“We are surrounded by enemies of Islam, besieged on every side.” That’s what your dad kept saying.
And that’s what you told me the next morning as our Maths lesson with Mr van der Vyfer started. Well, you didn’t actually speak to me of course. Instead you scribbled it in pencil on the back cover of my homework diary: My dad says we are surrounded by enemies of Islam, besieged on every side. As if writing notes to me was a whole different thing from talking. And at least you were still sitting there beside me. At least that!
He was at the mosque all night, praying with the other men, you scribbled. And now this morning, that’s all he kept saying: “We are surrounded by enemies.” On and on.
Mr van der Vyfer, our Maths teacher, was going on and on too. About his favourite topic: Maths Problem Solving. He gets carried away with problem solving the way Mr Bradshaw gets carried away with freak weather patterns.
“Don’t let the words overwhelm you, class,” said Mr van der Vyfer, with his orange moustache curling over his top lip and right into his mouth. No wonder I’m no good at Maths! Whenever he explains anything, all I can concentrate on is that moustache of his. Surely it must tickle? Why doesn’t he trim it?
Funny, it never seemed to bother you or stop you getting high marks in Maths. Maybe because you are used to men with beards. Like your dad. Like most of the men that attend your mosque. My dad has always been clean-shaven. My mom won’t have it any other way. She gets upset when Dad doesn’t shave over weekends.
Anyhow, Mr van der Vyfer was going on and on about problem solving. “What you need to do, class, is ISOLATE the actual problem. Pinpoint it precisely. What EXACTLY do they want from you? How EXACTLY do you give it to them? That’s the KEY, class. Find the KEY and you’re on your way!”
Then he set us a whole page full of problems so we could practise finding the KEY!
We were halfway through problem number four when you gasped. A sudden, loud gasp. You gave me quite a fright! Tebogo and Vuyo in front of us turned and frowned at you.
I’ve got it!!! you scribbled. I’ve isolated the problem. I know exactly what they want! I’ve got the key to fix everything!
What key??? I scribbled back. But by now there wasn’t much space left on the back cover of my diary. So you started on yours.
Actually, it’s two keys, Louise. Hey, two keys, Louise! Two keys, Louise!
I had to giggle, despite everything.
“Faheema Majait! Louise Van Rensburg! What’s going on there?” Mr van der Vyfer was trying his best to sound stern beneath the curling hairs of his orange moustache. “You two never stop! Save it till break, will you?”
But even at break I didn’t get to hear about your two keys. We sat together in the corner of the library – I suppose where Gadija wouldn’t see us. Back and forth, back and forth, we scribbled notes to each other on the rough paper that Mrs King always keeps handy there. I didn’t quite understand how this was any different from actually talking to me. But it seemed to make you feel better, like you weren’t really disobeying your father. And it definitely kept Mrs King happier.
*
It was only at the river that afternoon that I finally got to hear about your two keys. When I reached our secret clearing, with its smell of damp soil, you were already there. With a huge bag beside you and a huge smile on your face.
“Right, Miss Louise Van Rensburg,” you said with your hands on your hips while a crooked branch dangled just above your head. It was really good to hear your voice again. “Right, you think I’m a coward, don’t you? You think I give in without a fight. Well, not this time, oh no. You just wait and see!”
That bag of yours was worrying me a little. “You aren’t going to run away from home, are you? That wouldn’t be a good idea. That won’t fix anything, Faheema.”
“No. Nothing like that!” You put my mind at ease. From the bag you took out an embroidered cushion. I recognised it at once. It was the one from the rocking chair in your bedroom. You lay the cushion down on the damp ground and told me to sit on it.
“How’s this supposed to help, Faheema?”
“Shush! You just do what you’re told, okay? And stop asking questions.”
What could I do? Intrigued, I sat down on the cushion. And next thing, you were pulling flowers out of your bag: I recognised them too. They came straight from your mother’s garden: sweet peas and frangipanis, some irises and even a rose. They were a little squashed and bruised, but their fragrance was still lovely, filling our clearing. You arranged the flowers around the cushion. Around me. And what was your mom going to say about all her missing flowers?!
“What on earth are you doing?”
“Shush!” you ordered again.
You always did enjoy bossing me about, didn’t you, Faheema! It’s because you’re so short – that’s what I think anyway. In fact it even has a name, this tendency of short people to be extra bossy. The Napoleon Complex, that’s what it’s called. I read all about it on the Internet once.
See, Napoleon was a very short man and that made him so upset that he ended up being Emperor of the whole of France, just so that he could boss people around! Especially tall ones. And I reckon it’s the same for you. But you can feel free to boss me around any time, Faheema. You won’t hear me complaining!
*
So there I sat on your cushion, encircled by half your mom’s garden, feeling a little confused and bewildered.
