She couldn't see the way before her. Cape Town after yesterday's rain was cool and clear. This is the second Christmas that she spent in Cape Town.They say Christmas is the time when the white go on holidays and the black go home. And then there are the homeless. She isn't going home and she is alone.
The rain in Cape Town was like needles rushing down the sky, needles bent in the wind, intensive but light. Witnessed slavery and Apartheid, the dying out of the Khoikhoi and the Sans. The mother city has never been heavy. Lying on ancient sandstones, the city is too experienced with crustal movements, too overwhelmed with its biodiversity to care about the human world. A thick rainbow emerged at the edge of the sky. The gray clouds overshadowed it and made the color faint. The old and new leaves on the tree composed a symphony of dark and light green. The sun shined onside, brushing up a golden tone. Not many people are on the streets no more. Afterall, it is the Christmas. Posh restaurants at Camps Bay are fully booked weeks ago. Houses in Constantia are decorated with Xmas trees and lights, stuffed turkey roasted in ovens.In townships like Langa and Khayelitsha people are dressing in their best their formal clothes, taking their children to church, some preparing for the braai in the afternoon.She saw homeless people sleeping under the bridge, sleeping on the lawn, sleeping at the interchange in Town. With the little ones who can beg now and might rob when they are older, with the little ones who endow life with meaning for their parents, scrapping the hardships of life to chops which can be swallowed.
She decided to call her mom. There is a flood at home again. It is common during the monsoon season. But traffics are worse now, people waiting on the road, jammed in traffic, pushing the cars, anxious to go home. It is a wise decision not to go back for her. It must be. She wouldn't be able to afford the flight and if she takes the bus by the time she is home, half of her holiday would have passed.
Last year, she met a boy from Eastern Cape in an African music party she accidentally ran into. His dreadlocks high up like a tail badly evolved. He spoke good English, worked in an instrument store and had all the passion she lacks. He was the noon tide, chasing her ashore. She was too slow to run away, so her dress was caught in the waves and got wet. He was a warm current, abundant with the vitality of cape snoek and crayfish. His vitality bites her slightly and makes her tickle. When she teases him with her French expressions, he said she was outlandish and sexy. So she uses them more. Her phone rang and it was an unknown number. It was his voice. He says there is an electric cut in his home. His phone died and he had to call with a friend's phone.
