Chapter 2
Qabila ran. Just ahead, a rivulet of golden words streamed from a great glowing worm that rushed down one tunnel and then another and then another. Each letter birthed another word. Each word birthed swirling universes of words that floated up the dark walls and dissipated in the worm’s wake. A swelling chorus reverberated off the walls and echoed in the space between Qabila and the worm. She ran, the words sinking into her, singing on her skin. She wanted to get to the worm. Ride the worm. She wanted to flee the press of deep, dark silence behind her. Flee the words pulsing their way through her skin to riddle her brain with their litany.
Qabila woke and groped for her to-do list on her bedside table:
Pick up shoes
Onions
Coriander
Work on article x 1 hour
Vegetables
Bread
Swim
Underneath, she scribbled the dreamwords:
To live
is to be free
of the spell
To be free
of the spell
is to claim
a spell of your own
To spell
is to bespell
and to bespell
is to unmake the world
Unspell
Bespell
Spell
Qabila stared at the words. Softly, slowly, they found their way out of her mouth, falling into the quiet eddies of a morning not yet fully come alive. The saying loosened something … and so she said them again. Slowly. And then again. A little faster.
Until the list of things to do brought her back into the room. To the blue drapes with the little cramped flowers. She wondered, again, if those little flowers would survive the real world of wind and rain and trampling feet. She stroked the brown duvet’s rich cotton, her arms reaching across the bed’s empty expanse. Breathed in the familiar ache. The flowers would survive. She got up.
The bathroom still seemed lopsided: her side of the double basin crowded; just her old, familiar face in the too-large-for-one mirror. In the long corridor, the glossy white doors were all shut, relieving the deep red of the walls. The same bright paintings. She still wasn’t sure about seeing only the women’s backs in the brightly painted field, and she still loved the boy dancing on the side of a building. She didn’t look at the black-and-white photographs in their ornate gold frames.
Rashid had left his dirty dishes on the kitchen counter again. The eggshells, casually tossed next to the scorched pan, were already stuck to the stove. Why she’d bothered tidying last night, she didn’t know. She was looking for her phone when she remembered, with a sharp splinter in her stomach: she could never call her mother again. Almost two months now. Two busy months. For a few minutes she held onto the dirty counter and breathed. The ache didn’t go away, it never did. But she could move again.
She could get into her car and drive to the university, where she helped to mould the minds of tomorrow’s leaders. Like every day for the last two months, she wouldn’t notice anything en route. If she had to swear under oath what had been happening all that time, she’d only have her lists to testify to her days.
For the rest of the day, she gave herself over to the lists. Adding, removing; tick, tick, tick. And all the while, the words hummed a soothing backdrop: To live is to be free of the spell, to be free of the spell is to claim a spell of your own, to spell is to bespell, and to bespell is to unmake the world. Unspell, Bespell, Spell. In the car, she found herself shaping the words to the tunes of Kfm’s golden oldies. They hounded and soothed her, followed her and dragged her along, sometimes softly in the background, sometimes roaring, silencing everything else.
Her mother would’ve had a ready interpretation for the dream, which would have made Qabila laugh as much as irritate her. She could just hear Mommy’s voice, talking about a world beyond a therapist’s chair, a world requiring faith – a faith that had been scoured and blasted and pinched and pulled and laughed out of Qabila. It might’ve been one of those moments when the gulf between her generation and her mother’s opened up like a chasm that could only be crossed by love’s generosity. To be modern was to deny the magic of dreams – the things that speak to you, that can’t be found on a list.
Qabila carried her longing for her mother’s counsel through the rest of the day – through meetings, calls, emails, consultations with students; through the quiet polishing of an academic career.
When she got home to Durbanville’s lush greenness, she put aside the list for a few minutes to call Zainab.
‘Salaam Qabila, algamdulillah,’ her sister answered. ‘How are you? How was the conference?’
Qabila smiled, feeling tears well up. ‘Algamdulillah. No complaints. I just miss Mommy. I had such a strange dream last night. I actually began to dial her number this morning to tell her about it before I remembered.’
Zainab sighed. ‘I also do that. And I tell myself, I must remember to tell Mommy. Allah must grant her Jannat ul-Firdaus, inshallah.’
‘Ameen,’ Qabila said, wiping away tears.
‘What did you dream?’ Zainab asked.
Qabila told her about the great worm and running to try to catch it, and the words that wouldn’t release her. She could sense Zainab on the other side, thinking.
‘Qabila,’ Zainab’s voice finally came, ‘why did you not just follow? Why try to ride the worm? Moet jy altyd alles control?’ Zainab’s laugh was short and strained.
Qabila forced a laugh too, glad Zainab could not see how tight her jaw was. ‘From one control freak to another,’ she quipped. ‘Mummy would’ve had all kinds of explanations: babies, death …’ She breathed deeply as the word bit into her, and hurriedly continued: ‘Tall men, or something custom-fitted. And then when something happened, she’d reinterpret the dream to show that it had been a warning all along! Do you remember how it used to irritate us? I really miss her today. Always seeing the future in dreams …’
‘It never irritated me.’ Zainab paused. It was one of those dense moments where words have too little meaning. ‘Her room is so empty. The house doesn’t feel right without her.’ Her sigh was so heavy, Qabila’s belly tightened.
‘The psychologists say dreams are the subconscious working out things that have happened, and then sending you a coded solution.’ She tried to laugh, but failed.
‘I don’t know about this subconscious stuff. You must speak to Auntie Moenieba, she knows about dreams. She has one of those Muslim dream books. Do you remember how she and Mommy would talk about dreams for hours? They were so close.’
‘Shukran, I will get in touch with her. It’s so busy now,’ Qabila said.
‘Jy is altyd besig. You must make time for other things, you can’t just work. You couldn’t even come to the forty days. Everyone was there, all the family. To make dua for your mother, pray that Allah has mercy on her during this difficult time for her soul. They all asked where you were.’
‘I know, I’m sorry. I wanted to come. I couldn’t know my flight was going to be delayed. At least Rashid was there. Shame, he still feels bad about being on a flight when Mommy maniengald. He got a promotion last week, so he’ll be even busier now. We have so much catching up to do. Maaf that I haven’t come to see you yet. It’s been so busy. You know how it is.’ She cringed a little at her own familiar complaints. When would she stop masking the barrenness of her life with accomplishments, with constant busyness?