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The empowered woman is powerful beyond measure and beautiful beyond description.

25/04/2026

GAME ON
By The Modern Housewife
Chapter 12

Monday mornings had a particular rhythm to them. The weekend had happened. The children had recovered from the weekend. The teachers had not entirely recovered from the weekend but were performing recovery convincingly enough to get through assembly.

Hadiya was standing at the side of the hall in her usual spot — third pillar from the left, close enough to the Grade 6s to give a warning look if needed, far enough from the staffroom tea urn that she couldn't be asked to make it — when Mr Dlamini, the principal, cleared his throat into the microphone.

"Before we begin this morning," he said, "I want to take a moment to recognise some exceptional students."

She wasn't paying full attention. She was monitoring a situation in the Grade 4 row that had the early warning signs of a pinching incident.
"The school's Board Games Club represented Greenfields at the KZN Junior Inter-School Series on Friday—"
She started paying attention.
"—and I am very pleased to announce that they won five of their six matches in the Scrabble competition." He paused for effect. "Five out of six."

The hall did the specific thing school halls do when something unexpectedly good is announced — a beat of genuine surprise, then a rustling swell of noise that the teachers had to gesture down.
"Will the members of the Board Games Club please stand."

Hadiya watched from the side. Riyaad stood up immediately, with the full-body enthusiasm of someone who had been waiting his whole life to stand up in assembly for something. Sipho stood, straightened his collar, and looked at the middle distance with the composure of a person receiving an honour they had objectively earned. Serisha rose quietly, chin slightly up. Priya stood last, slowly, as if she wasn't entirely sure the instruction applied to her, and then stood very still and looked at her shoes. Luca, seated at the end of the row with his crutches propped beside him, stood up with the moon boot planted wide and spread his arms slightly at his sides in a gesture that was restrained for Luca, which meant it was still quite a lot.

The hall clapped. A genuine clap, the kind with some weight behind it. Not polite. Actual. Hadiya stood at her pillar and felt something completely disproportionate to a school assembly, which she was not going to examine in public. She looked at the ceiling instead. Very interesting ceiling. Lovely architecture.

She was reorganising her desk after the first period when Luca appeared in her classroom doorway on his crutches, knocked once on the open door with one crutch in a way that was technically polite and also slightly performative, and said, "Ms Asmal. Do you have a minute."
"Come in, Luca."
He crutched in, lowered himself into the chair across from her desk with the practiced efficiency of someone who had been doing this for weeks, and said, "I have some news."
She looked up.
"The physio cleared me this morning. Boot comes off Wednesday." He said it with the careful neutrality of someone delivering information they have complicated feelings about. "I can start training again. Graded return. Which means—"
"Which means Wednesday training starts again."
"Which means Wednesday training starts again." A pause. "Which is also when—"
"When the club meets," said Hadiya.
"Yes."
She set her pen down. "So today is your last meeting."
"Today is my last meeting." He looked at her with an expression she wasn't entirely used to seeing on Luca — something underneath the usual performance of confidence. "My mum was going to write an email but I wanted to tell you properly. Not just not show up."
She looked at him for a moment. This boy who had spent two months cheating creatively, vibrating tables with crutches, positioning moon boots in other players' eyelines, reading borrowed word lists, and contributing the highest points on XENON at the exact right moment.
"I'm glad you told me," she said. "And for what it's worth — you were a good strategy coach."
He smiled. Not the performed one. The real one.
He stood, rearranged his backpack shoulder straps, and headed for the door. Stopped. "Ms Asmal."
"Yes."
"Those kids are going to be alright. The club." He said it like he'd been thinking about it, like it had been sitting with him. "Priya especially. She's better than she knows."
He left before she could say anything back, which was probably intentional, and probably kind.

By half past three, the club room had five of its usual members present — minus Luca, whose absence had already rearranged the geometry of the room in small ways, the second chair empty by the table — and four new faces in the doorway.

Four.
Hadiya looked at them.
They looked at her.
"Assembly," said one of them, a tall Grade 7 boy with his hands in his pockets. "You won five matches."
"We did."
"I want to join."
"Me too," said the girl next to him.
The other two nodded with the enthusiasm of people who had made a decision and were committing to it.
Hadiya gestured at the chairs. "Sit down," she said. "All of you. Welcome."

