S.E. Bhamjee's Blog, page 2

I'm Finally Published (Insert virtual Ticker Tape Parade!)

 I first started writing some 22 years ago. 

At the time, it was a way of dealing with severe Postnatal Depression.

It was part of my therapy process. A way to heal. 

Over time these first words which my succour from suicidal thoughts and a darkness so thick, I couldn’t believe light existed, evolved. They became articles which I submitted to various Islamic publications.I even wrote for Islam Online. Today, many, many years later, some of these early pieces still exist on websites I’ve never heard of. The firm favourites seem to be the ones about In laws. 

You can find some here and here

But since human beings are not static creatures and we’re constantly growing, changing, my writing journey finally arrived at my first love. Fiction. Something I had set aside completely when I had my religious epiphany at 16, which saw me ditch school in favour of religious instruction. Aka Daarul Uloom. I remember the guilty pleasure I experienced, reading Leila Aboulela’s The Translator. Hers was one of the first works of fiction I picked up when I got back to reading with the kind of greed I’d only experienced as a child and teen.  

THIS was what I had been born to do, I decided. So I started writing fiction. At first, I wrote only Islamic Fiction. Short stories which were all, probably quite awful. But they were words meant to guide people, strengthen them in their conviction and faith. Islamic fiction was a burgeoning industry back then and my words found some appreciation, appearing in magazines and on websites, I even had a book of children’s poems about the 99 Names of Allah published. It is, sadly, out of print now. But is how it looked.

I’m not sure when the seed for my novel (which is FINALLY out in the world) was planted. E-mail exchanges with loyal friends who were willing to be subjected to the awfulness that is an early draft indicate that I had a version out in 2016. 

But I know I had an even worse version ready in 2010. And boy do I feel the readers of THAT particular load of drivel sorry!

If you were one of them, I really am sorry to have subjected you to that brand of logorrhea. But you helped make this book happen. And for that I will always be grateful. Your words of encouragement, those are what kept me going. Had you been brutally honest with me back then, I, most likely would have given up. Or not. 

I’m stubborn, like that.

When I tired of the process, felt it had been dragging on for too long, I made a deal with myself:

The final version HAD to be finished by the time I turned 40. 

That was a good six and a half years ago. I turn 47 in August.

I won’t bore you with the details of how Home Scar finally found its way between a beautiful cover, and how it’s going to be launched next Tuesday, and how I will be on a panel (a panel, dammit!- okay, it’s actually two panels 😀) at the Kingsmead Book Fair.

I will just say that if you’re in Jozi and if you’ve been reading me now and again on this here blog, and if my words have ever resonated with you, please come to the launch.

My awesome publisher, Modjaji Books, aka Colleen Higgs will be there. 

My awesome kids will be there and my wonderful but very tiny group of friends will be there.

And I will be there.

Come listen to me talk (and hopefully not trip over words) . I will be in conversation with the inimitable and super famous Qaanitah Hunter.

Come exchange your thoughts with me.
Let’s talk life journeys, and growth,. And becoming. 

Because at it’s core, that is what Home Scar is all about. 

And maybe, come buy a book? Or two?

I’m an optimist, like that.

See you next Tuesday.

Aameen!

The Light Bringers

 

Today I sawa father dedicate the destruction of family homes to his two year-old daughter,in a video that travelled the entire world.

I sawanother clutch the lifeless body of his little girl to his chest, kiss hereyes, try to open them once more, before finally keeping one of her littleearrings as a momento of the soul of his soul before wrapping her in her kafn.

I sawpeople cheer the destruction of a mosque. Others turn it into a game where theydropped beats each time they pressed the kill switch.

I sawbodies of children crushed by buildings that were bombed on top of them.

🖌️: Malik Qraiqea
I saw people send videos into the world of themselves parodying the starvation ofthousands.

I saw alittle boy rejoice as he collected rain water to slake his thirst and that ofhis near ones. 

