommodate so many people, especially relatives.

Now, as she sat, staring out of the window of the mini bus that had collected them from the airport, she still couldn't get over the feeling of guilt that stayed with her. If only Papa hadn't been so conservative, she thought. If only...

The other girls were all chatting excitedly about what they were going to do once they had settled in. Shopping, sight-seeing, nightclubbing, and boys, definitely! But for now a hot shower was first priority, they all agreed, because the flight to South Africa hadn't been a very comfortable one. They had had to squeeze in between large crates of merchandise, in a plane that looked more like something that came out of the Angolan civil war, which it probably was, and stank of hydraulic oil. Everywhere they touched were traces of sticky, black grease!

They passed many towns along the way. Places Kamilla tried to read the names on the signboards but in the dark was too difficult to discern. One name she remembered was Bertrams. It was here that the minibus stopped in front of a guest house that said: 'GRAND VIEW LODGE' and the driver told them to get out.

There was no wind, but it was cold as they followed Josef and Marius inside. The time was 2.15.

The 'Lodge' had an African theme, Kamilla saw, when they entered the building. There was matting and traditional African memorabilia that covered the walls while huge pictures of Zulu headmen adorned the reception area. Even the security personal were dressed in the familiar garb of the South African Border Patrol. Marius and Josef disappeared into an office.

Kamilla counted 50 bedrooms inside the complex. There were separate bathrooms and toilets scattered along the way but most of the rooms seemed to be en-suite. She wondered what room she was going to get, because she needed that hot bath and a good night's sleep after all the excitement and turmoil. She yawned unceremoniously.

Marius came back after a while, a slow smile on his podgy face. "Come!" he ordered, pointing down a long, dimly lit passage. "Let's get you settled in."

They all followed him down the passageway, tired, but excited, coming to stop at Room 49 where Marius opened the door.

"After you, Ladies." He gestured in a mock bow, not entering the room himself. "This will be your abode for tonight. Tomorrow we'll sort you out. Don't worry." And he locked the door after all four of them were inside, not giving them any chance to comment or protest.

"What the hell!" Jacintha swore. "Are we to sleep on this excuse for a bed- all four of us? And why does he lock the door?"

The room was very small, with only one bed, that stood opposite a window covered with African print drapes. Two pedestals, a single wardrobe, a dressing table and a chest of drawers completed the furnishing of the room. The bath room and toilet were in one with a shower that didn't allow any movement other than standing under the taps and wetting your body, as well as wetting the floor, because there were no curtains covering the shower cubicle entrance.

"This can't be right!" said Maria, the oldest of the four. "This must be a joke. They can't do this to us!" She was twenty seven and she had one child, which she had lied about, because one of the Agency's policies were that no girl applying for a modeling career should be burdened with children or family, for that matter. No girl should also be infected with the HIV/AIDS virus and were tested to that effect. Maria's child was staying with her parents in Kabali, but Maria had told them that she didn't know her parents and, had been raised in an orphanage. "I"m going to see the manager. RIGHT NOW! I'm not going to sleep in this room!" She was a fiery woman.

There was a sudden knock on the door and they all froze. It was Marius.

"Two of you must come with me," he said, still chewing his gum. "There's another room available." He looked from one to the other. "You and you." He pointed to Kamilla and Samantha, the youngest of the group. "Get your stuff. We must go!"

Kamilla was only too happy to at least have just one person to share a room with; Samantha smiled eagerly. She was sixteen years old.

They followed Marius outside into a courtyard where there were more apartments surrounding a swimming pool. Marius took them down a stairway where there were two rooms, opposite each other, hidden away from view.

"You can sleep here," he said to Kamilla, unlocking the door for her. "Make yourself at home." There was a sly smile on his fat face. "And you can sleep here," he said to Samantha after he had opened the door of the other room. "Enjoy yourselves, Ladies." And he left. The two girls stared at each other.

"Wow!" exclaimed Samantha when he was gone. "Can you believe it? We've got our very own rooms! Our very own rooms!" She pumped her fists into the air. "Jacintha and Maria are going to be so jealous. I promise you! Look at these rooms...They are so BIG! Oh! I can't wait to tell them!

Kamilla pulled a face at her. "Don't make such a noise, Silly! Do you want them to put us back with the other two again?"

"I'm sorry." Samantha looked contrite. "But wait till I tell the others...Ooh La La..!" Her joy knew no bounds and she waltzed into her room. Kamilla went into hers and unceremoniously dumped her baggage on the carpeted floor. She felt like collapsing on the bed and just sleep to her hearts content. But her body felt sticky and she reluctantly started to undress herself. She would take a quick shower, she promised herself and perhaps have a cup of coffee...Someone had run her shower for her too, she noticed as she stared at the closed shower curtain and she smiled appreciatively. She yawned. Why on earth she had been beating herself up by being so full of misgivings, UNNECESSARILY! she didn't know. But she would put it all behind her and start a new life here in South Africa. And, perhaps, once she earns enough money, she will let Mama and Papa, and, her brothers come and join her. She opened the shower curtain...And she would buy a big house for them all. And..."

She nearly fell backwards from shock. She saw a black man, in his thirties or forties, standing naked under the shower, smiling at her broadly.

She instinctively covered her breasts and her private parts with her hands as the man closed the taps. He didn't bother to cover himself. "Hello," he said, still smiling at her. "What's your name?" And he stepped out of the shower.

Kamilla was speechless with shock. She wanted to scream, but her throat felt so dry that all she could get out was a hoarse croak. "Don't touch me!" She finally uttered. "DON'T TOUCH ME!

The man laughed. "I'm not touching you! He grabbed a towel. "I'm not doing anything to you!"

Kamilla hastily put on her clothes. "What are you doing in my room?"

He was still smiling at her. "This is my room!"

"NO! IT'S MINE! GET OUT!

He laughed. "I can't do that. I'VE paid for this room. Here, let me show you..." He went over to the dressing table picking up a receipt "And besides, where would I go to at this time of the night?" He spoke a very good English.

"Then I will go!" Kamilla spat out the words. "I'll go next door to my friend. You and I can't stay together in this room! I will..."