She got their names: Keanu Pillay, the tall one. Nomvula Zulu, who had her own pen and had already produced a notebook. Devansh Moodley, who was in Grade 6 and had apparently been wanting to join since the poster went up but had taken until today to walk through the door. And Layla Solomons, Grade 7, who sat down and immediately started looking at the game boxes stacked against the wall with a very specific expression.
"Good timing," said Hadiya, "because we're starting preparation for the next competition."
"What game?" said Riyaad.
"Chess," said Hadiya.
The room reacted in several different ways at once. Sipho looked mildly interested. Riyaad looked uncertain. Priya looked at Serisha. And Serisha—
Serisha went very still.
"Chess," she said.
"Chess."

The stillness resolved itself into something close to incandescent. It was the most visible emotion Hadiya had ever seen on Serisha's face, and it lasted approximately three seconds before she brought it back under control. But it had been there. Unmistakable.
"I want to put you in charge of teaching everyone the rules," said Hadiya.
"Yes," said Serisha, immediately.
"Do you need anything? A board, a—"
"I have two boards in my bag."
A silence.
"You have two chess boards in your school bag," said Riyaad.
"I always have two chess boards in my school bag."
"Why two?"
"In case of emergencies," said Serisha, and pulled them out onto the table before anyone could ask a follow-up question.

What followed was one of the more unexpectedly engaged forty minutes of club time Hadiya had witnessed. Serisha stood at the head of the table — unselfconscious in a way she wasn't about most things, because this was her territory — and explained chess with the calm precision of someone who had been waiting years for an appropriate audience. She was methodical. She was clear. She did not condescend, but she also did not slow down unnecessarily, which meant the room had to keep up.

Riyaad asked questions that were sometimes useful and sometimes just curious, and Serisha answered all of them with equal seriousness. Priya listened without interrupting and then asked one question — quiet, precise — that made Serisha stop and look at her with something approaching respect. "That," said Serisha, "is actually a very good question," which from Serisha was a significant review.

The four new members sat and absorbed, and Hadiya could see them recalibrating in real time — this was not what they had expected when they walked in after assembly, but it was better, and they were starting to know it.

Sipho, for his part, had the expression of someone who had come into a chess lesson knowing more than the teacher, realised within ten minutes that this was not the case, and found that surprising and interesting in roughly equal measure.

At home time, Hadiya watched Serisha carefully stack her boards back into her bag and thought: there you are. There's who you are. And it turned out she'd been there all along, just waiting for the right game.

24/04/2026

GAME ON
By The Modern Housewife
Chapter 11

The Al-Noor Women's Centre on Saturday evening was, as it was every year in the weeks approaching the Hajj season, transformed.

White fabric draped the walls. The smell of oud incense was thick and warm and immediately put you in a particular state of mind. Someone had done the flowers — white and gold, the kind that communicated that this was an event that respected itself.
And it was full. Absolutely, comprehensively, enthusiastically full of Durban aunties.

Hadiya had not been to this event in a few years and had forgotten the specific texture of it — the controlled chaos of the arrival period, every second woman greeting every third woman with the full greeting and 'masha'Allah you've lost weight' and 'where did you get that abaya' the particular economy of the hijab-clad aunties who had clearly been here since the setup and knew where the good seats were and were guiding their daughters and nieces toward them with the focused authority of people managing logistics.

This year was a little extra special as Hadiyahs parents were going for Hajj. Theyd been on Umrah a few times, even as a family but this was their first Hajj. Her mother asked her, Nadia and Sana to accompany her. Nadia wasn't well so she cancelled earlier that morning. Hadiya arrived with Sana, Muaad's wife, and she giggled as they drew admiring gazes with their coordinating abayas.

"So we're all wearing the same colour theme—" Zaheera said by way of greeting. Sana and Zaheera were cousins, and she had decided to join them along with her mother and older sister too.
"I didn't know you were coming."
"I sent a voice note—"
Hadiya had not listened to the full voice note.
They found seats midway back, which were good seats — close enough to see the stage, far enough that the three aunties in the front row who periodically provided their own commentary track were not directly in the ear. On Hadiya's left was a woman she half-recognised from the masjid who was powering through her clicking on her digital tasbeeh with the energy of someone expecting to get through several thousand this evening.

On Zaheera's right was a table with dates and water and small cookies in silver paper, because this kind of event understood that spirituality and catering were complementary concerns.

The programme began.

