This group meets on the 4th Friday of the month in the Oak Room at Parklands at 13:30.

The Temptation of Eve

by Sobhna Poona

Eve lives in the village of Eden. It basks in the sight, smells and decibels of spring. Flowers flirt with bursting colour and fragrances waft into the air. Eve enjoys the symphony of sounds as she picks delicate buds and fragrant herbs, and places them in her basket. Suddenly she hears a deep voice. “Hello Eve, my dear.” Eve spins around. There’s nobody there.

“Hello Eve,” the voice repeats. Eve moves towards the sound of the voice. Still, she sees no one. Then she hears a slithering sound. “SSSSSSS.” She looks up. There curled along a tree branch lies a snake with its head held high, its eyes darting from side to side. Eve is entranced. The snake smiles, its tongue licks the air in sensuous flicks as it eyes the low lying fruit. “Are you hungry Eve?” the snake asks.

Eve sees the apples that hang temptingly low from her neighbour’s tree, their rosy skins glisten in the sunlight. “Take one Eve. Take one my dear,” the snake repeats. Eve loves apples. She relishes the thought of spicy steamed apples and baked apple crumble. Her tummy gurgles. She is hungry. She quickly grabs the delicious treasure, stuffs it in her basket and hurries back indoors. She delights in the thought of having a delicious treat fresh from the garden.

Its dinner time so Eve concocts a new recipe as she prepares her pot. The water begins to bubble. Eve adds a dash of dark soy sauce, lots of fresh ginger, a pinch of black fungus, crushed star anise and finely chopped lemongrass. The aroma is enticing. She adds the sliced snake and stirs the pot. This recipe needs no apples.

THE END

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Foiled Again

by Sobhna Poona

It was Xmas eve, and Farmer Jane was carefully folding something large in a sheet of aluminum foil. Her fingers twisted both ends of the parcel, sealing in the contents. Then she ran her palm over the top of the mound before placing the tray in the hot oven.  Outside the kitchen window, Tom, a robust turkey, pressed his beak against the windowpane.  He swallowed hard as he watched the scene unfold. Then pacing back and forth, his periscope head scanned the environment, alert to every colour and movement.  Several hens arrived with a few noisy poults in tow. “Shhhh,” Tom said, as he quietened the crowd. They were all burdened by the same terrifying question. Who was going to be plucked next?

Tom was the oldest gobbler on the farm and in his own words “had avoided being carved, sliced and drizzled with sauce, one too many times”. “Now, now...settle down,” he said, as the hens clucked and chirped. “We must not be confused with our distant and stupid cousins the domesticated turkey commonly found in freezers. We are smart, wild turkeys, birds of superior intelligence and unpredictability. If we use our heads, we can all get through this unscathed.”  The colour of Tom’s head changed from white to blue to red as his emotions intensified.

“Kee-kee, kee-kee!” chorused the hens as they peered through the window.

At that moment, Farmer Jane leaned towards the oven, lifted the tray with gloved hands and set it on a large trivet. The hens gasped as she slowly unfurled the tin foil, allowing steam to puff into the air. The foil wrapping shimmered and rustled then fell open, revealing heaps of baby potatoes, chunks of pumpkin and butternut, a smattering of colourful pimentos, sliced red onions, chopped purple carrots and plump zucchinis. Aromas of cinnamon, butter and herbs wafted across the yard.

 “Foiled again!” Tom sighed in relief. Then he fluffed up his feathers, flew into the air, circled the crowd and landed again on his powerful legs. He enjoyed the attention; strutting about, raising his beak and displaying his long snood for all the hens to admire. The hens purred and yelped, clamouring for Tom’s attention. 

What are we thankful for?” Tom shouted jubilantly, strutting and gobbling.

“Vegetarians!” The happy hens chirped in chorus. “Vegetarians!”

THE END

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Railway Rani

By Sobhna Poona

The railway station rouses to a restless hum. Scores of platform dwellers pack up their shelters and queue for free tea and sandwiches at a kiosk adjacent to the tracks. A sign above the kiosk reads Rani’s Railway Kitchen. Two hours later, the bustling station is busier than usual. Crowds jostle along the bulging platforms, craning their necks in the direction of the incoming carriages. A special passenger is on board the nine am train. The locals call her Railway Rani, queen of the rail. Ranika looks out the first-class carriage window as the train chugs towards the city. The wheels clang, stirring her memories of

the first time she arrived in Durban, cold, wet and hungry.

She was only eleven years old when her alcoholic father sold her to a fifty-nine-year-old sailor. “It’s time for her to go,” he grunted, gulping a mouthful of cheap brandy. Her mother sobbed loudly as she packed Ranika’s belongings into a small suitcase. “What you wasting time for woman, let the girl do that herself. And what you doing with the uniform?”