There came a stifled scream from Samantha's room at that precise moment and Kamilla froze. There was another scream and Kamilla heard Samantha moaning. She made a move towards the door.

"Don't do that!" Richard cautioned, grabbing her arm."

Kamilla glared at him. "TAKE YOUR HANDS OFF ME!"

"As you wish." He let go of her arm. "But I'm surprised they didn't tell you..." He lifted his hands in the air.

"Tell me what?" She kept glaring at him.

"That you have been paid for!"

"Paid for? For what?"

"To be nice to us!"

Kamilla could only gape at him in complete astonishment. "You mean were are to sleep with you?"

"Yes."

"OH MY GOD! You can't be serious!

"I am! This is how it's supposed to be.

"But...But...How can it be? The Agency...They never said anything about this?"

Richard pulled a face. "What agency are you talking about?"

"The modeling Agency in Kampala!"

Richard grimaced. "I don't know anything about any modeling agency. But this is how it has always been- we reserve a room here and it comes together with all its perks. If you know what I mean..." He gave her a slow smile.

Kamilla had to sit down. Her knees suddenly felt very weak and she began to tremble. "But surely, this is illegal! How can they do this?"

Richard came to sit next to her. "You see, it works like this..." he stared at her in earnest. "We are from the South African Government. I'm from the Diplomatic Core and my partner, next door..." He indicated with his head towards where there were only pathetic moans coming from Samantha's room now. "We're both from the same Department and we come here from time to time and there's always a girl waiting for us. We get to choose from photographs what kind of girl we prefer."

Kamilla could now understand why they had been subjected to all kinds of medical tests as well as to their sexual preferences. They had been photographed in various outfits as well as in the nude. She had thought it was all part of becoming a model. She had felt very proud of her body at the time, but now she felt sick to her stomach. Papa had been right after all. She should have listened to him. Oh, why hadn't she listened to him? She burst out crying.

Richard pulled her to him. "Don't worry. I won't do anything you don't want me to do. I'm a happily married man!"

She kept on crying. She was thinking of how she was ever going to get back home to Mama and Papa and to Hakim and Salih, her two brothers- she had no passport and no money (the "Agency" had said that they would see to everything). She was trapped in a strange land where the only way out was to sell her body and her soul

AYESHA AND THE MAN

This is a story about Ayesha (not her real name), a beautiful seven-year-old girl who lives with her mother and stepfather, and her little brother, Ghalib, in a reasonably comfortable home in a place called Greenhaven. Here in the Western Cape, or what is more commonly known as the Cape Flats, the neighbors are a mixed breed of working class people and business folk; everyone is mainly concerned about putting food on the table and making ends meet. But then there are those who maintain a better lifestyle, like Ayesha's stepfather, Malik, who owns a reasonably profitable shoe store in the central part of Athlone, which is known as the hub of the Cape Flats and where the buyers are predominantly black.

Ayesha and her brother Ghalib attended our Madressa (religious and cultural institution) and a more lovable and dedicated pair no teacher could ask for. They were always punctual and never stayed away for anything; even on secular school holidays they would be there. We at the Madressa sometimes had our hands full just trying to get them to take the day off. Little did we know about the dastardly deeds that were taking place in their seemingly comfortable home, which were probably the driving force behind their coming to Madressa so ardently.

But let me not waste time with preliminaries, let me tell the story as it happened to Ayesha. And let me also add that I can only tell it like it is – that this is what happened, to the best of my knowledge.

Ayesha placed her doll next to her on the pillow and said, "You must be a good girlie now. You must go to sleep!" She pulled the blanket over it and added. "Tomorrow we can play again. Okay?" She kissed the plastic face tenderly and lay down herself. "Okay?" She looked at the doll seriously, as if expecting an answer.

She wanted to say something else, but then the door opened slowly and she froze. A dark shadow appeared in the doorway.

Her heart started to pound and she had trouble breathing. She could smell the sweat of the man as he came further into the room and hovered over her.

"Hello, Ayesha," he said, placing his short, pudgy frame down next to her on the bed. "You haven't been a good girl today. Have you?" It was Malik, her stepfather.

She didn't answer. She was too terrified. Malik had a grin on his round face."Why did you lie to Mummy and say I had put my finger in here?" He placed his hand over her vagina. "Why?"

She cringed and stared at him with big round eyes. She wished someone would come and take him away from her. She started to make funny sounds through her nose.

"I had to put ointment on you. Didn't I?" He looked at her, sweat glistening on his balding forehead. "Mummy said so. You know I wouldn't hurt you!"

She wished her own Daddy could have been here now. She wished he hadn't died in that horrible car crash. Why? Oh, why did ALLAH have to take her Daddy? He would not have allowed "The Man" to come into her room and to touch her!

She kept staring at him fearfully, making those whimpering sounds as his hand moved up and down over her vagina. She wanted to scream for help, she wanted to jump out of the bed and run to her mother Amina's room, but she knew her Mummy wouldn't listen, would only say that she had had a bad dream and that in the morning, when the sun came out, her nightmare would be gone and everything would be all right. Her Mother never listened to her or to her younger brother, Ghalib, nowadays. She said that if Malik hadn't taken them in, and fed and clothed them, then what would have become of them? Ayesha's own Daddy had left them with a lot of debt. He had also not paid the rent, and they had had to leave.

When Ghalib did something wrong "The Man" would take him into the bedroom and lock the door. She would hear him scream as "The Man" punished him. She would hammer on the door and shout at "The Man" to stop hitting her brother. She would not cease until "The Man" opened the door and let her brother go. She hated "The Man!"

"You shouldn't tell lies, Ayesha," Malik whispered, trying to allay her fears. "Remember, I've told you that if you are going to be a good girl I'm going to buy you that big doll that can talk, plus that big teddy you've always wanted. Remember?"

She stared at him, the child in her taking over. She stopped whimpering. "And Ghalib? What are you going to buy for Ghalib?

He smiled. "Why...of course! I'm going to buy him that big, radio-controlled car!" He kept on smiling. "You know I always keep my promises..."

