The people in Capricorn were very friendly, perhaps because it was a more mixed community – black, white and coloured South Africans and foreigners from other parts of Africa lived and worked side by side. I was happy to be there. I shared a place with my friend Ali, and the rent was not too bad.

It took a while to get my business up and running, but soon I was doing well and I had regular customers. What I enjoyed most was being my own boss. I even managed to hire another Somali guy, Faisal, to help out with stocktaking. He was Ali’s cousin. Although he was not a fast learner or good with numbers like me, Faisal was a very hard worker.

I wanted to make my business as friendly as my Uncle’s, so I would give people discounts on certain goods and I would offer credit to older members of the community. Many of the old women reminded me of my grandmother. It felt good to help them, as if in some way someone out there would be helping her too.

One Friday afternoon I closed my shop quickly and got into my car. I was running late for the afternoon prayers at Mosque. I love my religion, and prayer time with fellow Muslims has always been a special occasion for me. The traffic was very heavy on the route from Capricorn to Retreat and I considering doing a U-turn and taking a quicker route when I spotted the most beautiful girl I had ever seen waiting at the pedestrian crossing. She was tall and slender, wearing a long dress and a deep orange hijab. I wondered if she was on her way to Mosque. She appeared to be in a hurry.

She crossed right in front of me. My heart racing, I watched her every step. Then the traffic lights turned green – I tried to get a last look at her, but she had disappeared among the other pedestrians. I got to Mosque just as the Imam was preparing to read the prayer. I closed my eyes and tried to focus on what he was saying, but I could not help thinking about the beautiful girl I had seen. Was she Somalian, I wondered? Still, what did it matter? All I knew was that if I met her again I would have to introduce myself.

I had never had a girlfriend. Though I had felt desire for girls, in Somalia I was always too busy helping my father with his business to look for a relationship. Also, back home it was not that easy to date. The tradition is that if you liked someone, you tell your family and your parents meet up with the girl’s parents and your Nikkah (marriage) will be arranged. That is that. In the city things are different, but in the villages you have to marry the girl before you start an intimate relationship, just in case she gets pregnant.

I remember that when I turned 17 my father told me that he had a friend with a very beautiful daughter and that when the time was right, he would arrange a marriage for me. My heart sank. I hoped never to be in an arranged marriage. I wished to get to know a girl first before marrying her.

After prayers I walked out of the cool mosque into the blinding sunlight. When my eyes had adjusted to the glare I turned in the direction of the car park. Suddenly there she was again, just a few metres away, this time laughing at something with her friend. The afternoon light seemed to bring out the rich colour of her hijab and the beauty of her smile and her big brown eyes. For a moment I felt rooted to the ground, unable to move.

I listened to the gentle, warm tone of her voice. I could make out that she was Malay, but her accent was unusual, different from the accents of the Malay people who came into my shop. I wanted so badly to find a chance to talk to her, but my mouth was dry, my stomach in knots. I wouldn’t have known what to say anyway. So I stood there helplessly and watched her as she walked away with her friend. I longed to see her again and maybe one day to get the chance to touch her hand and feel her smooth skin.

About a week later I was in the shop, looking for my Accounts book under the counter, when I heard a soft, familiar voice. “Hello, do you have brown bread?”

I looked up. It was her without a doubt: the beautiful girl who had been giving me sleepless nights, the girl I had not stopped thinking about since the day I first saw her. And there she was – standing right in front of me!

“Um … sorry?” I asked, not because I hadn’t heard her, but because I wanted to hear her voice once more.

“Do you have brown bread?” she said, a little louder, but just as sweetly. My heart leapt.

“No, I’m very sorry, we are out of stock, but if you come back tomorrow we will have some,” I said, knowing full well that we had never stocked brown bread before. I was determined to see her again. She had touched my heart and I was not going to let her go easily.

The following day I asked one of the Somali guys with a shop not far from mine to sell me five loaves of Albany brown bread. I had to impress this girl and if brown bread was the way to do it, I would have to stock it in my shop.

She came to the shop at exactly the same time she had come the day before. Perhaps she was on her way from work because she was smartly dressed in a skirt and jacket.

“Hi, how are you doing?” I asked politely.

“Do you have brown bread today?” she asked, looking at the bread basket full of white loaves near the counter.

I sensed that she was not in the mood for chitchat. “Yes, just wait a second,” I said. Then I dashed into the store room at the back. I had deliberately kept the loaves aside just in case someone else bought them before she got here.

“That will be R8,” I said. “Would you like anything else?” I had learned from my father not to be too pushy. When he was dealing with a new customer at the market he always used to say, “Less is more. You never want to push the customer too much or you will scare them away; you’ve got to watch their behaviour and approach accordingly.”

“No thanks, just the bread,” she answered. I was surprised to see her say it with a smile. She even managed to make eye contact with me this time.

As she walked out of the shop my eyes followed her. I did not want to see her go.

From then on I made sure I always had brown bread in the shop and an extra loaf in the back just in case I ran out. Every day, like clockwork, she would come to buy her loaf of brown bread. Sometimes she would also buy airtime, always MTN, and sometimes, on hotter days, a can of Coke. I took my father’s words to heart and studied her behaviour like a hawk. I knew when she was happy because she would wear her orange or deep-red headscarf. When she was sad, she would wear her black dress and black hijab. I always wished that I could say more to her than just the usual, “Hi, how was your day?” and I longed to hear her say more than her polite, “Fine, thank you.”

It was a Friday afternoon. As usual I was closing up and getting ready to go to Mosque, when I saw her running down the street towards my shop. She appeared to be running away from a guy who was leaning out of the window of his car, shouting at her, “Natasha, get in the car. Come back!”

I wondered who he was. It was clear that she did not want to be with him. Natasha. What a lovely name. She was no longer just the girl with beautiful almond eyes. She was Natasha.

Breathless, she rushed up to me. “Hey, I noticed that we go to the same mosque. Is it possible to give me a lift? I am running late as usual.”

She noticed me at Mosque! I thought to myself as I replied, “Of course. It would be a pleasure.” I was beaming from ear to ear.

***

Tell us what you think: can arranged marriages work?