And Iwondered: What world is this we live in? A world where this has become a norm?We are broken. Humanity is broken.

🖌️: Malik Qraiqea

And then Isaw people from every walk of life gather in their thousands to demand an endto the bloodshed. Demand a ceasefire. Stand with Palestine. I heard the voicesraised in protests. Not in our names. And hope caught fire in me once more.Perhaps Humanity isn’t broken after all.

We’re bloodied.Bruised. Beaten. Heavy of heart and grieved to our souls. But we are notbroken. So let the war mongers beat the war drums. Let them barter their souls for money, stolen land. We will not be defeated. Humanity, human decency is still alive, still strong in more people than it isn't.

As 2023gallops to the finish line, many of us, holding on for dear life, because thepace feels too manic, the days, too heavy, I want to send some positivity intothe world.

If you wokethis morning, safe, warm, fed, with someone, even if it be just one person, wholoves you enough to know their world would never be the same without you, thensay, Alhamdulillah.

You are blessed. This is your light. Stoke it, with gratitude. With goodness, until it becomes a beacon for others.

With theworld descending into the kind of madness none of us ever imagined we’d witness,now, more than ever before, we must count our blessings. The big ones. The littleones. And every single one in between. Spread goodness wherever we can. Be kind. 

It’s thelight that will keep us on our feet in our darkest moments.

It’smillions of people sending gratitude into the world, that translates into kindness to everyonewe meet, that will banish the darkness in the end. We don’t need to do greatthings to be fulfilled. We just need to do good things. Things that bringlight.

On thatcheerful note: My novel may finally get to meet the world. The cover design isjust about done.  Thank you, Modjaji Books, for this.

I (whilst having HUGE anxiety regarding the opposite) hope it will bring light for itsreaders. I hope it will move them, restore their faithin life, inspire gratitude. And perhaps, add some value, some beauty, to the world. Because, always, Istrive, in little ways, to leave the world better than I found it.

 

Somehow, itfeels, like that’s the least anyone can do.

May 2024bring goodness to each of us. Bring an end to the suffering of the Palestinian people,the Congolese people, and oppressed peoples everywhere. May it deliver justiceto them. Aameen

Have fantastic holidays, y'all. And Season's Greetings to everyone!

Best Of Joburg, Courtesy 94.7

 On the day our Salted Caramel Cheesecake finished among the Top Three Cheesecakes on the radio station, 94.7’s Best Of Joburg competition that sought to identify the VERY Best cheesecake in All Of Joburg, my brother sent me this heartwarming message:

Congrats on your achievement

I know 3rd place is not what you’re used to

You’re still no 1 to us

Insha Allah no1 worldwide, coming soon

We ended up having a conversation, my bro and I, about my overachiever tendencies, which I have come to call ‘Perfectionism’. Sounds kinder than ‘overachiever’, methinks. I’ve always been a perfectionist. I’ve always pushed myself to reach higher, never satisfied until I was at the top. But then, I grew up.

ON the subject of the Cheesecake, I was okay with 3rd Place. More than okay, in fact, with making the Top Three because this meant that from thousands of cheesecakes served up at thousands of establishments all over Joburg, people remembered ours. And these wonderful people chose us. We made it through the initial rounds and finished among the best. And that’s an honour. One that I do not take lightly. Not anymore. 

I’m all for celebrating ALL my achievements. Life is too precious not to. 

The truth is, Upcycled Cafe is serving up the Best Possible Cheesecake I could come up with. My own recipe. And it makes people go mmmmmm. And that’s fantastic! It doesn’t matter that on a particular day, a few people decided, two other establishments were doing a better cheesecake than we were. I’d checked out of that competition at the beginning. The only person; place I compete with is me and my own. Each day I push myself and my team push themselves to do a bit better. Admittedly, sometimes we fail, but always, we rise again and try again. And to me, that’s the real measure of success. 