She swallowed, thinking about the time she was five years old, when Daddy was still alive, and Malik had come to their house when they were still living in Cape Town. She had seen Malik go into her Mummy's room the morning Daddy had left for work and she had listened by the door. She had heard her Mummy making funny noises and she was afraid "The Man" was hurting her Mummy. She had pushed open the door and had seen "The Man" lying on top of her Mummy. They were both naked. Her Mummy had told her not to tell anyone what she had seen, least of all her Daddy. Malik had bought her a lot of chocolates and many dollies. He had a lot of money.

"And one other thing..." Malik's voice came through to her. "Please call me Daddy. I am your Daddy now. Am I not?" His hand was under the blanket, and the sweat started to roll down his face. He smiled at her, his hand moving between her legs. "I've told you I would never hurt you. Didn't I?" His breath smelt funny.

She smiled back nervously, thinking of the big teddy she wanted so much. She would play the whole day with him, she thought, as Malik slowly pulled the blanket from her, revealing her naked thighs. She would let her other dollies sleep so long while she and her walking, talking doll, and, teddy, played till late. She would wash teddy and she would let him sleep next to her. She would...

Malik was on top of her and she felt a sudden sharp pain between her legs. Her lips parted to scream; Malik put his hand over her mouth. "It's okay," he whispered. "It's only sore for now! Don't worry. Think of your walking, talking doll and your teddy! And, I won't buy it if you scream." He was panting now.

Ayesha felt as if her whole body was on fire. She had trouble breathing because of Malik's weight on her, and the pain between her legs was indescribable. She cried softly. Malik was making grunting sounds. He breathed heavily.

Finally, he rolled off her and pulled up his pants. There was an animal look on his face. "Don't tell anyone. You hear?" He hissed at her. "If you do that, I shall not only cancel our deal of the teddy and the doll, but I shall also punish Ghalib! And you wouldn't like that, would you?

"She was staring up at the ceiling sobbing pathetically as Malik left the room. She wasn't thinking of the teddy or the dolly now. She was again thinking of why ALLAH had taken her Daddy away and why her Mummy had taken this man into their lives. She thought of the many times he had come to her room and touched her private parts when he thought she was sleeping. She thought of the many times she had told her Mummy about it, and how, in the beginning, Mummy had confronted him, and how the two of them had argued and screamed at each other. How "The Man" had sometimes slapped her mother till her nose bled and she and Ghalib had lain on top of her to protect her from "The Man's" brutality.

But that seemed a long time ago now. Malik had a way of twisting things around. He knew how to subdue her mother by threatening to put them all out and confiscate everything he had bought for them. Even when Ghalib used to wet his bed "The Man" would lock him up in the bedroom and he had to stay there, without food, until he learned to behave himself. Her mother would say nothing. She thought of the advert she had seen on the television about the dollies carrying the little boy away from the "Bad Man" and to a place where he was safe. She stopped crying and got off the bed. There was a full moon outside.

She knelt by her bed, her body feeling stiff and very sore. She nearly toppled over. "Please, ALLAH..." she began and put her hands together. "Please help me and Ghalib. Please!" The moon was shining on her face now. Tears rolled down her cheeks. "I promise, ALLAH, I'll be a good girl. I will never be naughty again!" She closed her eyes and thought of what her Daddy had always told her. He had said that no matter what happened to you you must never loose hope in the mercy of ALLAH.

"Please, ALLAH..." She opened her eyes and she saw that the moon was moving away from the window. "Please, let Mummy love me and Ghalib again. Please!" The room was growing dark, but she wasn't afraid as she stared at the curtains. "I know you have a lot of things to do ALLAH. I know there are a lot of children asking you for plenty of stuff. But Daddy has said that YOU always answer prayers, ALLAH. ALWAYS!" She sobbed. "You must please stop "The Man" from hurting me and Ghalib. And, you must also help all the other children in the whole wide, wide world and everywhere that you see" (her Daddy had told her that ALLAH can see everywhere and everything) "who are being hurt by their step-daddies and they have nowhere to go to." She began to yawn and she fell asleep on the floor, her face relaxing into a peaceful smile as she dreamt of her Daddy.

It was a week after that incident that Ayesha and Ghalib heard her mother screaming and swearing vilely in the kitchen. She was sitting on top of Malik when they got there, and she was stabbing him repeatedly with a kitchen knife in the chest. There was blood all over the floor, and Malik was completely motionless. But their mother kept on stabbing and stabbing.

Ayesha had run over to the neighbors, and Aunty Fareeda and Uncle Maimun had come over to see what was going on. The Police had been called because Malik was dead, and their mother was taken to hospital. She had also been stabbed and she kept on screaming and swearing as they took her away.

Apparently, the two of them had, as usual, been arguing over money and Malik had slapped Amina. She, in turn, had grabbed the knife and threatened him with it. Malik had somehow managed to take the knife from her and in the struggle Amina had been stabbed in the arm. Further than that, nobody knew – whether Malik slipped and fell on the floor or whether Amina overpowered him, was anybody's guess. Amina never spoke a coherent word after that, because she suffered a severe nervous breakdown and was admitted to a mental institution. Ayesha and Ghalib went to stay with Aunty Fareeda and Uncle Maimun, who had no children of their own.

In the words of Fareeda, the neighbor, "I've always wondered about the irony of life, that those who have children sometimes don't know how to look after them. But then ALLAH has strange ways of working. And, I can only be thankful that HE has granted me these beautiful children to look after, even if it is just for a while. I shall not stop asking ALLAH to make this a permanent solution."

I AM WHAT I AM

Faizal wiped the tears from his eyes as he entered the street where he lived. He had been wandering for the past three hours through the night and his body was sore all over. His chest felt heavy and there was a burning pain in his side. He could hardly breathe. He suddenly had an uncontrollable urge to cry out for his mother, but he stood still and stared at their house some paces off. He swallowed hard and continued on.

He had been with Adeeb, his friend, earlier on; they had been to the Waterfront and from there they had gone to Sea Point, on the edge of Cape Town, with two men whom they had met at a restaurant.

A sob wracked his thin body, increasing the pain in his side, making him feel feint. "O, ALLAH! O, ALLAH!" He fell to his knees. "O, ALLAH!" He gritted his teeth, and carefully touched the wound. He wondered if the bullet was still in his body, or had it passed right through? He had been lucky, Adeeb had not. Adeeb was dead!