A recitation, clear and beautiful, that did what recitation does — settled the room into itself, drew the noise down, made the space feel larger than its walls. Then the speaker, a woman who had performed Hajj three times and spoke about it the way people speak about places they have left most of themselves. She was good. She was genuinely good. She talked about the moment at Arafah — standing in the plain with two million other people, all in white, all equal, all returning — and the room was so quiet you could hear the oud burner.

Hadiya sat and listened and felt the thing that happened to her at events like this — the week's noise subsiding, the classroom and the flat tyre and the competition scores all moving to the back, and underneath them something quieter and more reliable and very old.

During the short interval, they helped themselves to karak and mini cakes and the room decompressed into conversation with the particular warmth of women who had just shared something meaningful and were now allowed to be human about it.

Sana, who processed spiritual experiences by immediately wanting to talk about them and then transitioning naturally into general life news, said, "This is so beautiful. Every year I forget how much I need this." She bit into a date. "Oh — Hadiya, I meant to ask. Aunty Rukshana called and was asking about you."
"Ugh, she called to invite us to the wedding, started asking me about when Im getting married. I thought I threw her off," said Hadiya.

"She called to invite us and then made a point of mentioning, that there would be boys at the wedding—"
"Specifically for me—"

Sana did a face that was technically sympathetic but contained a small window of concern. "Ja no, she was just—"

"I am not spiritually equipped for a ninth samoosa run yet. I need this—" she gestured around the room — "to recover first."

"Eight runs is a lot," Zaheera conceded. "The 5 year plan guy alone—"
"Don't," said Hadiya.

Sana pressed a hand to her mouth.

The aunty two seats along had been listening with no particular attempt at discretion and now leaned in. "Sweetheart, what you looking for? My son-in-law's brother is a pharmacist. Very neat. Drives a nice car."
"Thank you, Aunty," said Hadiya.
"Come, I'll take you to meet his mother—"
"I'm fine, Aunty, thank you so much—"
"He makes very good money—"
"Aunty, barak'Allah, thank you—"

Zaheera was staring at the stage to avoid making eye contact with anyone. The aunty retreated, slightly reluctant, dates in hand.
"This is why I don't come to events," Hadiya said, quietly.

Sana straightened her abaya, looked at Hadiya with the specific expression of a sister-in-law who had information and was deciding whether to deploy it, and deployed it. "Speaking of which. Muaad mentioned something."

Hadiya felt something shift, slightly. "What did Muaad mention?"

"There was a guy," said Sana, pleasantly. "Waiting with you. When you had the flat tyre."
A pause.

"That was — he was just a — we were at the same competition. He was being—" Hadiya stopped. Regrouped. "He stayed because it wasn't safe to be alone in a car park at dusk. It was a courtesy."

"What does he look like?" said Sana.
"That is not— I'm not answering that."
"Is he tall?"
"Sana—"
"Is he nice?"
"He is an opponent. He coaches the competing school. He is technically my professional nemesis."

Sana looked at Zaheera. Zaheera looked at Sana. Some information passed between them through the way cousins use without speaking.
"What's his name?" said Sana.
"Usama," said Hadiya, and then looked at the ceiling, because she had said that faster than she intended to.

Sana's face did something that Hadiya chose not to examine directly.

"He's nothing," said Hadiya. "He's just a person I argue with at competitions. He gives wrong information on purpose and he shows up at inconvenient moments and he stands there being all—" she made a gesture that was apparently meant to convey something but mostly conveyed that she had more feelings about this than she was prepared to inventory right now — "unbothered. All the time. It's very irritating."

Sana was smiling.
"Stop it," said Hadiya.
"I'm not doing anything."
"Your face is doing something."

Zaheera, who had been quiet for the last forty-five seconds — which was notable, because Zaheera was almost never quiet — turned from the stage and looked at Hadiya with the expression of someone watching something they had been waiting for.

"Hadiya," she said.
"No."
"I'm just saying—"
"No."
"I have known you for—"
"Zaa, I swear—"
"—almost our whole lives," said Zaheera, "and I have never, seen you describe a man by listing his personality traits with that level of detail and emotion." She paused.
"Not once. Not even the multiple wives guy. Not even...he who shall not be named."

Hadiya opened her mouth.
Nothing came out.
Zaheera reached across and very gently patted her hand. "More karak?" she said.

