For many years, Michael has held in his mind this image of Muslims paying homage to God, praising His infinite wisdom, the supremacy of His judgement, the glory of His Prophet Mohamed, peace be unto him. During the 1994 election campaign, a liberation movement sympathizer had invited Silas to Friday prayers at a mosque in the city. Afterwards, he would address the congregation. Why was Silas invited? Was it because of his Muslim surname or because he was the son of the renowned Ali Ali, late Imam of the Griffith Street mosque, erudite speaker, champion of the Islamic cause, fearless critic of both the apartheid regime and its ‘heathen Communist opposition’? And why did Silas accept the invitation? Michael does not remember his justification (delivered to his captive son en route to the mosque), nor what he actually said in his speech, only that the atmosphere imposed a silence on both of them; here nothing extraneous or frivolous is said, here even one's thoughts are no longer private, they seem to flow into a maelstrom of unwitting confessions, guilt muttered under one's breath, carried by some gust of wind throughout the mosque.

Now, as Michael completes the ceremonious cleansing of his body, seated alongside Sadrodien, emulating his actions in exact detail, the sound of running water, the murmuring of others around him create an expectation of a hallowed experience similar to what he felt four years ago.

So he is somewhat disappointed when he is ushered into a small room, an ordinary classroom, where the desks have been moved aside and carpets laid out in the centre. The day's Arabic lesson is still visible on the blackboard. He has seen Arabic script before, right-to-left, holding the promise of guttural music. Sadrodien plays the role of formal host, takes Michael around and introduces him (‘This is our brother, he is also an Ali,’ carefully avoiding, it seems, the mention of Michael's name) to a small group of men, who resemble each other in their dress, their manner, their deep-set eyes, the severity of their bearded faces. They remove their shoes and seat themselves on the carpet. When the Imam enters, they rise, making way for him to walk over to Michael and greet him.

Imam Ismail Behardien has perfect teeth, his beard is trimmed, he wears a soft white keffiyeh that completes his distinguished appearance. Michael sits down, grateful for the wall against which he can rest his back. He thinks: I, too, have been conditioned. Why did I expect an Imam to have discoloured teeth, why do I associate piety with physical decay?