He reached the front door and rummaged in his pockets for his key, but couldn't find it. The light at the back was on.

He staggered towards the room that he and his brother Nadeem shared and knocked on the window. He didn't want his mother or father to know. He hated to think what their reaction would be if they saw all the blood on his shirt. He called out softly to Nadeem, almost willing him to get up. He wasn't sure how long he would be able to stand there, without losing consciousness. Tears streamed down his cheeks.

"My God! Faizal...?" Nadeem said when he saw his brother in the light, as he opened the door. "My God! what happened to you? You must get to a hospital! I'm going to call Mummy!"

"No!" said Faizal, grabbing him by the arm. "Don't call Mummy!"

"But you are bleeding. You must go to a hospital!"

"No. I'll be all right. Just help me get my shirt off." He sat down on the bed.

Nadeem shook his head. "What happened? Who did this to you?" He had to use a scissors to cut the shirt off. "Did you see their faces?"

"No. I didn't," lied Faizal. "They wore balaclavas."

"O, ALLAH! There's so much blood here!"

Faizal moaned as Nadeem touched the wound. "They robbed me and took everything I had on me. They shot me!"

"O, ALLAH!" Nadeem shook his head. "O, ALLAH! It's turning blue! You must go to a hospital! Where did this happen?" He was speaking rapidly, almost incoherently. "Didn't you see their faces? I mean..? He stared quizzically at his brother. "My God!"

"I've told you I don't know who they were. They wore balaclavas." He lied, wondering what Nadeem would say if he knew that the men were white South Africans and that he and Adeeb had had to entertain them by performing oral sex on them as well as touch one another intimately while dancing naked on the bed.

"And the Police...? Did you call the Police?"

"Yes. I did." He lied again.

"And what did they say?"

"Please. Nadeem..." He lay down backwards on the bed "My head is hurting a lot. Get me some tablets please..."

Nadeem was twenty, two years younger than Faizal. He also had his suspicions about Faizal's nocturnal escapades, and on occasion had caught him wearing their sister Hafeeza's bra and panties; Faizal had had to bribe him not to tell Hafeeza.

"When are you going to listen, Faizal?" There was a deep frown on Nadeem's face as he made his way to the kitchen. "Daddy came to look for you earlier on!" He stopped in the doorway.

"Why?"

Nadeem's frown deepened. "Because he's concerned about you!"

"Concerned about me?" snorted Faizal. "Concerned about me?" It was more a statement than a question as he pulled a pillow under his head. "He's more concerned about the Badia name and what people are saying about his eldest son who is gay!"

"Don't say that!"

But Faizal wasn't listening, he was thinking about the numerous times his father had knocked his head against the wall when he was younger. His father had thought he was just trying to imitate women by putting on lipstick and make-up and wearing women's panties. There was also that time when he had just turned seventeen and his friend Adeeb had come to visit. His father had caught the two of them kissing in his room and had barred Adeeb from ever coming to their house again. Faizal had received the beating of his life!

Then there were the times his father had taken him to a therapist to find out if there was anything that could be done to reverse his feminine tendencies – his cross-dressing, wearing of make-up and lipstick, and girlish mannerisms. The old man had spent a lot of money on these sessions. He had also taken him to the local Imam who had simply said that Faizal was being rebellious by wearing women's underwear and make-up, and, that if he should continue to do so his father should punish him by taking away all his privileges and grounding him indefinitely.

"I AM WHAT I AM!" He had screamed at his father, who at one stage had tried to strip off his clothes and parade him naked before the family. "LEAVE ME ALONE!"

He hated his father! But lying on the bed and staring up at the ceiling, he was suddenly overcome by untold remorse and guilt and a feeling of utter sadness as he once again saw Adeeb's face before him, pleading for his life with his killers. Adeeb hadn't wanted to come, but Faizal had forced him.

Adeeb's killers had taken a sadistic pleasure in ending his life. They had simply ignored his heart-wrenching pleas and laughed loudly as one had jammed a huge gun into Adeeb's mouth and pulled the trigger. Blood and brain tissue had splattered in all directions, and most of it had been on Faizal who had sat next to Adeeb on the bed. The two men, both tall and heavily built, with tattoos of girls and snakes on their upper arms and dressed in jeans and sweaters, had continued laughing and had said in Afrikaans that this was their way of teaching gays (they used the derogatory term "Moffies") a lesson that they would never forget.

Faizal sobbed bitterly as he once again heard Adeeb's voice calling out to him, begging him. "Faizal! Faizal! Please don't let them kill me!

He pressed his hands to his ears to shut out the voice, but it was inside his head, calling out repeatedly, "Don't let them kill me! Please, don't let them kill me!"

The blood started to flow freely from his wound now; sobs wracking his body, he suddenly wished he was dead. He lay like that for a while, thoughts criss-crossing his mind, and feeling very sorry for himself, wondering why it hadn't been him lying dead in that room now, why he had escaped certain death by the appearance of David, his other friend, in the doorway. But thinking back to that heart-stopping moment when the same man who had shot Adeeb had turned the gun on him, and the shrill cry from David had spoiled his aim, he felt that something mysterious had happened to him when the bullet had struck him in the side. Something very mysterious indeed!

Nadeem was busy in the kitchen, looking for bandages and trying to make as little noise as possible. He was very concerned about Faizal. He had never seen so much blood in his life. He boiled some water and emptied it into a basin. He was seriously considering waking his parents. Faizal didn't look good to him.

"Nadeem. Help me, please..."

Nadeem jumped; Faizal was standing in the doorway, clutching his side, a strange look on his face.

Nadeem ran over to him. "Faizal! Get back to bed. You shouldn't be standing here. Get back to bed!"

But Faizal shook his head. "No. I must do this, Nadeem. I must do this!"

"Do what?" Nadeem frowned. "You're in no condition to do anything. Get back to bed. Please...!"

Faizal came into the kitchen and wet some bandages in the hot water. The blood had caked to his side. "I must do this for Adeeb, Nadeem." He held the bandage to the wound, pain distorting his features. "I cannot let him die for nothing."