“At least she can go to school until....” Her mother was bereft. She could not imagine her little girl sailing into the unknown with a stranger. Ranika remembers that tannic cold morning when she left home for school but didn’t board the school bus. Instead, she hopped on a train bound for Durban, a foreign place that had captured her imagination and stolen her youth. Her textured memory, in quotidian detail, folds her cardboard bed and stuffs her tattered blankets into a large potato sack, a ritual she mastered during the tough times living on the railway platform. She tilts her head backwards, thrusting her thoughts to the five days she spent in jail for shoplifting, and the one night in detention for stealing two loaves of bread from the delivery truck. She chuckles as she remembers kicking the angry driver when he tried to apprehend her. She ran fast and had gobbled almost half the loaf before he caught her.

As the train rolls in towards the station, it passes the red shed. It’s weathered but still sturdy after so many decades. “It must have been repaired many times,” Ranika smiles. “Broken and fixed, just like me. It just needed a little TLC to survive the storms.” Her eyes tear up as her memories crawl into a foetal darkness. She was cloaked in shame when the railway master found her hiding in that shed, battered, bruised and traumatised. He carried Ranika home to his wife where she found kindness and care. The childless couple were the best parents any child could ever want, and Ranika grew to love them, calling them aunty and uncle. She returned to school and went on to university, graduating with a Phd in social science. But Ranika did not forget the communities who lived on the periphery of a society that shunned them.

Ranika held dear the memories of kindness that had transformed her life. She dedicated her free time to the runaways and destitute, earning the name Railway Rani. Many people still recalled the winter’s morning, when a solitary figure in a sari appeared like an angel on the railway platform. “Railway Rani is here,” a voice whispered.

“Did she bring food and blankets?” another asked, unwrapping themselves from the plastic covers.

“And roti and milk,” an old voice murmured, as more bodies tumbled out of their makeshift beds. And so, the legend of Railway Rani spread across the city, and a permanent food kiosk providing hot meals was soon set up. She also established two permanent shelters where learning and teaching thrived, creating artists and poets whose voices were previously denied.  As the years passed, she watched runaways grow into homeless adults and adults grow old, get sick and die in their cardboard cribs.

The train slows down as it pulls into the station. Ranika imbibes the sumptuous sights and smells of celebration as her eyes meet the sea of smiles along the festooned platform. The mayor stands under a large board that reads: “Happy Birthday Ranika - 83 today”. The mayor will honour her with a key to the city. Ranika’s heart is light, with gratitude for a life well lived, and forgiveness for her mother and father.

THE END

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Lindiwe’s Story

By Sobhna Poona

Lindiwe shuffled along the queue, pulling her cabin luggage to the boarding gate. The looming overhead screen flashed. Her flight was going to be delayed by two hours. She exited the queue and nudged her tired body into the closest seat. It was cold, hard, and uncomfortable. The whirr of voices made her head spin, dragging her anxious mind to places she didn’t want to go. She breathed in deeply and exhaled, her thoughts pushing into her past, meandering to the farm where she grew up.

Those were happy times. They were poor. Her parents struggled to feed two children, her, and her twin sister, but they were happy. Things changed after her sister’s funeral, and the day she would never forget. The day she and her sister were playing hide and seek near the dam. She had searched for her sister, finally giving up, shouting, and giggling, “you win, you win, I give up”.  But there was no reply. “C’mon. Come out. Show yourself.  I give up.” She began shouting, then screaming for her sister, calling out her name.

A blur of faces quickly gathered at the dam.  Her sister’s body was found in the water. Lindiwe collapsed in her mother’s arms. Her father said she was reckless, irresponsible. She should have looked after her sister, his favourite of the two. Then her mother fell ill and died suddenly. Her father blamed Lindiwe for all the tragedy. He grieved, spoke less and less and soon the house sank into silence.  Twelve-year-old Lindiwe was shunted to relatives and later bundled onto a bus bound for Durban.

The bustling station frightened her. Lindiwe had never been to the city or seen so many people in one place. The cacophony overwhelmed her. It all seemed like a bad dream. She waited for hours, but nobody came to collect her. Tired and hungry, she dozed off behind the bus shelter. That was the night her life changed forever. A night she had plunged in the void of her subconsciousness. Now the memories rose like a sickening fog – dark, hazy, terrifying. The tears swelled her eyes.

A voice blared over the loudspeakers. “Flight SA 104 to East London now boarding at gate 8.” Lindiwe wiped her eyes. Her trembling hand grabbed her suitcase, and she slowly walked towards the boarding gate.

By the time Lindiwe arrived at the farm, daylight was dipping, and the sky, boasting hues of pink and purple, reminded her of halcyon days. She stood at the crumbling gate for a long time, closing her eyes, inhaling the scents and sounds, searching for familiarity. It all looked different, yet it all felt familiar. The trees were taller, the smells less intense, but it was so much quieter than she remembered. The gate creaked lazily as the polished wheels of her suitcase grazed the parched earth. Lindiwe stopped at the front door. Her father had fixed the old shack. It stood strong, a brick-and-mortar home she did not recognise but admired.

She left her bags at the door and followed the sound of music to the back yard. An old transistor radio, balanced on a rotting tree stump, belted out old jazz tunes. Suddenly she saw an image of her parents dancing across the jazz filled yard, their feet raising dust as they crooned and laughed together. Happier days, she thought as she turned down the volume.