Some years back, I entered the Writivism Short Story competition, three years in a row. I made their shortlist three years in a row. I didn’t win three years in a row. And I took this hard. Very hard. I felt like a failure. I didn’t focus on the fact that making a shortlist THRICE, that's an achievement in and by itself. That’s what I ought to have celebrated. But I didn’t. Instead I made myself miserable. Hindsight being what it is, I now realise that at the time, I desperately needed the affirmation a win would have translated into. Here I was, self-taught, word-loving, wannabe writer, competing alongside degree holders. What did I know?

But I knew words. And three times, their judges had decided that I knew enough of them. That ought to have been enough for me. 

And I know food. So here I am, self-taught, food-loving Chef, giving people things to smile at every day. Loving what I do, even on the hard days. 

Measuring myself against my own standards of excellence. And that’s enough for me. It has to be. 

So if you’re looking outward and finding yourself falling short by other people’s standards, look inwards and ask yourself: Am I falling short by my own standards? And if you aren’t, if you’re truly giving every day your best, that’s enough. That’s plenty. Celebrate your plenty!

I now give you pictures of some of our best cheesecakes. Eat with your eyes. They're yum!
Hazelnut Ricotta Cheesecake

White Chocolate and Berry Cheesecake

The now-famous Salted Caramel Cheesecake      Kunafa Turkish Delight Cheesecake
Spiced Pineapple and Passionfruit Cheesecake

A Worthy Love

 The world falls silent when Death enters a room. A heaviness descends. This is what I felt on my first night in ICU after a surgery that I had prepared for as one would prepare for death. 

But it wasn’t me, that Malakul Maut (The Angel of Death) was visiting. It was the elderly Gentleman in the bed opposite my own, whose hacking cough all that afternoon had left me, even in my pain-killer induced haze, wondering whether he would live to see the new day. Later that night, I was woken by the sound of  quiet sobbing and I knew, even before I dragged myself back from the depths of sleep, that he’d breathed his last. 

I opened my eyes, to see the curtains drawn tight around his bed. I watched his family drizzle out from behind the curtains in various states of bereavement.

Had he had a good life, I wondered?

Had he been truly loved?

Valued?

Seen?

And then all thoughts were gone as I drifted off again, medication taking the driver’s seat. 

As the days wore on and I grew stronger, I thought back to the days that had led to this. It’s surreal, preparing to die. Living each day with one goal only: readiness. To go Home. 

I did all the things one would expect of a person about to embark on life’s last journey:

Issued the final instructions regarding my business, the debts I owed. 

Ensured that I was bathed and properly depilated. No one would give my ghusl and find I’d been slack in the personal hygiene department, I reasoned. 

Sent letters to each of my children (via Whatsapp, naturally - this IS, after all, 2023), telling them what each of them mean to me.

A letter for my husband, too. At least they’d have this to hold on to if I didn’t make it.

Messaged friends. ‘Just to check-in.’ They didn’t need to know any details. Just that I’d thought of them at the end (if I didn’t make it).

Made a point of thanking those who had shown me kindness. 

Prayed. A lot. After all, that’s the only thing that really matters, no? Making right with Allah. 

And then I pushed all my sadnesses, all my disappointments at how some of my personal relationships had turned out into the darkest parts of my being and I trusted in His Mercy. He knew I'd tried. 

I was ready to return home. My mother was waiting for me. And how I'd been longing for her of late!

But I pulled through those days in hospital. Was strong (according to an ICU nurse).Did better than most (according to a night-shift nurse).  I was home soon enough where some of the worst nights of my life lay ahead of me. 

I learned during those long nights, seated in the lounge, because laying down felt like my lungs would give out altogether, that when Death truly comes to look in on you, Life loses its shine. You find no comfort in the things that once comforted you, no joy in the things that once made you smile. You realise (for the first time ever!) that even Zikr requires a presence of mind and you’re devastated when it dawns on you that you don’t even have that much. It’s all very sobering. Our strength, sense of agency, these are little more than illusions, granted us by His grace alone. 