Then you bent down and whispered in my ears: first my right ear and then my left ear. It was Arabic that you whispered. I recognised the low, open tones from the prayers I had heard you say.
“Okay, Louise, now close your eyes and open your mouth.”
My confusion reached new heights. Maybe you were going crazy. From all the stress or something? But I did what I was told, and the next moment I tasted sugar on my tongue. The sudden sweetness made me smile.
“See, Louise, this is how we name Muslim babies and I’m going to give you a Muslim name: Najmah. It means a shining golden star. And that’s exactly what you are: a shining golden star. So! You are now Najmah – um – Khan. Yes, that’s a good Muslim surname.”
Najmah Khan?!
“Najmah Khan?” I said the name aloud and it felt strange.
“So that’s the problem solved, just like Mr van der Vyfer explained. That’s what my parents want and now I’m giving it to them, you see?” You were piling everything back into your huge bag. “When I go home, I’ll tell my parents I was at the river with Najmah Khan. I’ll say that Najmah Khan is a new girl at school and her family just moved here. And that I think we’re going to be best friends. Then they’ll be happy.”
“Are you sure? Are you sure this is a good idea, Faheema? What if your parents expect to meet Mr and Mrs Khan at the mosque on Friday, since they’ve just moved here?”
But you were adamant: you’d find some way to sort that out. No problem! And now, you said, it was time for me to give you a Christian name so my parents could have what they wanted too. I stared at you, still pretty dazed.
But of course, when you get an idea in your head, you’re like a bulldozer. A very short bulldozer. There’s no point in trying to stand in your way.
“Come on, Louise – sorry, Najmah,” you said. “Concentrate. Get with the programme. How do you guys name babies?”
I laughed. “If you want a Christian name, you have to get your head wet. That’s how we christen babies at our church.”
“Okay, so wet my head. But give me a nice Christian name. Nothing awful. How about Victoria? I’ve always liked the name Victoria.”
Together we left our cosy hideaway and made our way down the river bank to the pool, holding onto roots, holding onto one another. There was no one around to see us. Above our heads, the twin waterfalls hurtled down the rock face. Without any rainbows, though. The sky was still thick with unseasonal clouds.
I scooped up some of the clear, cold water and trickled it over your head. “I christen you Victoria – um – Walker. How about Walker? You know, like our Grade One teacher?”
“Victoria Walker. That will do fine. Vicky for short. Hey, Vicky’s good! Don’t get sticky, Vicky! Don’t take the mickey, Vicky. You’re nicer than Nikki or Ricky, Vicky …!” Water slid down the sides of your smile, following the dents of your dimples.
And of course then we started splashing one another more and more wildly. And I almost fell in, soaking most of my sleeves.
You stopped, suddenly serious. “There is just one problem, Najmah. And I don’t know what we’re going to do about it.”
“What? What now?”
“Well, how am I ever going to make rhymes with your name? Nothing, nothing rhymes with Najmah.”
I laughed. “Well, now you know how I feel! Your name is just hopeless for rhyming. Nothing rhymes with Faheema either.”
“That’s not true. It’s not true at all. What about ‘dreamer’? I often say that to myself: be a dreamer, Faheema. Be a dreamer, Faheema. Especially when I just give up so easily, when I don’t even try to fight for what I want.”
“Well, you haven’t given up this time, Faheema, that’s for sure!”
“No, that’s true. I’ve sorted things out perfectly, haven’t I?”
*
And were you right? Were these name changes going to solve our problems?
Part of me wanted so badly to believe that this was the answer. But another, more sensible part of me already knew there wasn’t much hope: where parents and serious decisions are concerned, there are no easy answers.
When I got home, with my sleeves still soaked through, I explained to my mom that I’d been at the river with my new friend Victoria Walker and we’d had such fun together. We’d laughed and laughed.
“Victoria Walker,” my mom repeated and hardly scolded me at all for being wet.
When my dad came home, I heard him echoing your new name too. He sounded glad, relieved.
“We should have had more faith,” I heard him say as I left the kitchen and he thought I was out of earshot. “I know she was fond of that little Muslim girl. But she’s too big for that sort of thing now. She needs friends from the same background. This Victoria Walker sounds just the ticket.”
*
I wondered how you were getting on at your house. Were your parents also repeating the name “Najmah Khan” as though it were just the ticket?
I wondered too whether you felt uncomfortable like I did. Because we were lying, weren’t we? No matter how many flowers lay around me, no matter how much water dripped down your face, our new names were just one big lie. And it is wrong to lie to your parents, isn’t it? No matter whether you are Christian or Muslim. Even when they make decisions that you think are wrong and unfair.
In our Bible, it says we have to honour our mother and father. That’s one of our Ten Commandments. And doesn’t the Qur’an say something like that too? I bet it does.