This is a story about Ayesha (not her real name), a beautiful seven-year-old girl who lives with her mother and stepfather, and her little brother, Ghalib, in a reasonably comfortable home in a place called Greenhaven. Here in the Western Cape, or what is more commonly known as the Cape Flats, the neighbors are a mixed breed of working class people and business folk; everyone is mainly concerned about putting food on the table and making ends meet. But then there are those who maintain a better lifestyle, like Ayesha's stepfather, Malik, who owns a reasonably profitable shoe store in the central part of Athlone, which is known as the hub of the Cape Flats and where the buyers are predominantly black.
Ayesha and her brother Ghalib attended our Madressa (religious and cultural institution) and a more lovable and dedicated pair no teacher could ask for. They were always punctual and never stayed away for anything; even on secular school holidays they would be there. We at the Madressa sometimes had our hands full just trying to get them to take the day off. Little did we know about the dastardly deeds that were taking place in their seemingly comfortable home, which were probably the driving force behind their coming to Madressa so ardently.
But let me not waste time with preliminaries, let me tell the story as it happened to Ayesha. And let me also add that I can only tell it like it is – that this is what happened, to the best of my knowledge.
Ayesha placed her doll next to her on the pillow and said, "You must be a good girlie now. You must go to sleep!" She pulled the blanket over it and added. "Tomorrow we can play again. Okay?" She kissed the plastic face tenderly and lay down herself. "Okay?" She looked at the doll seriously, as if expecting an answer.
She wanted to say something else, but then the door opened slowly and she froze. A dark shadow appeared in the doorway.
Her heart started to pound and she had trouble breathing. She could smell the sweat of the man as he came further into the room and hovered over her.
"Hello, Ayesha," he said, placing his short, pudgy frame down next to her on the bed. "You haven't been a good girl today. Have you?" It was Malik, her stepfather.
She didn't answer. She was too terrified. Malik had a grin on his round face.
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