But I lived, alhamdulillah, by Allah’s mercy. And with it, I learned that life, this trial filled blessing truly is fleeting. You’re only really invested in it when you think there’s more of it ahead, just past this sickness-sodden curve, or this accident-riddled stretch. Any idea that you may well be nearing the end of your allotted time, and your gaze grows fixed on the Next Life. You sever all worldly attachments. You ask yourself whether you’d truly done your best to ensure comfort in the life that really matters. 

In recent days it’s occurred to me that after my death, in the tiny space of a mere two generations, everyone who’s ever known or loved me will be gone. There will be no one left on earth to pray for me. No one who would even remember where my bones are entombed. Just two generations and every trace that I had once walked among men will be gone. That’s not a lot of time. 

It gives me great comfort then, to know that even when all humankind stops knowing, Allah doesn’t. He would still know where my body was laid to rest. Had I lived a worthy life, He would still love me. For eternity. And on His instruction, so would His angels. They would still pray for me when none of my kin and loved ones remain to do so. 

That is true love. 

It is also the greatest love worth striving for. 

May we all be Blessed enough to know its comfort. 

Aameen. 

P.S. Hope you all Ramadhaan'ed well and that Eid was a joyous celebration of a life spent in His obedience as families. Aameen

Facebook Memories

 I have the ultimate love-hate relationship with Facebook memories.

Often (far too often), it serves as a timeline by which I track my trajectory from annoying AF adult, to summat normal adult. The ones that remind me of  my annoying days, those are the memories I hate! 

Saaleha Bhamjee is ...listening to the sound of the ocean.

Saaleha Bhamjee is ready to throw a tantrum. 

Saaleha Bhamjee (who went as Afrocentric Muslimah, back then) is an annoying asshat!

If I can't stand the person I was, how the hell did other people deal?! How did I even make friends? Create lasting connections? AND MOST importantly, WHY did anyone find my inane oversharing interesting enough to engage (because engage, we did!)?

But occasionally, this near obsolete platform that is Facebook serves up some real memory gems. 

Pictures of my children when they were little. Family get-togethers, everyone as one, enjoying simple pleasures. Family holidays, my kids disheveled from the pool, burnt a rich toffee brown. There were no 'aesthetic' images. If anything, the pictures were poorly taken on my old Blackberry. We didn't stay in 5 star accommodation that we could brag about on Instagram. Our holidays were so local, it would be laughable in this day and age. Think Durban central. But they were still so very special. Love lived there. Loud, large and unapologetic. 

No one took selfies  when we went out (which means no one needed to preen ahead of a picture and priceless time wasn't frittered away getting the perfect shot of your good side). Everyone lived in the moment and the moments were amazing. They were also priceless but we didn't know it then. We didn't know that we would look back on those moments 10 years into the future with a stab of longing because we'd have no way of getting them back. Everything would change. We would change. And perhaps, not entirely for the better. 

"It was a simpler time," we tell ourselves.

"Life was easier then.."

How pretty our lies. 

WE were simpler then.

WE were easier then.

We gave of ourselves wholeheartedly. And yes, when we got hurt, betrayed, let down, it cut deep, In our bid to keep out the hurt that came from loving unreservedly, we built walls, fortresses. And in so doing, we shut out the love along with the hurt. 

But love is messy. It's meant to be messy. It's meant to hurt deep because it's meant to run deep.

So here we are, safe from hurt, safe from "people who add no value to our lives."

"People who bring toxic energy."

But we're also safe from people who love us (or perhaps, loved, who knows? No one talks anymore). 

Cutting family out was never meant to bring goodness. Which is why it's expressly forbidden in Islam, . But we find it so easy today to cut out siblings, parents, children. 

Someone not giving us what we want? Snip.

Someone not telling us what we want to hear? Snip.