Hadiya looked straight ahead and stared at the white fabric on the wall. The speaker was returning to the stage for the second half. The room was resettling, phones going face-down, the particular hush of something about to begin again.
The oud burner sent its slow curl of smoke toward the ceiling.

Hadiya sat with her feelings and specific chaos of the people she loved most sitting right next to her, and decided — firmly, with great conviction — that she was going to think about literally anything else for the rest of the evening.

She managed almost five minutes before her brain circled back.
She chose not to mention this to Zaheera.

22/04/2026

THERE IS NO LOVE HERE
CHAPTER 64
“Death twitches my ear;
'Live,' he says...
'I'm coming.”
― Virgil
“It’s a boy.”
Alexander burst through the doors of the waiting room, smiling at his family. He looked flushed and out of breath, but the joy radiated from him like a bright light.
Leo got to him first, hugging him tightly. Oriel next, and the rest of the family followed. Mia was the last to hug him. Alexander pulled her into a bear hug.
He said the grandparents could go first.
He sat down in a chair, still smiling.
“That woman will be the death of me. She didn't tell us she was in labour, and on the way to the hospital, she insisted, no, screamed that we need to stop for a burger and fries. She also told me we are never having s*x again, actually, she's told me that the last four times as well. “
He looked at Leo. “I have five boys, Leo, Jusmine seems to have forgotten that she told me we won't stop trying until we have a girl. Perhaps I should remind her of that.”
Leo laughed, but then Alexander lifted his head,” Where is Victor?”
“Probably buying out the entire gift store like he did the last four times”, said Leo.
Just then, Emery walked in carrying two baskets of gifts. Mia rushed to help her, and both Leo and Alexander stood to take the baskets from Emery.
“It’s a boy,” said Mia, and Emery clapped her hands.
“Congratulazioni, Alexander. Your papa will be proud, five boys. May your family always be blessed.”
Alexander smiled at her. He could see why Victor liked this woman.
“Where’s Victor?” she asked “He called me on his way here. He should have been here before me.”
Leo pulled out his phone and dialled Victor’s number. It went straight to voicemail.
“It went to voicemail, said Leo.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Leo, Victor would never let a call go to voicemail,” said Alexander, pulling out his phone. He dialled Victor's number; his face showed his shock. It had gone to voicemail.
Emery dialled next, same thing.
Leo felt a knot of fear in his chest. Victor would never miss this, not for anything.
Mia looked at him,” Maybe it's traffic, maybe his hands are full, and he can't answer the phone, Leo. There's a reasonable explanation for this.”
Leo smiled at her, but Mia noticed it didn’t reach his eyes,” You're probably right, like I said, raiding the gift shop. I’m sure he will be here soon.”
Just then, Oriel and Karina walked out, followed by Jusmine's parents.
“Let’s go see my son”, said Alexander.
Mia, Leo and Emery followed him into the hospital room. Jusmine was on the bed holding her baby. She looked exhausted but radiated the look of a proud parent.
“Come, Mia, come meet your godson.”
Mia didn’t know what to say, but as Jusmine held out the baby boy, Mia took him and breathed in the scent so unique to babies. Her heart flipped, and for a second, she imagined that she was holding her baby that she and Leo had made.
She caught Leo looking at her with such tenderness that her breath caught.
No, there wouldn’t be babies. They didn’t love each other, like yes, lust definitely, but love. No, love wasn't anywhere in the equation.
Leo was beginning to understand his wife more and more, and he saw it now in that shift in her eyes. One second, there had been softness in her eyes, but in the next second, they had clouded over as if a sad thought had taken over.
“Have you thought of a name yet?” asked Mia, turning towards Jusmine.
Jusmine looked at Alexander and smiled.
“We are naming him Pax.”
Mia looked down at the baby boy she was holding and smiled,” It's Latin for peace.”
Jusmine and Alexander nodded.
“Yes, he is the first of our children to be born in a time of peace, and the first to be born in a hospital. All the others were home births. You know, because of safety,” said Jusmine, looking down.
Mia understood completely. There had always been that fear of retribution before her marriage to Leo. Many Italian families chose to give birth at home. A hospital couldn't be properly guarded.

