One late afternoon I
was confronted by the improbable spectacle of old Mr Ermann, who had recently
celebrated his 86th birthday, with two women, fully clad in the
black ankle length hijab worn by Muslim women. One of the women, dressed in a
burka, was pushing Mr Ermann’s wheelchair; the other, who had her face fully
covered by a niqab, was carrying
his oxygen machine.
“Mr Ermann!” I exclaimed.
“Oh my dear,” he said with his usual warmth, “let me introduce
you. These are my new wives… Fatima,” he
held out his hand towards the woman in full niqab. “She’s 19”, he said… “And
this is Zubeidah.” They’ve saved me a
lot of money on a cook and cleaner and day and night nurses,” he winked. After
a pause, responding to my stunned silence, he chuckled, “They said they can
find me more wives if I need them.”
There was something about Fatima and Zubeidah that I
recognised. I was almost certain I had
given them an escape card when I met them in the passage on their way to the
Diamond Polisher’s flat.
“Who, Mr Ermann?” I blurted out, anxious and enraged. “Who found
you wives…?”
Distracted for a moment, Mr Ermann waved at somebody behind me
passing along the first floor passage. I turned to see Assad and the Diamond
Polisher talking animatedly.
“They’re matchmaking,” Mr Ermann smiled. “Extraordinary, isn’t it?”
“How could you?” I demanded.
“You’re an old man, a religious Jew, how could you? How could
you…?”
“At my stage of life, human kindness and peaceful co-existence are
what matters most, my dear,” he said with a look of almost tender concern at my
distress, “It was much easier than I thought,” he continued. Abdullah took us to the
Turkish baths and it was all rather lovely really. We soaked in warm water for a very long time
until we were purified and then the Trustees towelled us down and dressed us in
white robes, and we repeated the words after Abdullah: Ašhadu an lã ilãha illã lahu, wa
ashãdu anna muhammadan rasûluhu: I testify that there is
no God but God, and Muhammed is the messenger of God. And then we were
Muslims”. He looks upwards, as though communing
with the heavenly realms.
“Then we came back in
Abdullah’s combi. I have to say I felt euphoric and hopeful more than anything
else. Everything has changed. I rather like it…I never thought I would get
married again in my dotage. Of course I am not likely to get up to any tricks,”
he chortled. “But so many woman to care for…what an honour…what an honour…” He
shook his head in wonderment.
The next notice from
the Muslim Brothers, as the Board of Trustees came to be known, announced a
general meeting to be held in the foyer of the building.
Again I sat next to
Vishanti Pillay. This time she was wearing hijab although I noticed a pendant
with
an image of Kali around her neck. Kali is the multi-limbed Hindu goddess
of power, change and destruction. I
presumed Vishanti still had a lot to learn about the ethics and protocol of
being a Muslim woman. “You’ve
converted…?”
“No use fighting fate,
“she said. “The Creator has many forms.
Everything flows to and from one source in the end. “
I noted the Body Cobra
sitting in the back row. He appeared to have shed half his body weight since
the AGM.
Assad announced that
the Board of Trustees planned to uproot the garden to make space for communal prayer. “It will also save on the water bill,” he
rationalised. “And we will be able to
retrench Albie, who hasn’t been pulling his weight for a long time.” Albie Tshabalala had worked as the Oak View
Mansions gardener for more than forty years.
Assad was about to call
for a vote when Neo Makabung, the advocate from flat 204 interrupted him. A strikingly
good looking, well-built man, reminiscent of Malcolm X, with astuteness in his demeanour
that I found almost intimidating, Makabung spoke eloquently and forcefully on
behalf of the Africanists, a new faction in the block. “Subordination to one or other colonial
religion is not the outcome for Oak View Gardens that the Africanists want,” he
said. A small group sitting on either
side of him muttered their approval.
After
a pervasive silence lasting several minutes, Assad again called for the
vote. The Africanists abstained; I and
four or five others voted against; the overwhelming majority voted in favour. It was blatantly clear to everyone present
that Assad had promoted his position before the meeting.
“Done!” he shouted
triumphantly. The word had barely left his lips when there was a loud thud from
the back of the foyer. Everyone turned
to see the Body Cobra lying flat out on the floor.
In the commotion of
cell phones, pillows, wet cloths, brandy and blankets that followed, the Jewish
ambulance service, Hatzolah, arrived. Two strapping young men pushed through
the crowd bearing a stretcher and in a flash the Body Cobra was being
transported to an ambulance with a drip attached to his arm and an oxygen mask on
his face.
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