Yasmina dragged her exhausted, worn-down body up the three flights of stairs of the tenement building in Manenberg, her knees throbbing painfully with each heavy step. She sighed quietly, grateful that her incessant back pain of three days ago had finally subsided. The constant pain had become a customary friend; she knew its absence was only temporary.

Since the time she had been forced to move heavy furniture around in one of the houses where she had worked as a “domestic” – a euphemism for a maid – and injured her back, she had been living with constant backache. She couldn’t afford to visit a chiropractor, so she had to bear the pain as best she could.

When she finally reached the door of her tiny one-bedroom flat, her breath was nearly spent.

“I had to go and overload myself today with these,” she thought to herself as she placed one of the two bulging plastic packets on the landing. The bag had left a deep red line on her light skin as the blood circulation had been cut off by the handles of the bag, but the mark disappeared rapidly as blood rushed back into her palm. Yasmina briskly rubbed the hand against her thigh to dissipate the tingling sensation before she reached into the side pocket of her backpack slung across her right shoulder for the latch key.

As she unlocked and opened the front door, she was assailed by a miasma of familiar smells: onions being braised on the two-plate stove; the faint odour of mildew caused by the poor plumbing and leaky faucets in the bathroom; the stronger scent of a burning miang stokkie, an incense stick, since it was a Thursday night, considered a holy night in Islam; and the lingering whiff of Jiyaad’s Old Spice perfume. That last fragrance brought a smile to her careworn face and lifted her heavy heart. She instantly visualised Jiyaad’s twinkling eyes, still as mischievous now as it had been when she had first met and fallen in love with him 27 years ago when he was 21. She clearly saw his unruly head of salt and pepper hair; the mole located off-centre above his chin; and the secret smile he reserved only for her. As if her imagination had conjured him, Jiyaad stepped out of the lounge to see who had entered.

“Yasmina, you’re carrying heavy bags again!” he reprimanded her and instantly relieved her of her burdens, ignoring her protests. “Raees!” he hollered for their teenage son, “Come take these bags inside.” The boy hurried to obey. While Raees eagerly took the bags to the kitchen, Yasmina and Jiyaad went to their bedroom.

Raees slept in the lounge; their daughter, Shaakirah, shared the bedroom with them. The nine-year-old girl was watching a cartoon on TV, but when her parents entered the room she hurriedly rose to hug and kiss Yasmina.

“Mommy, are you okay?” her young but perceptive daughter asked Yasmina.

Yasmina sat down heavily on the bed; she had to take a few deep breaths before she could reply.

“I’m fine, baby. It’s just the stairs; they’re going to be the death of me yet,” she claimed.

“Mommy! Don’t say that!” Shaakirah exclaimed in genuine fright. She gave her mother another fierce hug. “You always tell me to be careful what I say in case Allah considers it a prayer and grants it,” the child reminded Yasmina, her eyes brimming with unshed tears.

“Shaakirah, don’t be so dramatic,” Jiyaad interrupted, irritated for some unknown reason with his daughter. Perhaps it was because his wife’s skin was paler than usual, and her palms had felt slightly sweaty. Or maybe it was because with Yasmina’s pronouncement, his own heart had skipped a few agonising beats. He couldn’t bear to live without his soulmate of these many years, but her health had recently been deteriorating steadily and inexorably.

“It was just an expression, so dry your tears and go help Raees with the cooking,” he instructed Shaakirah, who meekly obeyed.

“Don’t be so hard on her, Jiyaad,” Yasmina said softly as she adjusted her seat on the bed.

“You know what a sensitive child she is.”

“Sorry, you’re right,” Jiyaad said immediately. He came to sit down next to his wife, looking at her with concern writ all across his handsome visage. Yasmina’s heart melted at what she saw in her husband’s face. “It’s just … I worry about you, woman,” Jiyaad said and hugged Yasmina briefly. “Your work as a domestic is too strenuous. I know you love the family you’re working for and the pay is good enough, but must they keep you for so long every day?”

Yasmina worked for a middle class family in the fairly affluent suburb of Rondebosch East; her hours were from 07:00 to 18:00, with tea and lunch breaks in-between. However, in addition to doing the housework, she also had to serve as nanny to the family’s two young children. The house itself was a double-storey, thus her household chores made huge demands on her.

“You’re not getting any younger, and your health…” Jiyaad continued but left his thought incomplete.

“What choice do I have, Jiyaad? With you retrenched and no other jobs coming your way, how else are we going to survive?” Yasmina asked gently. She was not an argumentative woman; she avoided any form of confrontation at all cost. Her soul was fraught though with her concern for Jiyaad. She knew how impotent he felt, having lost his job as a shuttle driver for the Hyundai Service Centre two months ago. Impulsively, she pulled his face towards her and kissed him softly, lovingly full upon his lips. She was delighted to see his face break into a mischievous smile.

“Aah, woman! You still know how to light the fire in my heart,” he teased and pulled her into an embrace.

“Mommy!” Raees hollered from the kitchen. Yasmina rolled her eyes while Jiyaad said,

“They just can’t leave you in peace, can they?”