Emery stood holding her phone to her ear, eyes on the baby and Mia. She smiled. Mia looked so comfortable holding the little one.
Victor's phone rang, and suddenly there was a voice on the other end.
Emery cut the call and held up her phone to see if she had dialled the right number.
Leo saw the look on her face.
“Did you get through to him?”
Emery looked confused.
Leo asked again,” Emery, did you get through to Victor's phone?”
” I think so, but a woman answered, I thought I dialled the wrong number, so I cut the call”
Alexander and Leo shared a look.
Leo held out his hand for the phone and dialled again.
A lady answered, and before he could say anything, a female voice on the other end said,” Do you know a Victor Orlov?”
“Yes, I do, it's my brother,” said Leo
Leo felt his body go ice cold as he listened to the voice on the other end.
Alexander watched in horror as his brother found the nearest chair and collapsed into it, his face draining of all colour. Mia quickly handed Pax to his mother and went to Leo. Emery stood stark still. Jusmine looked worried and held her newborn closer.
Leo ended the call.
Everyone looked at him expectantly.
Leo opened his mouth to speak, but just then, a nurse opened the door, followed by Auri carrying what looked like a hundred blue balloons.
He came in smiling, about to offer congratulations, only to see everyone's faces.
He smiled at the nurse and thanked her. She left, and the room was still silent.
Auri looked around, “Someone, say something.”
No one said anything; everyone looked at Leo.
“The lady was a paramedic. Victor’s been in an accident. They only found his phone five minutes ago. She said they are bringing him here, to Angels of Mercy hospital and that his family should come as quickly as possible.”
There was shocked silence; no one said a word, but then Emery broke it.
“Is he…” She couldn’t bring herself to say the word.
Leo looked at her, his voice hollow with pain.
“I don’t know.”
Everyone stood motionless.
It was Auri who snapped at them.
“Congratulations, Jusmine. Lovely baby. He walked to Leo and grabbed him by the lapels of his shirt.
“Get your s**t together. Your brother is coming to the hospital. Let’s get out there and find out what's happening.”
Auri barked orders like a general.
“Alexander, you stay here with Jusmine.”
Mia, take Emery to get some water. She looks like she's about to pass out.”
“Leo, you and I are going to the emergency room. Accident, you said, that’s where he will be. Everyone, keep your phones on, we will call with news.”
He grabbed Leo by the arm and practically dragged him out.
The cheerful balloons filled the room,
Mia took Emery’s hand.
“Mia, I think I’m going to faint.”
Emery fell to the floor, and Alexander caught her just before her head hit the ground. They looked at each other, and they saw the mirrored fear.

22/04/2026

GAME ON
By The Modern Housewife
Chapter 10

She said several things, quietly and with feeling, that she would not have said in front of her students. She had sandals on — it was Saturday, the hall was carpeted, her good sneakers needed a rest — and the light was doing that thing Durban light did in the late afternoon, going golden and then going fast.

She called Bilal. Unavailable, which meant available but unbothered.
She called Tariq. Braai in Ballito. Ballito was like another country away on a Saturday.
She called Muaad, who was heading her direction from the shop and was giving her detailed instructions about the spare and also listing every reason she should have learned to change a tyre before now, which was not helpful.

"I know how tyres work, brother—"
"In theory—"
"In practice! I'm a practical person!"
"Hadiya, you once called me because the lines on your rear camera was blurry and it turned out to be a drop of water on the camera."
"That was legitimate —"
"Do you know what? Dont do anything. Just. Wait. Don't try anything. I'll be there."

She hung up. She looked at the tyre. The car park was emptying with the efficient unconcern of a Saturday crowd with somewhere better to be, and the street beyond had that specific Greyville late-afternoon energy — not unsafe exactly, but not the sort of place you stood alone next to a flat tyre as the light fell.
"Problem?"
She closed her eyes.
Opened them.

Usama was standing a few metres away, his team's van presumably long gone, keys in hand. He looked at the tyre with the calm assessment of a man who had seen flat tyres before and was not rattled by them.
"I'm fine," said Hadiya.
"Your tyre is flat."
"I'm aware of that, thank you."
"Do you have a spare?"
"I have a spare, I have called my brother, and I am completely, entirely fine." She looked at him. "You can go."
He looked at the street. The light. The emptying car park. "How long until your brother arrives?"
"Not long."
"How long."
"Maybe 30 minutes-"
"Durban traffic is unpredictable—"
"Forty minutes," he said, and sat down on the low wall beside the car park with the easy finality of a man who had decided something and was not going to discuss it further.