"What?" Nadeem frowned deeply, thinking that his brother was hallucinating. "How could Adeeb be dead? I saw him earlier this evening and there was nothing wrong with him."

"I'm telling you Adeeb is dead, Nadeem. He's dead!"

"Verily from ALLAH we come, and to ALLAH is our return." He uttered the Quranic verse that every Muslim is supposed to say on hearing news about death or any calamity. "How did he die?"

"They shot him! They shoved a gun into his mouth and they blew his brains out!"

"O, ALLAH! O, ALLAH!" was all Nadeem could get out. "O, ALLAH!"

Faizal didn't say anything further; he stared straight ahead of him as the same calm, and the same voice that had descended on him in that room where Adeeb had died, took control of him.

He heard the same words again, the words he had heard when, as a child, he had gone to the mosque with his father one Friday and heard a sermon delivered by the local Imam. "IF ALLAH HELPS YOU, THEN WHO CAN DEFEAT YOU? BUT IF ALLAH LEAVES YOU THEN WHO IS THERE TO HELP YOU?"

He couldn't understand, even now, as he leaned on Nadeem and wiped the dried blood from his side, why he was hearing these words over and over again, hearing them as if directly from the Imam. But one thing he was certain of was that he couldn't let the men who had murdered his friend get away with it. He couldn't let those who took pleasure in abusing those weaker than themselves come away scot-free and continue their evil.

He turned to his brother, a pleading look on his face. "You must take me to the police station, Nadeem. I must report this matter!"

"But I thought you said..."

He told Nadeem everything; he didn't skip any details.

"And you think this has been ordained for you to warn others who may be falling into the same trap as you had?" Nadeem queried when he had finished.

Faizal smiled. "Yes. This is not the first time I have cheated death. But I can certainly say that I shall try never to get myself into such a trauma again." He squinted at his brother. "Maybe that Imam was right. Maybe I was being rebellious by wearing make-up and women's underwear, and..." He snickered. "Female mannerisms. But will you help me, Brother? Will you teach me how to become a better brother to you?" They both burst out crying and hugged each other tight.

WHO IS TO BLAME WHEN A CHILD BECOMES A PROSTITUTE

I was busy washing my car one Sunday morning, when I saw Jameel, my close friend, pulling up in my driveway. I pretended I didn't see him.

"Hey!" he shouted, leaning his head to one side. "Is that car so important?"

I laughed. "Maybe."

Jameel was tall, handsomely built, with long, black hair, a real ladies' man. He was married and had two children.

He came to me and we shook hands. He looked much younger than his 49 years. He hardly had any grey hair.

"Hello, Uncle Myle," Someone shouted from the other side of the road, and I saw it was Fairuz, my neighbor's daughter.

"Hello." I muttered and watched as she came over to me. She was dressed in a short, tight-fitting skirt and her blouse barely concealed her breasts. She was scarcely thirteen!

I agitatedly resumed my chores, wondering how Joe, the owner of the property they lived on, could still tolerate them, seeing that they never paid him a cent.

"Can I get you anything from the shop, Uncle Myle?" She was speaking to me but was glancing at Jameel.

"No, thank you," I said tersely, hoping she would be on her way. If Fatima, my wife, found her here now, she would blow a fuse. Fatima always blew a fuse when she saw this girl near me. I simply wasn't in a mood for a fight today.

"Can I get you anything, Uncle? She turned to Jameel, undeterred. "Cigarettes, maybe?"

"Yes. Get me ten rand airtime. Please." Jameel took out some money and told her to keep the change. She ran off excitedly.

"How much did you give her?" I frowned at Jameel. "You should not give her money!

"Why?" Jameel frowned back at me. "She looks like a nice enough kid."

"Yes." I sighed. "Until they get you into their pockets." I was thinking of the numerous occasions she and her younger brother came to knock on my door, asking for bread, for milk, for anything, even money to make a phone call!

Jameel said something, but I wasn't listening. I kept thinking about them, about the many letters Fairuz brought me from her father, asking to borrow money – R50, R100, sometimes R200, which they never paid back! I later discovered what their devious motives were.

Jameel was laughing at me. "Hey! You're splashing more water on you than the car!"

I was furious with myself for having fallen for their tricks; I had loaned them a lot of money!

I completed the washing of the car and saw Fairuz coming back from the shop. She was smiling secretively at Jameel. I wondered what devilish scheme she was hatching this time. She nearly had me in serious trouble.

"Thank you," said Jameel, when she handed him the airtime voucher. "That was quick."

"Yes I..." She wanted to linger on, but I cut her short. "Thank you, Fairuz," I said dismissively. "That will be all. I'll call you later if we need anything. Thank you." She left, but not before she had again given Jameel her secretive smile. She walked off slowly.

I shook my head. "You wouldn't believe how many people they owe money to around here." I stared at Jameel in earnest. "Nobody wants to give them anything anymore. They are very bad people!"

Jameel frowned at me as I bent down to do the wheels. "But how come I never saw them before? How long have they been staying here now?"

Not long," I said, looking up at him. "They've been living all over the show. I believe they even slept in an old car in someone's backyard."

"Really?" Jameel didn't seem very convinced. "She's such a pretty girl."

"Yes. She is. She's very pretty. But don't let that fool you. You don't know them. Don't go near her. Don't!"

Jameel laughed out loud. "You sound as if you had a run-in with her, or the father."

I wanted to say something, but then I saw Fatima, my wife, in the doorway, and I watched as she brought us a jug of cool drinks.

"I heard your voice," she said to Jameel. "How is Shamila? Why didn't you bring her with?" Shamila was Jameel's wife and she and Fatima got on very well.

Jameel took the cool drinks from her and said something that made her laugh. I was wondering if she had heard or perhaps even seen Fairuz with us. I knew she couldn't say anything, because I hadn't been alone with the girl. But thinking back to that day when she had found the child alone with me in the house still gave me the shudders.

Fairuz had, as usual, come to borrow something and had knocked and knocked, or so she said, and nobody had answered. Fatima had already gone to the shop and I was still sleeping. So the girl tried the door handle, found the door was unlocked, and came in.