Then she saw him, a frail figure kneeling in the vegetable patch, his one hand tugging at a stubborn weed. She edged closer. “Hello Papa,” she said, not sure if they were her thoughts or words spoken out loud. The man did not move. Suddenly a dog came running towards him, licked his face and then turned towards Lindiwe with a friendly bark. The man grabbed a gnarled stick and rose slowly to his feet, squinting as he turned to face her. She moved closer towards him, searching his wrinkled face for any signs of recognition, hope, maybe even love. But he just stared blankly at her. He did not know who she was.

Lindiwe felt the lump tighten in her throat. Any words she may have had suddenly slipped under the weight of thirty lost years and disappeared into an abyss of tangled emotion. So, it was true what her cousin had said in the email. Her father was demented and going deaf. Nonetheless, she had decided to come home, perhaps to see for herself or perhaps to find forgiveness, peace, maybe even rekindle the bonds that had frayed over so many tumultuous years. But the painful truth hung restlessly between them, father, and daughter so close yet so distanced by time, space, and memory. And as the sky wrapped the last glimmer of light, Lindiwe rushed towards her father, threw her arms around his bony shoulders, held him tightly and cried.

THE END

******

Fowl Play

by Sobhna Poona

 Aunty Gugu laughs as she tells her story. Her cheeks bulge into a mischievous smile and her eyes widen and dance like a happy child. We sit around a comforting fire. It crackles and bursts with a splintering light as the logs tumble and crumble under the pot, balanced over an improvised cooking pit. “Eish! I will neva try that one again,” Aunty Gugu giggles, shaking her head as she lifts the heavy lid off the three legged cooking pot.

“Ooh!” we exclaim in chorus, leaning in to anticipate the rest of her story.

I poke my nose closer to the bubbling pot. The aromas make my tummy gurgle. “So Aunty, tell us what happened.”

“Hai! You know that Chakalaka Chauke? Ya. He promised to keep me two nkuku for Christmas. Only two chickens, I ask for. But when I get to his spaza shop...  Ha! ...the fridge... it’s empty! So I say, hey Chauke, Iphi  nkuku? Where’s my two chickens? He babbles something. Says he sold out early in the morning. I know he sold to his cash customers. Didn’t want to sell to me on credit. Hai! I was so angry, and he knew it.”

Aunty Gugu places the lid back on the pot. The herbs and spices invigorate the air. My mouth waters. I can’t wait to tuck into that chicken. I lick my lips then sip on the liquid in my glass. “Well,” Aunty Gugu continues. On my way home I passed Mr Peri-Peri Pakistani’s shop. There were many people queuing in the shop. So I went in and rushed to the fridges at the back. And that’s when I saw Rosy. She was carrying four beeg chickens in a see-through plastic bag. Molo Rosy, I shouted. Everybody was cackling and pushing and shoving, so I don’t even know if she heard me. Hey! Then I saw it. The last one! Only one chicken was left thawing in the fridge. And it was a beeg one too. Hey! I wished for some Christmas magic to happen. But... Nothing! So...I made my own magic. I leaned forward, grabbed the wet bag and... Abracadabra, I shoved it under my blouse. Then I wriggled, adjusted the belt on my skirt and nestled the wet bird.” Aunty Gugu pauses. She pokes at the flames. The heat reflects in her eyes. We laugh, enthralled by her animated story telling.

“And then what?” I ask impatiently.

“I looked around the busy shop, picked up a small juice and made my way to the till. The queue was long and the chicken was cold and wet. I was almost at the till when I suddenly felt the chicken slipping down my skirt. I pressed my arms against my belly to hold it in place. And then ...” Aunty Gugu pauses, takes a breath and continues. “I felt water dripping down my legs. Seconds passed. Then a voice shouts.  ‘Her water broke. Call an ambulance’. I started to sweat. The shop started to spin, and then, I fainted.”

The fire crackles loudly as we sit in silence. “The next thing I remember, I’m in an ambulance. Whee whah! whee whaa! The siren was so loud, my head hurt. Then I hear a soft voice. ‘How you feeling Aunty Gugu?’ Sjoe! What a surprise! It’s Aggie, Rosy’s daughter. She’s a paramedic. Aggie! I exclaim, my hands immediately searching over my belly.

‘Sshh!’ Aggie puts her finger over her lips, leans forward and whispers into my ear. ‘No baby Aunty, but the chicken? It’s very healthy. She was cold, so I wrapped her in a blanket.’ Then she places the bundle in my arms. ‘Merry Christmas Aunty,’ she says with a soft chuckle and kisses me on my cheek.

When we arrived at the hospital, Agnes put me in a taxi with my bundle safely in my arms. And here she is.” Aunty Gugu chortles loudly, pointing to the pot in a dramatic gesture. She lifts the lid, releasing a zest of aromatic spices. Suddenly, I’m not hungry anymore.  All thoughts of enjoying THAT chicken have disappeared.

THE END

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