by Jenny Robson
And me – I was so lonely, sitting through Mr van der Vyfer’s Maths and then Miss Samuel’s Life Orientation with no one to giggle with whenever something funny happened. And you know how something funny always seems to happen in Miss Samuel’s Life Orientation!
Meanwhile, at the back of the class, Gadija and Mariam were definitely, definitely talking about me. I could see Gadija’s mean sneer above her cherry-red collar whenever she caught my eye. Even worse than that: every time Mariam looked my way, I could see sympathy in her eyes. That got me even more worried. What did these girls know that I didn’t?
That afternoon, right after netball practice, I dialled your number on my new cellphone. But it was your mother who answered.
I took a deep breath. “Good afternoon, Mrs Majait. This is Faheema’s friend, Najmah Khan. Can I speak to her, please?” I tried to make my voice sound different, but it was difficult. And pointless.
“Louise? Louise, is that you? I’m sorry but I can’t let you speak to Faheema. And you mustn’t phone here any more. Please. Mr Majait would be very upset.”
I panicked for you then. Had your dad found out about our naming ceremonies? Was he very angry? And you had to bear this all alone. I could do nothing, nothing to reach you and give you support, the way a good friend should.
I came clean to your mom. “Yes, it is Louise. But please, Mrs Majait, just tell me: is Faheema okay? She’s not sick or something, is she? Or worse?”
Your mom took a while to answer. “No, everything is in order. Mr Majait has had to make some changes, and you and Faheema will just have to learn to accept them. Now, please don’t phone again.”
Changes? What changes?
I hardly slept that night.
*
First thing on Tuesday, Gadija Ibrahim came to stand beside your empty desk. She had a mean smile on her face. She isn’t a nice person, that Gadija. That is the truth of it. It’s got nothing to do with her being Muslim. It only has to do with the way she treats others.
“Looks like your friend won’t be back,” Gadija told me. “I saw her this morning, getting into her father’s car. And guess what! She was wearing the Habibia College uniform. So that’s it, I reckon. Bye-bye, Faheema Majait!”
Habibia College! I should have guessed that was the change your dad would decide to make.
Later that day, a new girl was assigned to sit in your desk. She was from Bloemfontein or somewhere. She tried to talk to me, to be friendly, I suppose. But I could barely bring myself to answer her questions. Having someone else there in your seat and taking your place was just too awful.
I spent break locked in a cubicle in the cloakrooms, crying. After school, I went down to the river, hoping you might find a way to be there. I waited until well past sunset and got into trouble for being out after dark.
“Louise, we were so worried! What’s got into you? I thought you’d be bringing Faheema round this afternoon. And instead you stay out till all hours. Never again, my girl. Do you hear?”
*
But still.
I’ve been here at Gap Falls every single afternoon since, Faheema. Still hoping. Every single afternoon. Well, except for netball days. We had our first match last week, did you know? Against Langenhoven Secondary. We managed to win 7-6. And my dad came along and took photos that my mom is going to frame. But even so, I didn’t enjoy the match. It wasn’t the same without you there, rushing up and down the tarmac, arms stretched to the heavens, trying desperately to jump high enough to catch the ball.
It just wasn’t the same.
I miss you so much, Faheema. You are the best friend I ever had. You always made me feel extraordinary. Always! From that very first day in Grade One with the red crayon. Or the pink lunchbox. Whichever!
And so I have sat here at Gap Falls these past weeks, writing everything down for you in these fancy notebooks my dad brought me from work. Writing and writing, on and on, until my hand aches. Sometimes I don’t even know why I bother. Will it make any difference? Do you miss me as much as I miss you? Or have you moved on? Found yourself another best friend there at Habibia College? A friend that won’t cause any complications with your parents?
But no, I can’t believe that. I won’t!
Our waterfalls are still magnificent. Even though Mr Bradshaw’s La Nina topsy-turvy rains have finally stopped. They are magnificent and full and strong, with constant rainbows. There’s no way either of us could lose the competition. It would have to be a draw all the way. No argument!
Up above, the water sometimes floods over the rock in the centre, spilling down the cliff face in the space between. It’s so weird: sometimes it seems as though the gap is closing up altogether, disappearing forever. Sometimes it seems that our twin waterfalls will join up into one single massive, endless cascade.
And then what will we have to argue about?
Then they’ll have to find a new name, won’t they? Because it won’t be Gap Falls any longer.
*
And now, Faheema, I think I have written all that I can. All that I remember. Maybe I have left out things that you remember clearly. And maybe you won’t agree with all my stories. In your mind, perhaps, they unfolded differently.
But the bottom line is we were friends. Good, solid friends. And then, suddenly, bad events happened far, far away. Not even in South Africa but in other countries. Not even on the same continent as us. Bad events caused by thoughtless, uncaring people. And for some strange reason that I don’t properly understand even now, these events drove a massive wedge between us.