I remember how Fatima had screamed when she had found the child sitting by my side, because she had made no effort to get up even when Fatima had come to stand right in front of her. And, to make matters worse, she had been dressed in the same type of clothing, the kind that barely concealed her full body. I had just woken up and was more surprised than anything to find the girl sitting there. I could just gape flabbergasted as Fatima practically threw her out, and for a long time they never came to borrow anything. I had tried explaining to Fatima that I had no knowledge of the child's intentions, but Fatima was adamant that if I wasn't so accommodating in giving them food and money, and anything that they asked for, they wouldn't be so forward, especially the girl!

"Sweetheart...Sweetheart..." Fatima got through my reverie, and handed me a glass of cool drink. There was no accusation or anger on her face. She was just smiling broadly. "Who or what are you thinking so passionately about? Hmmm?"

I kissed her on the lips. "You, of course!"

She laughed. "Thank you, Sweetie. I believe you. With all my heart." And she went back to the house.

I winked at Jameel, and thought how lucky I was to have someone like Fatima by my side. Not only was she an understanding kind of person, but also someone who couldn't bear a grudge against anybody. Whether she had seen Fairuz there with us or not, she would not harp on it. And should they come looking for food or anything else, she would not turn her back on them. But I wondered, as I finished my drink, what she would have said if she had known about that one morning when Fairuz had gone to the shop for me and on returning had been alone with me in the house.

"Give me your glass," said Jameel, holding out his hand, "I have to go now. "Shamila must be wondering what happened to me."

I nodded at him and handed him the glass, thinking for an insane moment what he would have done had he been in my shoes. How would he have handled Fairuz that day, when I had asked her when her Daddy was going to pay me the money he owed me. Jameel was a good person. He and his wife Shamila were honest, hardworking people, very kindhearted and very much in love with one another. But sometimes that was not enough when dealing with the unexpected things in life. Sometimes you need Divine Providence and Guidance when life throws you a curved ball. I remembered how Fairuz had looked at me when I insisted on her asking her father for my money. I had been very agitated because he owed me a lot of money and was making no effort to pay me.

"Tell him..." I had raised my voice. "Tell him..." And she had placed her hand on my arm. "Please, Uncle Myle. Isn't there something I can do for you? My Daddy won't be able to pay you. He is not working!"

I had stared at her quizzically. "What do you mean? What can you do for me?"

"Anything. Anything you want me to do for you."

I don't know up till today what had gone through my mind; I said,"Will you massage my back for me?"

She nodded.

"And my head...Will you massage my head and my whole body?

"Yes." And there had been such a look in her eyes, a look that I had never seen in Fatima's eyes, not for all the years that we had been married. It was a look of such want that it released all the animal instincts in me.

All I had thought of at that moment was, "PLEASE, ALLAH. HELP ME. PLEASE HELP ME!" And if a neighbor hadn't come knocking on the door at that moment looking for Fatima, my settled life as I knew it would have been over. She would not have left me alone.

It was some weeks after that day when I was washing the car and Jameel had met Fairuz, that Fatima came to me one evening while I was watching TV, and pointed to the curtains in the lounge."What?" I had queried?" Not knowing what to expect. "What is it?"

"Outside!" She continued pointing at the curtains. "Look outside!"

I hurried over to the window and was just in time to see Fairuz getting out of a 4X4 wagon. It was well after 11 pm.

"Isn't that Jameel's van?"

I looked closer. I didn't want to open the drapes too wide, but there was no mistaking the bull bars and the modifications he had done to his vehicle. I stepped back, trying not to think the obvious. "Maybe it's someone else." I muttered. "Maybe..." But Fatima shook her head. "Its him, Myle. It's him!"

"But how can you be sure?"

Fatima narrowed her eyes. "This is not the first time I've seen him dropping her off at night!"

"And you're telling me only now?"

Fatima shook her head. "I don't know about you, but he's not welcome in my house anymore. Not at all!"

I didn't bother to comment. I was thinking about Shamila and her children. What was she going to do when she found out? I suddenly hated Fairuz and thought of going there and bringing the whole thing out into the open. But was Fairuz really the one to blame? What about the mother and the father who sent their children to go and beg on the streets? What about the thousands of pretty girls selling themselves for money on the internet? What about those parents who are aware of the dangers of chat rooms and all sorts of pornographic avenues on the web, but choose to turn a blind eye to what their children are doing?

One can only pray to the ALMIGHTY that HE must open our eyes so that we may be better parents and role models for our children.

WHO IS TO BLAME WHEN A CHILD STARTS USING DRUGS?

It was 2:15 on Sunday morning when the phone rang by my bedside, waking me from a sleep I had struggled to get into. I mumbled something unprintable and sat up. Fatima, my wife, was also awake.

"Who can this be?" she wanted to know, yawning aloud. "What time is it?" She stared at me bleary-eyed as I lifted the receiver, a frown starting to form on her forehead. "What time is it?" She persisted, putting her hand on my arm. I did not answer her. An uneasy feeling crept over me.

"Hello?" I said, almost too afraid to ask who it was. I had learned, over the years, that apart from pranksters, or irritating "wrong numbers," the only other phone call that comes in the middle of the night is the harbinger of death.

"Yes?" I spoke into the mouthpiece and recognized my sister Kulsum's voice. She seemed very upset. "Brother," she uttered half-hysterically, "Muhsin is dead!" They all called me Brother (I was the eldest) and Muhsin was her youngest son. She had five children.

"But how...?" I suddenly blurted out, not sure if I had heard right. "How can that be?"

Kulsum was very distraught. "They stabbed him to death earlier this evening, Brother."

"Verily from ALLAH we come, and to ALLAH is our return," I said, echoing the traditional Quranic verses that a Muslim is supposed to utter on hearing about death. I saw that Fatima was wiping tears from her eyes. She could hear every word.

"Where did this happen?" I croaked, my mouth feeling dry.

"I don't know!" she said, sobbing loudly. "He died on our doorstep. He crawled all the way here!"

I didn't know what to say. I felt as if someone had thrown cold water over me. "And where is he now? Where's the body?"

She pulled herself together. "Farouk and the others are at the mortuary. He phoned just now to say that they were on their way." Farouk was her husband.