Someone showing us the kind of care that clashes with the version of ourselves we're trying to 'curate'? Snip.

Because the internet, nay the WHOLE DAMNED WORLD has told us that we are the centre of our own little universes. The centre of the Universe is a cold, lonely place, innit?

After all this pruning, our lives are not better for it. They may run a little more smoothly, because there aren't enough people about to cause friction. But they're hollow. Lonely. We're lonely. Disconnected. Looking for meaning, validation, self-worth, in places where the encouraging words are currency to be exchanged.

I miss the time when my own family got together and laughed and joked and loved. In truth though, it's not the time I miss, it's the me who was able to do this that I long for.

Sometimes, it feels like everything is so far broken that there's no way to make it whole again. 

But for now, I'm going to plan a picnic. That was a simple joy, wasn't it?

The Year that Was...

 Over the last decade or so that this blog has been the placeI come to when I’m trying to make sense of the world, I’ve done severalyear-end posts. A common theme seems to have been: Phew, what a rough year! Hopefully next year is better. That this was a recurring theme, year on year, proves that I was living in La La Land. That I was approaching the business of introspectionall wrong. I needed a healthy dose of perspective.

Life was quick to oblige.

 After living through the loss ofmy mother and a whole pandemic and loss of loved ones to cancer or covid and aseries of painful relationship losses, I realised that we only ever really haveThe Now. And that life, with its inexpressible beauty and pain is alsointensely fragile.  Our hold on mostthings is nowhere near as secure as we imagine it to be. 

Even our grip on reality is tenuous, at best.

So this year, instead of looking at how far I’ve come, atall I’ve surmounted, at the demons I’ve stared down or lost to, I want,instead, to look back on 2022 with a thankful heart for the good things that havefound their way into my life. Whether they be people, lessons or blessings. After all, everything that comes our way, both the good and the bad, does so by His leave, alone.

The most prominent blessing of 2022 has to be that I amstill here. Still breathing, Still loving, Still laughing. Sound in Body and Soundin Mind. Alhamdulillah, hamdan katheeran.

That I still have all my children to love even when it seemsthat they strain against that very love, wantingfreedom from the burden of it.

That I still have a steady source of income, muchbetter than I’ve had before. Far too manyhave suffered unimaginable financial losses these last three years so this isno small bounty.

That I’ve made new friends (I am notoriously unfriendly,apparently), who have added joy to my life.

That my workload feels more manageable now thanks to really greathelp.

That I have the best team at work that any employer could everwant.

That I’m still able to spread joy through my work.

That I still have dreams.

Wishing everyone the capacity to dream bigger, love harderand laugh louder in 2023.

And if at any time my words have added something to yourday, small or big, then spare a prayer for me for the same.

Live well. Until we meet again in the shadow of my words, fi amanillah. 

Yours, in freindship

              Saaleha

Gossip Mill

 

Malicious rumours seldom upset me. Mostly though, they makeme angry and more than just a little sad. As a community, are we really thatbroken, I find myself thinking, each time this pernicious speculation scorchesthe life of someone I know?

The level to which the gossip goes beggars belief sometimes.

A simple example: during the course of this year, I realisedthat what I needed more than anything right now, after a lifetime of hard work,is downtime. To this end, I put out the word that both, our Lakeside Mall andMackenzie Park Lazeeza’s stores are up for sale.

Cue: flurry of speculation.

These veered from the plausible: we’re emigrating, to thepreposterous: my husband and I are getting a divorce.

Of the two juicy gossip titbits, no prizes for guessingwhich one gained the most traction.  Therot ran so deep that my children were being asked about it at school, by theirpeers. Since when do teens pay mind to the gossip of adults??

But the fact that someone out there saw fit to send this thoughtout into the world and many someones thought to spread it, indicates thatperhaps, on some bizarre level, this is what people would want to see?