And how can that be? How can that possibly make sense?
I don’t even feel angry any longer. Mostly I feel confused and bewildered. And disbelieving. But I am not giving up, Faheema, I’m telling you!
I am going to find a way to get these notebooks to you. Maybe I’ll slide them through your window on Friday evening when you are all at the mosque. Do you still leave your top bedroom window open for extra air? You always had a thing about extra air! Or maybe I’ll wait for you outside Habibia College and slip them into your satchel as you pass by.
*
I was there last Wednesday, there on Driscoll Street. Did you know that? It was Riverside’s sports day so we were starting later than usual. And I stood at those big iron gates of Habibia College, watching all the girls go past with their white scarves over their heads. Worried that I wouldn’t recognise you any longer. Worried that you had somehow changed these last weeks.
The Habibia students frowned as they passed me. As though I had no business being there, even on the pavement outside. They made me feel like some kind of stalker, foreign and out of place. It was so, so hard for me to imagine you amongst them.
But I kept telling myself that if you saw me, you’d run over and hug me hello and talk to me and laugh with your dimples showing. In the end, though, I had to leave without seeing you. Just so I could get back to Riverside in time for the first races.
So right now, I’m still working on a way to get these notebooks to you. And when you read them, I’m sure you’ll feel the way I felt writing them. I refuse to believe differently.
And then, Faheema, then you have to do something for me. That is, if you miss me as much as I miss you. If you still count me as your best friend.
It is a hard thing I am asking of you. It will need all your courage.
But I want you to take your father to the telephone table in your passage. I want you to stand in front of the Qur’an verse and recite the words. Slowly and clearly. Ya ayyuha allatheena amanoo koonoo qawwameena lillahi shuhadaa …
And then I want you to repeat the words in English, the way your mom did for me all those years ago. Slowly and clearly. Oh ye who believe, stand out as witnesses to fair dealing, and let not the hatred of others make you depart from justice.
Your father is a devout Muslim. For him the words of the Qur’an are sacred and to be obeyed without question. Isn’t that true? Surely, surely he will understand the same
way my mom understood about those Bible verses in the end. Surely he will see how unjust it is to put me in the same category as those Danish people who insulted your Prophet? And surely he will realise that it is not, not, not fair to stop us from being friends?
I’m not asking you to shout and throw a tantrum the way I did. No, I can’t in my wildest dreams imagine you doing that! But can you speak to him quietly? Respectfully?
Can you do that? Can you find the courage inside you, even though I know it will be a struggle? Because it’s all up to you now. You are the only one who can change things.
Can you be a dreamer, Faheema?
Can you fight to the end, my very best friend?
THE END
“I’m telling you, Faheema, it was because of your red crayon and that stupid clown’s nose. That’s what made us friends.”
“And I’m telling you, Louise. There was no red crayon! No, it was because of my pink lunchbox at break and that horrible Sean Groenewald.”
“Red crayon!”
“Pink lunchbox! And your hair shining like a gold crown.”
“Oh, come on! How could my hair ever look like a gold crown? You’re making that up!”
We argued until we both burst out laughing. But there were other arguments going on. Not so, Faheema? Serious arguments that didn’t end with everyone laughing. Arguments that threatened to destroy our friendship forever.
Jenny Robson was born in Cape Town. After studying Primary School Teaching in Mowbray and obtaining a degree in Philosophy through the University of South Africa, she worked as a teacher in Simonstown before going to Botswana, where she worked as a music teacher in Orapa for many years. She currently teaches at an International School in the town of Maun, on the banks of the Okavango.
She did not start writing until the age of 38. To date she has published more than thirty books for children and young adults, as well as a novel for adults and numerous short stories. Her texts depict South African teenagers with their dreams, their fears, their hopes and their problems, which resemble those experienced by young people outside the African continent.
Other titles by the same author, published by Tafelberg:
Mellow Yellow
Don’t Panic, Mechanic
Dark Waters
One Magic Moment
The Denials of Kow-Ten
Because Pula Means Rain
Savannah 2116 AD
The Ugliest Animal in All the World/Die lelikste dier in die hele wêreld
Praise Song
Balaclava Boy
School Edition: Balaclava Boy
Back to Villa Park
Tafelberg,
an imprint of NB Publishers,
a division of Media24 Boeke (Pty) Ltd,
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PO Box 6525, Roggebaai, 8012, South Africa
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Copyright © J.M. Robson 2013
All rights reserved.
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Cover design by Hanneke du Toit
E-book design by Trace Digital Services
Available in print:
First edition, first impression 2013
ISBN: 978-0-624-06290-5
Epub edition:
First edition 2013
ISBN: 978-0-624-06297-4 (epub)
Mobi edition:
First edition 2013
ISBN: 978-0-624-06304-9 (mobi)