"Okay." I said, swinging my feet from the bed. "I'll be there in a few minutes."

She thanked me and hung up. I couldn't help shaking my head as Fatima stared at me. "O, ALLAH. O, ALLAH!" We were wide awake now.

I pulled on my pants while Fatima went to the bathroom. Her diabetes always played havoc with her, especially when something distressing happened. I wondered who else Kulsum had informed.

I put on a thick jacket, because the wind had been lashing the area for most of the night and it was very cold. I thought of Muhsin, and how as a child he used to go fishing with me. How we used to take him (Fatima and I) everywhere we went, even to weddings and to prayer meetings. He loved the chants, and we sometimes had our hands full trying to keep him quiet when we wanted him to go to sleep. He had stayed with us for some time, because Kulsum had to go and work. (They couldn't manage to raise five children on Farouk's salary alone). We became very close to him. In fact, Fatima, being unable to bear children herself, focused a lot of attention on Muhsin, making a point to buy him something new every time she went to the shops, and spoiling him with expensive toys and sweets. The other children all stayed with my mother.

I tried to warn her about this, making her understand that Kulsum and Farouk might not be in the dumps forever, that Farouk might just get a better job and then Kulsum would not have to go to work anymore. She could then look after her children herself.

As I brought the car around to the front door to let Fatima get in, I remembered Muhsin's eleventh birthday. I could still see the excitement on his face when I had given him the PlayStation he had been talking about for days on end. The other children had all looked on enviously. Kulsum and Farouk had both come to me, telling me how much they appreciated what Fatima and I were doing for their child and that they would never forget it. Fatima had been busy in the kitchen.

I remembered how I had led them to Muhsin's room where toys were scattered all over the floor and the walls plastered with pictures of all his favourite characters. He was practically our own child.

It was approximately three weeks after that, that Farouk and Kulsum came to us and told us that they wanted Muhsin back.

Needless to say, I do not not have to explain in detail what Fatima's reaction had been, only that she hadn't stopped crying for days on end, and no matter how hard I tried I couldn't get her to go into Muhsin's room, let alone clean it.

Looking at her now as she got into the car, I still felt angry over what they had done, not only to her but to Muhsin as well. I hated them!

I drove off, thinking of all the stupid arguments we had engaged in in trying to talk sense into them. Farouk still had not found a better paying job, and Kulsum still had to go and work. But they had stuck to their belief that things would change for them once they had all their children with them, and they would show everyone that they would come out on top.

And so they took Muhsin back. But after five months of trying to prove a point, or call it whatever you will, Muhsin had come to visit us one Saturday afternoon, much to our surprise, and told us he didn't want to stay with his parents anymore.

I had looked at Fatima and there had been a fathomless expression on her face, almost as if to say, "I told you so!"

Muhsin had told us in no uncertain terms that his mother and father were always fighting over money, always abusing or blaming each other for their woes, and if any of the children asked for anything there would be hell to pay. I hadn't interrupted him, but Fatima had hugged him when he had begged us to take him back into our house.

That same day I had gone to see my sister and her husband and had not minced words when I told them how unhappy Muhsin was with them, and asked whether he could come and stay with us again.

Kulsum had sworn at me and told me not to interfere in their lives, and asked whether I was aware how cheeky and stubborn Muhsin was. She also said that Muhsin was back-chatting the both of them and setting a really bad example to all the other children. She wasn't saying it in so many words, but she was actually blaming Fatima and me for the child's misbehavior. I hadn't pursued the argument, I had merely left and asked them to reconsider my request; after all we loved him very much.

We pulled up at Kulsum's house after a 20-minute drive. My mother and youngest sister Ayesha were there. Farouk and the others had just arrived.

Muhsin's body was wrapped in a blanket and I could see blood seeping through one side. I greeted Kulsum and hugged her tight as she sobbed uncontrollably. "He was only 18, Brother. Only 18!"

I went on to greet my mother and Ayesha whose eyes were red with weeping. Fatima was also crying bitterly.

"What time do you plan to make the funeral?" I asked Farouk as we all helped to lay the body on a bier. Muslims usually bury within the same day, or as soon as possible if the body has to be transported from another area.

"What time do you think we should make it?" he asked me, and for a moment I was confused. "Why do you ask me that?" I wanted to say, but thought better of it. Now was not the time to bandy arguments about. One had to respect the dead. "I think three o'clock would be a good time seeing that it is Sunday," I offered. An elderly man with a grey beard had entered the room and I recognized him as the one who performs the ablution and prepares the body for burial. He removed the blanket from the deceased. I tried not to look; I felt very sad. I wanted to scream out loud that this should never have happened. Muhsin should not have died in this manner! I buried my face in my hands.

I heard the old man giving instructions to someone and I still did not look up. I was thinking how many youngsters at this moment were lying shot up on coke, or methamphetamine (or Tik, as it is commonly known here in Cape Town). And how many of them were lying dead in mortuaries all over the world because of an overdose, or as in Muhsin's case, stabbed to death over an argument about who stole whose drugs. I was particularly cut up in thinking how many of these youngsters were indirectly encouraged by the ignorance and stupidity of their parents in following the drug route.

I finally looked up and I saw Fareed, Kulsum's second eldest child, standing on the other side of the bier. Tears were running down his cheeks freely. I made a vow there and then that no child that I knew, be it family or not, was ever going to go the drug abusers' way. Even if I have to use force. And if the parents should get in the way I will use every means at my disposal to fight them to get the child onto the right path. I wasn't even aware that tears and mucus were collecting at my chin, until my one brother put his arm around me and led me out of the room.

A DAY IN THE LIFE OF POPPY TOMBAZANA

The alarm clock by Poppy's side rang shrilly; she sleepily reached out a hand and knocked the thing over. It kept on ringing.

Poppy sat up slowly and switched off the alarm. The dial read 5:05. She yawned and stretched her arms above her head. Outside, a taxi was noisily passing by, searching for passengers. Poppy yawned once more and got out of bed. She somehow felt more tired than usual.