“What is it?” Yasmina shouted back as she rose from the bed. She suddenly felt much better, as if her brief moment of intimacy with Jiyaad had restored her youth.

“The food is ready,” Raees replied. “Are you going to cook the rice?” he asked as Yasmina stepped into the tiny cubicle parading as a kitchen.

Yasmina peeked into the still slightly boiling pot to see what Raees had prepared. She nearly started to weep when she saw the little food in the small pot: he had used the last can of baked beans. To it, he had added an onion and a few potato slices. Yasmina composed herself before turning to Raees. “Thanks, my boy, for making the food. Mommy is really tired tonight. I will cook us some rice quickly. You and Shaakirah can watch some TV until it’s ready,” she told Raees, ruffling his mop of curly hair as he and Shaakirah passed her on their way out of the kitchen. Jiyaad entered the kitchen to look through the bags Yasmina had brought with her.

“Why has your boss given you all these toys?” he asked in confusion. “Why did you even take it? What do you plan to do with it since these are not suitable for Shaakirah?” Jiyaad queried, taking out a baby rattle, a number of stuffed animals, and some plastic trinkets.

“I thought we could give them to Mariam’s kids. My boss wanted to throw the toys away,” Yasmina explained while she was pouring water into the pot of rice, “but I told her I knew some kids who would appreciate them.”

“Okay, fine then. At least the blankets she gave will be useful,” Jiyaad conceded. “Can’t we sell the toys rather than just giving them away though?” he suddenly suggested.

“Jiyaad! I’ve already made the niyaah to donate them to Mariam. How can we now go and sell them?” Yasmina asked in outrage.

A ‘niyaah’ was an intention made to do something; Islamically, it was usually considered unacceptable to go back on one’s intention.

“Okay, okay. I was just asking, man. Anyway, when can we eat?” Jiyaad asked to change the topic. He disliked arguments too, but being unemployed had made him temperamental and short-tempered.

“In a minute. The rice is nearly ready. Lemme see if we have some fruit I can add to the meal,” Yasmina said before she looked into the fridge. Jiyaad knew what she would see: mostly bare shelves. The refrigerator held one egg, half a loaf of brown bread, a litre of milk, half a litre of fruit juice, some onions, two tomatoes, jam and their last nearly empty tub of margarine. At least it was the third week of the month so payday was around the corner.

“I guess we’ll just have to enjoy it as it is,” Yasmina remarked as she closed the fridge door. She gathered the empty dishes and handed them to Jiyaad. As she was about to dish up, somebody knocked at their door.

“Guests, this late?” Jiyaad said in surprise. Right then Raees shouted from the bedroom, “I’ll get it!” and ran to open the front door.

“Uncle Shaheed and Aunt Faieka, salaam!” Raees exclaimed upon seeing his father’s brother and his wife, greeting them with the Arabic word for ‘peace’. “Come inside,” the boy invited them. Yasmina and Jiyaad met them at the door to escort them into the lounge.

Being the considerate person that she was, the first thing Yasmina asked them was, “Have you eaten already? Sit, sit. Let me dish up for you,” she insisted as they took a seat in the now cramped lounge after having admitted that they had not had supper yet.

Shaakirah had come in to greet her relatives; however, both she and Raees quickly left to go back to the bedroom. Their parents had at an early age instilled in them the decency to leave adults to their conversations, so the children made themselves scarce.

“Excuse me for just a minute, guys,” Jiyaad said to his brother and sister-in-law before he followed Yasmina to the kitchen. He was surprised to find Raees and Shaakirah there as well.

“Mina, what are you going to give them to eat? Isn’t this all we have tonight? And the kids haven’t eaten anything yet,” Jiyaad complained in a whisper.

When Raees answered before Yasmina could, he left Jiyaad both speechless and inordinately proud of his son.

“Daddy,” Raees began, “they’re our guests, and on top of that, family. Let Mommy give them the food, it’s okay. We’ll have some jam sandwiches. Who knows if they’ve eaten anything at all today? You know how much they’re struggling since both of them lost their jobs last month. We’ll manage, by Allah’s grace,” said the young boy too wise for his tender years.

“And you know they’d never ask you for help, Jiyaad,” Yasmina added. Her heart was near to bursting with love for her son.

“I’m not hungry, Daddy. I’m sure Uncle Shaheed and Aunty Faieka will enjoy the food,” Shaakirah said unexpectedly. “I love jam sandwiches,” she added with a broad smile.

Jiyaad’s eyes suddenly brimmed over with tears, which he attempted to wipe away as soon as they spilled. He couldn’t so easily overcome the lump in his throat, or the love exploding in his heart.

Yasmina laboriously ascended the stairs to her third floor apartment, her back pain having returned with a vengeance earlier in the day. Her hands were empty of bags, but her heart was gloriously heavy with overwhelming love for her children. Last night had shown her where her true treasure lay, and she counted herself wealthy indeed.

“Praise be to Allah,” she said softly under her breath as she finally reached her front door. “What a beautiful life I have.”

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