The Nature of Conversion

A dog-eared sign written on the torn off flap of a cardboard box says, "SALE." From outside I can discern brass incense holders and beaten copper work on a wall. I go inside.

I don’t notice anyone in the store at first. It puzzles me for a while but I guess that maybe the attendant is right outside, with one eye on me inside her store and another on whatever it was that she was doing. At least, I hope so.

"Morning Suszanna," a woman’s voice says and I jump, not so much from the greeting but from the fact that I was certain I was alone.

I look to the corner where the sound came and at first I can distinguish nothing.

There are a number of djibbas in varying colours hanging on nails hammered into a piece of wood that in its turn is nailed to the wall of the shop. Underneath them are mounds of shoes and bales of cloth. One of these bundles of cloth starts to move.

As it proceeds to unfold itself in front of me I make out it is a woman.

Actually, to be more accurate, I guess it is a woman for every inch of her body is covered in cloth. She is clad in the suddenly ubiquitous burka. It is the de rigueur black; the only thing I can see are a pair of eyes.

"Hi Suszanna," she says. I look at the pair of eyes blankly. "You don’t remember me?" she asks in all seriousness. I look at the yards of cloth she is swaddled in. The skirt comes down to a pair of black sandals. She is wearing black socks. The sleeves end a little past the wrists. She is wearing a pair of black cotton gloves. I am suddenly very much aware of my own vest and jeans. The tiny window that allows vision reveals only a few millimeters of brown around the eyes. It is almost impossible to do anything else but guess the person’s race. She proceeds to tell me her name and reminds me of where I know her from. She used to be a friend of a neighbour of mine, who would come after school and on weekends to play and study. I remember her as being slightly dour in countenance. Conversation with her was rarely easy.

The last time I had seen her she was already an adult. She was standing on the side of the road talking to a man who was leaning against a car, arms folded across his chest. His cap was pulled down low on his head so that his eyes were in shadow. She was in a vest and a pair of microshorts. The pants were tight, so tight that her flesh bulged at the waist and the thighs. She had turned away from her conversation and watched me as I approached. "Hello Suszanna," she had said when I was close enough to hear her. The voice was flat, registering no emotion.

It had been difficult to talk to her then and it is difficult now. It is disconcerting having to address a pair of eyes. And, as if unaware of the fact that the burka made her eyes the sole focus of attention, she continues in her accustomed way of watching and assessing you while she spoke. She seems gloomy and sour as usual.

The air conditioning unit buzzes unhappily. The day is hot and it sounds tortured, as though it is too difficult an exertion to keep the store cool.

I wonder at this woman in her floor length cloth. I ask her how she is. She says she is fine. I pause.

"How are you?" she asks. I too am fine. She asks about the health of my family. Your mother, she’s okay? What about your father? He’s okay too? She methodically makes her way through the list. Her eyes never cease their constant assessment. Then it is my turn to ask about her family, the grandmother that raised her.

I want to ask her about her new found faith but I’m not sure how. She was raised Seventh Day Adventist and I wonder about the extreme conversions in her life, the years spent in the Adventist secondary school, the tight short pants and the silver earrings quadruplicated in her ears a few years ago and now, her reduction to an ocular entity.)

I tell her take care and I hurriedly, gladly stumble out the store. As I walk off I look back. She’s returned to her corner, is folding herself back into her seat among the shoes and cloth. She has disappeared once again.

It’s as though she does not exist.

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