She went into the bathroom and relieved herself, thinking of the events of the previous evening, and shuddered. Dr. Weir had left the clinic late. There had been an influx of new cases, and Poppy wondered for how long they would be able to cope if no new staff was going to be employed. She herself was only a voluntary worker.

She started brushing her teeth and in the distance she heard the Call to Prayer sounding from the local mosque.

She thought of her own condition as she began taking ablution; she thought of the anti-retroviral treatment that she was on, and she wondered for how long it would sustain her. Dr. Weir had said there was no reason why she should not lead a healthy, normal life, if she stuck to the treatment and looked after herself.

But she was worried. She felt listless at times, and she sometimes couldn't sleep. Many a night she would wake up, drenched in sweat and with a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach.

She left the bathroom and laid a prayer mat on the floor. Her husband Alfred had died two years ago. She had contracted AIDS from him.

She started her rituals and she suddenly started to cry. "O ALLAH!" she uttered. "Please don't let me die now. There is still so much to do."

She had embraced Islam when she was 36. She was 42 now and had no children.

Alfred had been a good husband; her face softened as she thought of him. He had provided for her well. The sickness that he had carried with him had been there from the days he had been imprisoned in Angola for political reasons. He had only become aware of his status when he had been involved in a car accident, and by that time he had already infected her with the dreaded disease. She still missed him a lot. She sometimes imagined that he was in the house and he would call out to her. She completed her rituals.

She left the house as the sun began painting the horizon with a deep, orange glow. There was already a stream of cars making their way along the freeway and she flagged down a taxi. She could feel the heat on her face and she knew it was going to be a hot day. There was hardly a breeze in the air. The TV had said it was going to be 32 degrees centigrade, she thought glumly as she squeezed in next to a fat woman, who was wiping sweat from her glistening face. Poppy wondered what this new day held for her.

She reached the clinic at about 7:00, and there was a sizable queue forming outside. People here in the rural parts of Kwa Zulu Natal had to travel early if they wanted to be attended to at the only clinic for miles around. Many of them walked.

The clinic wasn't very big. It had two sections: the administration and preparation area, where patients' blood pressure was taken and preliminary examinations done, and the doctors' rooms, which were supposed to accommodate three doctors. There was also a holding area, where casualties and trauma cases were seen to. Severe cases were either flown by helicopter or transported by ambulance to the nearest general hospital, depending on the severity of the case.

Poppy grimaced. Nowadays it was mostly Dr. Weir attending to a horde of patients, and he wasn't that young anymore. She felt sorry for him.

"Nurse," said someone as she unlocked the preparation room door. "I'm hungry."

She saw that it was Lucky, a developmentally disabled person who sometimes helped to clean around the premises, and who always waited for her at the door. She smiled at him and told him to wait, wondering how he managed to come to the clinic every morning, seeing that both his parents had died from AIDS, and he lived with a relative in another part of town who didn't work and never received any social grant. The distance was too far to walk.

Lucky smiled back at her with big buck teeth, almost as if he could read her thoughts.

Poppy shuddered involuntarily as she thought of the man in his early 30's who had caused such a stir the previous day, when he had unceremoniously started to vomit blood all over the reception floor. She remembered how the woman sitting next to him had screamed when he had suddenly grabbed her arm and pleaded for help. Poppy had managed to calm him down, and she and two other nurses had gotten him onto a stretcher where Dr. Weir had immediately seen to him. She wondered how he was doing and she made a mental note to go and find out. HIV/AIDS was so rife here in Pumelalane, and people were dying at such an alarming rate that at some stage she felt afraid that there would be no one left to care for the orphaned children.

Dr. Weir was already in his room when Poppy knocked. He was sipping from a cup and the smell of coffee pervaded the air. He had a pensive look on his thin face.

"Good morning, Doctor," she said, and came to stand before him where he was sitting at his desk. "You are early."

He did not reply, but she could see that something was troubling him. She did not speak further.

Dr. Weir shook his head, and Poppy couldn't help noticing how drained he looked. "Are you okay, Doctor?"

"Yes. I'm okay. I'm just very tired." He kept on shaking his head. "You know that young man who came in yesterday, the one who vomited blood on the floor?"

Poppy stared at him. "Yes?"

"He's dead."

Poppy felt a cold shiver running down her spine. She wondered if she was also going to vomit blood before she died. Tears welled up in her eyes. "When did he die?"

"At about eleven last night. He is still lying in the wash room. He's got no family."

Poppy shuddered. "So what are we going to do?"

"I don't know, but I've contacted Jabu from Social Services. He said he'll send someone out today."

Poppy left Dr. Weir's room, wiping the tears that were now running freely down her cheeks. She saw the young man's face before her again; the gaunt look of utter despair, the eyes that stood dead still in their sockets. She thought of the HIV/AIDS campaign she and the other nurses had started and she became more determined to fight this scourge with everything at her disposal. They had already begun by fetching groups of people at their houses, taking them on outings, providing food for them, and practically demonstrating the importance of healthy living and sound practices. It was slow but there was real progress.

She turned her face upwards. "O, ALLAH. Let me die with dignity." A silent prayer went through her mind as she walked towards the holding area. "Let me die amongst friends and amongst those who love me and whom I love. Please let me me not leave this world in disgrace."

"Nurse, come quickly!" a woman with a child in her arms shouted, panicking. "He's not breathing!"

Brenda, one of the other nurses, came running over and took the child from her.

"Please don't let him die!"

Together, Brenda and Poppy administered CPR. "Come on. Breathe!" Poppy almost willed, and pressing down rhythmically on the child's chest. Brenda blew down his throat.

"O, ALLAH. Please do not let this child die. Please!" Poppy said out loud, and there was a sudden cough from the child. "Let him live. Please."

The child started to cry, while the mother hugged him so tight that the nurses were afraid she would hurt him.

"Thank you, ALLAH," cried Poppy as the other nurse took the child from the woman. "Thank you."

And so began another day in the life of Poppy Tombazana, where existence here in the rural areas of Kwa Zulu Natal was an uphill battle to survive each day; where death was a constant reminder of how transitory human life was, and how traumatic yet utterly rewarding your services to your fellow human beings could be.

She couldn't thank the ALMIGHTY enough for giving her the strength each day to perform her duties.