Girl of the Book

Women in Black

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‘Wow!’ I blinked and looked around. I wasn’t dreaming. Some women on our side of the plane were struggling to get into long black robes. In the tight space between the seats, they wriggled, their elbows looking like mountain peaks underneath the black fabric as they tried to slip their arms into the sleeves.

The girl to my right had some really cool skinny jeans and a tight sleeveless top when we boarded, and I thought she had a beautiful body. She looked like the Barbie doll Lara, with her thin lips and pretty long hair that fell down her back. Now, covered up in a black robe, she was tying a piece of black cloth over her face so that all that was left visible were her eyes.

What was happening, and why were these women getting into black outfits? Why only now?

Mum yawned and stretched in her seat. The voice of the flight attendant on the loudspeaker had woken her up. She reached inside her bag and pulled out a scarf. A black one. No, really I’m not kidding.

‘Mum,’ I said, ‘what are you doing?’

‘What does it look like I’m doing, honey? I’m wearing my scarf, of course.’

‘Yeah, I can see that you are wearing a scarf...a black one,’ I said.

‘What’s wrong with it being black?’ She yawned again, leaned on her seat, and closed her eyes. Either Mum was too tired and sleepy or she was pretending not to notice the other women who were rapidly putting on loose-fitting black robes.

I looked across to where Dad was sitting. He was reading a newspaper. Or trying to read it, as it was hard not to notice the women. I didn’t think it was a good idea to ask him because that would mean leaning over my brother Pete and whispering across the aisle.

‘Muuuuum,’ I said.

She opened one eye and looked at me.

‘What?’ she said, opening the other one.

‘Why are those women wearing black robes over their dresses?’

‘Ah...that,’ Mum said and adjusted her scarf. ‘We’re going to Saudi Arabia, remember?’

‘And?’

‘I told you, in Saudi Arabia women dress differently.’ She adjusted her scarf again.

Mum had had a long conversation with me about how life would be different in Saudi Arabia. She had told me about how men and women didn’t mix in public places, how women weren’t allowed to drive, and how women had to dress modestly and cover up their bodies, but I didn’t remember her telling me that those changes would start right here on the plane.

The first conversation we had about Saudi was on a Sunday evening after dinner. I was in my room listening to Selena Gomez’s A Year Without Rain when Mum asked to talk to me.

‘Are you OK, Mum?’ I asked. I was lying across my bed, but I sat up when I saw the look on her face.

She sat beside me, pushed a lock of hair behind my ear and said, ‘I’m fine, honey. Just got a few things on my mind.’

I guessed something reeeeally bad must have happened.

‘Then why do you look so sad?’ I asked.

‘Do I?’ She forced a smile. I could tell it was fake because I didn’t see the lovely dimples she usually got when she smiled.

I nodded. She drew closer to me and put her arm across my shoulders.

‘You know, honey, there’s something your dad and I have been discussing lately. We spent several days arguing about it, and we figured out that it might be the best thing for us to do right now.’

I looked at her, wondering what was coming next. Had they come up with another way of punishing me for sneaking out the previous week and attending a party after Dad had said ‘No’? Were they going to send me off to a boarding school like our neighbours, the Joneses, did to their daughter because they thought she was becoming undisciplined? I waited for Mum to continue, my heart racing as if I were being chased by a wild beast.

‘Your dad’s got a job as a site supervisor for a large construction company. In fact, he’ll be earning much more than what he currently earns,’ she said.

‘But that’s good news,’ I said, relieved that the conversation wasn’t about me.

‘Yeah, but the job’s in Saudi Arabia.’

‘Saudi Arabia!’ I exclaimed. ‘What? Dad’s going to move to Saudi Arabia?’

‘No.’ She squeezed my shoulder hard. ‘We’re all going with him.’

I thought my heart had stopped beating for a few seconds. I had never lived anywhere else besides Sandton, our home town. The furthest place Pete and I had travelled to was Pretoria, where we spent nearly every summer holiday with Dad’s parents, Granny Sue and Grandpa Joe. Mum’s parents had died long before we were born and every other close relative lived in one of the suburbs of Johannesburg, except for Mum’s sisters, who lived in Britain.

‘This isn’t fair!’ I yelled, moving out of her grasp. ‘You didn’t even ask my opinion before deciding. Did you and Dad even consider that this is totally going to destroy my life?’

‘Please, honey, calm down,’ Mum said. ‘We know it’s going to be a major change in our lives...for all of us. But we’ve thought about it over and over, and we think it might be good, financially, for your dad to accept this offer.’

‘Oh! It’s about the money, then,’ I retorted, trying to force the tears back. ‘What about my life? My friends? My school? Granny and Grandpa?’

‘Honey, it’s not only about the money.’ She pulled her cardigan tightly around herself. ‘We thought this was an opportunity to put more money aside for you and your brother’s education.’ She extended her arms and said, ‘Come here.’

I suddenly burst into tears, and she came over and took me in her arms. I didn’t cry because my life was going to be destroyed. I cried because this was such a huge decision, and Mum said they’d been talking about it for several days. They hadn’t bothered to find out how I, or Pete, felt about the whole moving thing.

‘I’m sorry, honey. It’s going to be OK.’