Another example: two months ago, the company that had madethe tables for my Asian Restaurant, Origami, came by on a Monday (the one dayin the week when we are closed for business) to collect 4 of the tables forrepairs.

Cue: closing down rumours.

My staff came in to work the next day and were inundatedwith enquiries and calls about our imminent closure. For weeks after, UpcycledCafé, our other restaurant, fielded calls about whether Origami was stilltrading. (It still is, in case you’re wondering.)

Again, that this was the FIRST rumour to take flight, doesthis mean that the failure of Origami is something that this community that Iam a part of, that I contribute to by creating jobs, that I strive to bring joyto by aiming for excellence in all that I do, so that everything purchased fromany of our stores is of the best possible quality, made from the bestingredients, would want to see?

Would that make someone somewhere happy? Why?

The answer comes from this oft-quote-but seldom-internalisedHadith:

So in a nutshell, this, right here, is our problem? An incomplete faith that causes us to wish ill upon others instead of celebrating their successes?

I feel joy when people succeed against the odds. Mostly, because I know just how hard that is. Because I know how much effort and how much faith and how much hanging in there, this takes. So I find this mentality perplexing.

I recently heard from a friend that his frequent business trips out of town led to ‘second wife’ speculation. This hurt him and his family. Someone else took up xyz as a hobby. Suddenly, she needed to do so because her husband was leaving her. She took this poisonous rumour hard. Someone else decided to downsize their home now that their kids are married. Apparently they’re getting a divorce too? Seldom have I seen a closer couple, to be honest, but even they were not spared.

Where has the fear of Allah gone in our communities? Do we not realise that these words will come back to haunt us on that day when we will have no means of making amends for them? That they will be weighed against the good deeds that we collect like trophies and we will be found to be lacking at that moment that we’re most in need of good deeds?

Wake up, Ummah of the Beloved. You have not TRULY believed until you wish well for others. So the next time someone pours poison in your ears, let it die there. Your Imaan is at stake. Your aakhirah is at stake.

Allah, himself, warns us of this behaviour in Surah Nur, Aayah 15, where He says in reference to the slander incident inflicted on The Prophet (PBUH)’s own wife:

“When you received it with your tongues and said with your mouths that of which you had no knowledge and thought it was insignificant while it was, in the sight of Allah, tremendous.”

As an Ummah that has survived a pandemic, has come to see people die in strange and unprecedented ways, suddenly, silently, have we not taken the time to evaluate our own mortality, our own accountability?

May Allah show us all the truth for what it is and grant us the taufeeq to follow it, and show us falsehood for what it is and grant us the ability to avoid it.

The change starts with you. 

Bismillah.

I want to die...

 

I want todie in the wee hours of the morning, whilst the white thread of dawn is weavingits way into the dreams of people as a Benevolent Lord descends to the firstheaven, calling on His sincere lovers to come to Him. And through thatdarkness, my last breaths would rise up to Him, fragrant with words glorifying MyLord, Most High, while my head be pressed to the earth, bowing before His majesty.

I want todie completely at peace, pleased with my Lord, Him, pleased with me.

Aameen, yaRabbal Aalameen. Let it be, oh Lord of all Worlds.

For a long time, I’d asked for this death to come in the City of my Beloved,Medinah, the Illuminated, just so the feel of Medinah’s perfumed breeze,caressing my face would be the last thing I’d feel before seeing the angels descendto take me home. Because, more than anything, I wanted to rise on That Day, asa neighbour of The Beloved, (SAW) but I know I am unworthy. My efforts to bedeserving of this honour have been cursory, at best. This distinction isreserved for the Real Ones. The ones who look with the eyes of this world, butsee the hereafter. I have not reached that.  

So insteadI ask for the Tahajjud Death, alone, just me and My Lord, through whose Grace,I have found grace. In whose company I have always found solace. Through whoseLove, I have learned to love.

Let it be,my Lord.  Aameen. Aameen. Aameen.