We brought the crabs home and loaded some into the garden pond but there were so many that others were offered a bucket-style motel for the evening.
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"I can only tell you things that happened as I saw them, and what the rest was about only Africa knows." – Oom Schalk Lourens
But the best was my uncle’s bakkie – white with a three-tiered rail attached to the back rim, no canopy. The purpose of the rail was to stop stuff from falling out. Way more fun, though, than the safety of the bakkie’s bakkie, was the top of the rim.
Fat Baobabs cast shade in dusty daytimes, giving way to drawling Acacia silhouettes and bright orange sunsets. Before the evenings succumbed to bright starry skies that expanded for eons, we went foraging.
We sit down on some concrete steps to turn my face into the South African flag.
I was 13. It was the Rugby World Cup—the opening game at Ellis Park, in Johannesburg. South Africa vs Australia. Let me paint a picture…
There’s something; an obsession, a physical addiction—an unconditional love that a child has for a first home, be it house or country. Perhaps both. And the further removed one is, the rosier the shade.
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She swishes over to Party Pink, hips swaying to the rhythm of her luminous pink hula skirt, “Hey girl, you wanna go to the parrrdeee?”
There was only one proviso with Inecto—never ever spill it. Like, ever. On your face, on your clothing and especially not on your boyfriend’s parents’ cream lounge carpet.
The hum of 9pm kicks in—a boiling kettle, the clatter of dishes in the sink, muted voices on the TV, an occasional dog. I click play.
Mike’s Kitchen—a necessary rite of passage into the utopia of growing up, where you could stay up late, eat sweets all the time, watch too much TV, live at your friend’s house and never do any times tables.