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.