Hadiya stared at him. "I didn't ask you to stay."
"I know."
"I'm perfectly capable of standing next to my car."
"Absolutely."
"So you can go."
"I could." He looked up at her with that look — unhurried, a little amused, something warm underneath it that she was not going to examine in a car park in Greyville on a Saturday. "But I'm not going to, because it's getting dark and you know as well as I do that this isn't the right place to stand alone, and if the situation were reversed you'd do the same thing."

She opened her mouth. Closed it. He was not wrong, which was deeply aggravating.
"You've been ignoring me all day," he said conversationally.
"I was focused on the competition."
"You walked in the opposite direction twice when you saw me coming."
"I was thinking while I walked. I think better in the longer route."
He made a small sound that was unmistakably amusement. She sat down on the wall — not next to him, a respectable professional distance — because standing was tiring and her feet hurt and the wall was there. He casually reached over, took her car keys from her hand, opened the boot and removed the spare tyre.
"What are you doing?"
"Changing your tyre. Your team did well."
"We won five matches."
"I know. Congratulations."
"Thanks. Your team?"
"Four." He said it without drama. "The kid with the crutches was something else."
"Xenon."
"On a triple word." He shook his head, not unhappily. "I didn't see that coming."
"No one did." She paused. He was still smiling, the easy, unguarded smile he had when something genuinely pleased him, which was different from the smug smile and she'd started to learn the difference without meaning to. "You have a good team."
"I know."
"You've done well with them."
"You don't need to say that."
"I know I don't." The look again, direct and calm. "I'm saying it anyway."

She was quiet for a moment, looking at the street. Hed loosened all the nuts and bolts, and was spinning off the first wheel nut with complete authority.
A minibus taxi went past with something excellent playing at full volume.
Someone's braai smoke drifted over from a nearby yard.
"You still haven't apologised for teaching me the wrong carrom grip," she said.

He looked at her with something she absolutely refused to name. "I taught you one of many. If youre still hung up on that, I'll teach you a few others, and maybe we can have our own side tournament then," he said.

She suddenly wanted to refuse his offer. She could feel several good arguments available. She didn't use any of them. She couldn't find the words. Any words.

Headlights swung into the car park.

Muaad's bakkie, moving with the energy of an older brother who was going to fix this and tease her about it simultaneously. He climbed out, looked at the tyre, looked at Usama, looked at Hadiya, and did an eyebrow thing of such eloquent precision that it deserved its own language.

"This is Usama," said Hadiya, with the tone of someone closing a door firmly before it opened. "Hes a teacher, uhm, a coach for another school. He was at the tournament. He was just helping."
Usama stood.

He and Muaad exchanged the handshake-nod of two men who have communicated several things in four seconds, and worked together quickly to replace the tyre. Hadiya found this completely inexplicable and also annoying.

"I'll leave you to it," said Usama. He walked toward his car, and then, without turning around: "Well played today."

She wasn't certain if he meant her or the team or both. She suspected both.
"You too," she said, which was technically more generous than the scoreboard warranted, and she heard his car door and then his engine and then he was gone.

"So," he said. "Who's that?"
"He's a coach from another school."
"He waited in a car park for forty minutes."
"He was being cautious. It's getting dark."
"He was being interested," said Muaad, and tightened the second nut with the ease of a man who had been changing tyres since he was sixteen, which was the most infuriating possible time to be competent.

"Secure the tyre, Muaad."

He did so. He was smiling the entire time, and he didn't say another word about it, which was somehow worse than if he had.

20/04/2026

GAME ON
By The Modern Housewife
Chapter 9

Saturday arrived grey and warm the way Durban Saturdays sometimes were in that particular season — overcast but not cold, the air close with the kind of humidity that made you feel the city breathing around you. The venue was a community hall in Greyville, large and slightly echoey, with long folding tables in rows and a tournament board at the front that already had four school names on it.
Hadiya walked her team in and scanned the room.

Seven other schools. And then, at the far table, a tall and charming man, arms crossed, wearing a grey jacket this time, talking easily to one of his students with the comfortable authority of someone who expected to be exactly where he was.

She looked away. She had a tournament to run.
"Okay," she said to her team. "Same as last time. Be focused, be respectful, and Luca—"
"I know."
"I haven't finished."
"No phone. No chair interference. Support my partner."
"And?"
He thought about it. "...Play smart?"
"Play smart," she confirmed. "Go."