‘It’s not going to be OK! We’re going to move to another country...no, to a country in the middle of the desert!’ I twisted out of her grip, climbed into my bed, and lay down with my back to her.

Mum sat for several minutes without saying another word. Then she tucked the bed covers around me and kissed me on my head. Dad came in a little after she had left, but I closed my eyes tightly and pretended to be asleep.

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We didn’t talk about Saudi Arabia again until after a few days later when Dad brought it up at dinner.

‘Can we pray?’ Dad said.

That was weird. Dad never prayed before meals except on Christmas, Harvest Festival, New Year’s Eve and New Year’s Day.

Pete placed a piece of chicken that he had bitten on his plate and closed his eyes. I smiled and closed my eyes, too.

‘Lord, we thank you for this family. We thank you for being with us throughout this year and for opening new doors. At this moment, when we’re facing the challenge of moving to another country, we pray that you guide us in every step that we take.’ He paused and cleared his throat. ‘Lord, help our kids to adjust to the change, help them to make new friends, and help them to learn from this new experience. Thank you again, Lord, for your kindness, and bless us as we share this meal. Amen.’

‘Amen,’ we said in unison.

Pete took another bite of the chicken and said, ‘Daddy, are there dinosaurs in this new country that we’re moving to?’

‘No, buddy.’ Dad laughed.

‘Then why did you ask God to help us and give us new friends if dinosaurs didn’t eat up everybody already?’

Pete had a thing about dinosaurs that I didn’t understand. Mum and Dad always let him sleep with the lights on because he said dinosaurs appeared in his room when the lights were switched off. Dad had tried to convince him that dinosaurs no longer existed, but with all the real-looking dinosaurs that were shown on TV, it was hard for Pete to be persuaded. In fact, it was impossible to make him understand that the dinosaurs on TV weren’t real.

‘Dinosaurs didn’t eat anybody,’ Dad said. ‘Life in this new country is just kind of different. People dress, talk and behave differently, so I thought I could ask God to help you make friends and like the place.’

‘I don’t think it can be that hard to make friends with people who talk differently,’ Pete said, taking a spoonful of rice.

‘Sure, it is,’ Dad said, ‘and don’t speak with your mouth full. It’s a bad habit for a young man.’ 

After dinner, I helped Mum clean the dishes.

‘You know, you and I didn’t finish our conversation the other day, Cougar,’ Mum said.

Cougar, that’s what everyone called me—well, by everyone I meant Mum, Dad, Pete, Granny Sue, Grandpa Joe and my close friends. My name’s Courtney...Courtney Parker. You may be wondering, Why ‘Cougar’ and not ‘Coco’, ‘Court’, or ‘Corky’? Mum said I got nicknamed Cougar because I used to scream like a mountain cat when I was a baby, but Dad’s version of the story is totally different. He said I always called sugar ‘cougar’ when I was learning how to speak. Whatever the case may be, I think Cougar sounds more original and cool.

I swished soapsuds off a plate, pretending I hadn’t heard her. I didn’t know what she expected me to say.

She was also silent but after a while she said, ‘You know, it’s not easy for me either to leave everything behind and follow your dad to Saudi Arabia. My life’s here.’

‘How long?’ I asked, placing the plate on the drainer.

‘What?’

‘How long are we going to live in Saudi?’

‘Two years. Your dad’s got a two-year contract, which may be renewed if...’

‘Two years?’ I said, anger rising from my chest to my eyes. I didn’t want to cry again. ‘Two years is a long time, Mum.’

‘I know, honey. At least we’ll have about forty-five days every year to come back here and spend the holidays.’

That wasn’t reassuring, although it was better than having to spend two years away from home.

From then on, Mum didn’t miss a chance to tell me about Saudi Arabia whenever she had the opportunity. Once, when we went shopping for clothes, she chose a long ill-fitting gown that had long sleeves.

‘Mum, this doesn’t look like what you usually wear,’ I said, amused by her choice.

She smiled and said, ‘I know, but what else can I travel in to Saudi Arabia? I hear women are supposed to wear a long black dress called an abaya over their clothes.’

‘Supposed to? Who’s forcing them to wear double clothes in the desert?’ I asked.

‘Who’s forcing them? It’s the law, Cougar,’ Mum replied. ‘It’s a cultural thing. In fact, women wear the abaya for modesty so people...’ She paused and looked around as if someone were listening to our conversation. Then she whispered, ‘So men won’t bother them.’

‘What do you mean by men won’t bother them,’ I whispered.

She raised her brows and said, ‘How about I tell you that later?’ She tickled my side and I squirmed out of her grip, laughing.

‘You’re not going to get me a gown like this, are you?’ I asked.

‘I’m not sure. Jane said we could both wear what we liked, and so long as it covered our behinds, no one was going to bother us. Plus, if we arrive very early in the morning, it might not be a big deal because the streets will be practically empty.’

Jane was Mum’s friend who had travelled to one of those Arab countries—Iraq or Iran, I wasn’t sure—several years back. But she said she couldn’t stand life there and came back to South Africa after one month only.

‘OK, can I wear jean trousers and a long T-shirt, then?’ I asked.

‘That’s fine’.’

I went to the girls’ section, leaving Mum to