The anthology Yes, I Am! (Junkets Publisher) collects experiences of writers who share what it is like to be South African, male and gay. In an edited extract from Aadil, author Rahiem Whisgary writes about coming out.
There’s a faint orange glow radiating from my room as I come upstairs. Everything inside me floats to the surface, dead. My bedroom door is ajar. I don’t breathe. I move softly, quietly, unconsciously. I push back the door and see my mother sitting on the bed, the torn Qur’an in her lap, a dry tissue in her hand and her red puffy eyes.
As she looks up to meet me, a fresh flood of tears clouds her vision. She wipes them away. She takes a few breaths. I just stand, frozen, waiting for the explosion.
“You know, Aadil,” she whispers, “I knew … I knew exactly what I was going to say to you … but now that you’re here …”
I just stand. I look at her lap. I look at the floor. I stare at my feet.
“I’ve tried, you know? You know I’ve tried,” she talks to her lap. “I’ve spoken to you. We … we disagree on a lot of things. And, and I suppose, it’s, it’s always been harder with you than with Ahmed and Zahrah.” She’s so soft, so meek, so vulnerable.
“You know, you know you’ve always been my little boy. My special boy. And even though we might not say it often, I love you.” A fresh flood of tears falls from her eyes.
“I know that you think Daddy doesn’t really care. But he does. He doesn’t know how to say it but he cares about all of you. And I respect you …”
“But,” she continues, “but I know that you have these … these homosexual tendencies,” — she looks up at me now as if gaining confidence — “and I can’t tolerate it. I won’t tolerate it. I can get you help. I’m willing to help you.”
She gets up, still holding the torn Qur’an and walks towards the door, towards me. I move along the wall, away from her. She stands in the doorway, just outside my room now. “I can get you help,” she repeats softly. “Would you like me to get you help?”
I slam the door in her face.
The sound of running water flows through my head, cleaning, refreshing. I breathe softly, slowly, rhythmically.
Just then, my head jolts up as there’s a bang on my door. The sound of running water is louder, real. I get up and look outside down the hallway. Zahrah calls to me as she rushes away.
“Mummy’s in the bathroom. I think there’s something wrong.”
I follow. As we get there, Ahmed is banging on the door. Our footsteps trigger tiny explosions of water on the soggy carpet. My father dashes down the stairs. He abruptly pushes us out of the way and nervously inserts the spare key into the hole.
He pushes the door open. We all enter at once.
A bullet suddenly pierces my lower back. I stop, dead still. My feet planted firmly in the flooded floor. The sound of running water is distant, in the background. And that colour. That familiar crimson colour that has stained the bath water and is now quickly streaking towards my planted feet.
She just lies there. Not moving, not trying to. Her naked chest slowly heaving with each dying breath.
Ahmed is the first to rush up to her, to try to move her. The finest hint of a smile appears and I see what she sees: The whole family together, connected; she’s managed to do in death what she could never do in life.
I slowly walk towards the bath. I see the knife on the floor which she’s used to slit her wrist. Ahmed is also motionless now, realising the futility of trying to save her. I tentatively step towards her. With a quick impulsive sweep, I embrace her, the bloodied water staining my jeans.
Zahrah, behind me, impulsively bends to hold her, too. A few seconds later, we’re all holding on to each other, all holding on to her, in one group hug, feeling her breathe for the last time.
In the mosque I see throngs of men sitting on plush olive-coloured carpets in neatly formed rows running along the length of the building. Despite the heat outside, the long white cloak I’m wearing and the toppee [fez] on my head, I shudder.
I inhale, trying to fill myself with warmth. I feel so out of place. So alien. I’ve grown up going to mosque my whole life but I know I don’t belong. And these people. These strange men with big beards, constantly shaking hands, hugging and cheek-kissing each other.
I occasionally get stopped and hugged and offered sympathies. I’m fine. Ahmed is in the centre of it all. He mingles with the men. He talks to them. He’s a part of them.
Ahmed and several men walk to the back. They pick up the coffin covered in a green cloth and carry it on their shoulders to the front of the mosque. Suddenly everyone is standing, forming straight lines along the length of the mosque. The coffin is placed in front. A man calls in Arabic, announcing that the prayer is about to start. I stand. I take a quick look at the coffin, give a slight nod in that direction, to my mother, acknowledging her, thanking her. I turn around and leave. I walk through the throngs of men, ignoring their stares.
I’m leaving, going, emancipated, liberated, boundless, free. I run. The sun warms my face, my spirit. I run. I tear my toppee off and toss it into the air. I run. I pull my cloak up over my head and toss it into the air. I run.
Yes, I Am is compiled by Robin Malan and Ashraf Johaardien