She was aware of Usama crossing the hall toward her in the same way she was aware of most things she was trying not to be aware of — peripherally, and with a specific, familiar irritation.
"Hadiya."
"I'm busy."
"You're reading the tournament groupings."
"That is being busy."
"You've read it three times."
She put the paper down and faced him with the patience of a woman who had already been on eight samoosa runs and survived. "Can I help you?"

He looked at her with that expression — unhurried, gently amused, something behind it that she refused to catalogue. "Just saying hello."
"Hello."
"You ignored me in the car park."
"I didn't see you."
"You looked directly at me and then turned ninety degrees."
"I saw something interesting in that direction."
"There was an old man in that direction."
"Very interesting old man." She picked up her clipboard. "Good luck today."
"You too." The same tone as always — challenge and warmth folded together in a way that had no right to be as annoying as it was. He went back to his table. He was so smug. Mr Know-It-All. She looked at the kids. She had absolutely not watched him go.

What happened over the next two hours was, as Hadiya would later tell Zaheera, completely unhinged, and she meant that in the best possible way.

Priya and Serisha were, it turned out, a quiet disaster for anyone sitting across from them. Priya played with such stillness that her opponents visibly unravelled trying to read her, and Serisha built on Priya's words with the strategic patience of someone who had been saving up chess energy for two years and had found somewhere to spend it. They won their matches without drama, without noise, and with a combined score that made Hadiya blink at the tally sheet.

Sipho played with the methodical focus of a person who had spent Friday evening revising his notes — Hadiya was almost certain the diagram had made a third appearance, at home, in private — and won both his matches with the calm of someone who had done the preparation and trusted it. He did not appear to enjoy winning, exactly, but he sat slightly straighter after each one.

Riyaad played like Riyaad always played — at full volume, occasionally brilliant, occasionally bewildering. He got eish onto the board in his second match, challenged immediately by his opponent, and held his breath while the adjudicator checked the approved South African word list. It was in there. He stood up. He pointed at Sipho. Sipho, from across the room, gave him the slowest possible nod, which was the Sipho equivalent of a standing ovation.

And then there was Luca.

Luca had been partnered with Riyaad for the final combined round — a decision Hadiya had made on the grounds that Sipho and Priya were the steadying influences and Riyaad needed one, and Luca sitting still with his tiles was less of a liability than Riyaad unobserved. She was moderately confident about this.

For most of the match, Luca played carefully. Conservatively. He was building something, she realised — keeping his X, passing on plays that would have used it, waiting.
The board was crowded.
It looked, to Hadiya's eye, like there was nowhere interesting left to go.
Luca surveyed it for a long moment. Then, with five tiles, he built outward from a lone E at the edge of a cluster.

XENON
Triple word square.
The X sitting plump and worth ten points on the premium tile.
The hall went slightly quiet.
"Xenon," said the adjudicator, checking.
"Noble gas," said Luca pleasantly. "Atomic number fifty-four. Very useful element. Excellent Scrabble word."

Riyaad made a sound that was not a word.
Sipho, two tables away, looked up from packing his tiles. He looked at the board. He looked at Luca. Something crossed his face that was, for Sipho, approximately equivalent to dropping his jaw.
"You read the periodic table," he said.
"I read things," said Luca.
"That is—" Sipho paused. "That is a good play."

The room felt this. Riyaad looked between them like he was watching something historic. Luca's face did something complicated and briefly unguarded — the particular expression of someone receiving recognition from the person they most wanted it from, who also happened to be the most annoying person they knew.
"Thanks," said Luca.
Sipho turned back to his bag.

They won that match by thirty-one points.

When the final scores went up, Hadiya's team had won five of their six matches. She stared at the board for a moment. Then at her team — Priya and Serisha sitting close together, Sipho with his notebook, Riyaad explaining xenon to anyone nearby, Luca sitting back with the serene composure of a man who had made one extraordinary play and had decided it was simply who he was now.

Something warm moved through her chest, which she allowed for approximately five seconds before clapping once and saying, "Well done. All of you. Now let's get to the taxi."

Mr. Govender, who had heroically volunteered to es**rt the students back, was now regretting several life decisions as Riyaad claimed the front seat and began explaining noble gases in detail.

Hadiya watched them pull out and turned back toward her car.
Her front left tyre was flat.
She stood and looked at it.
It looked back at her.

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