edolobheni

A short story that I have been working on for an extended period of time. 

I hope you like it and thank you for the support.

Edolobheni - in town 

Uncertainty and fear crept in, wide-eyed and alive, for someone that lives a comfortable suburban life. The situation in which I had placed myself demanded self-awareness. I have taken a step out of the gate, out of my comfort zone. I pushed my legs forward and forced myself to experience something.

It was not my first, but it was my most attentive occasion into Victoria Market. The gang; Courtney, Mel, Ntokozo, Zethembe and I, decided to venture into town. The first thing to which I gave considerable attention was a table full of incalculable and mighty colourful beads. They were coupled with a few fascinating designs, artfully constructed into bracelets and necklaces.

I looked up from the beads to a large building with a sign reading “English Market”. As we walked by I glanced inside, and for a few seconds I saw a variety of gruesome visuals. The conventional name, “muti”. The science of muti seemed to include both animal and human body parts. I was quite perturbed by the prospect of the taste. The next thing to grab my attention was what looked like a brown liquid, distilled in small clear bottles. To me it looked like Darth Vader in the flesh, in a bottle. To the people, it was solutions to cultural issues in a bottle. I was sure that ingestion would lead to death. But culture isn’t meant to be understood, only accepted. As Courtney diverted my attention, I stumbled upon a flurry of city culture, as I began to let go of my thoughts and worries and focus on what I saw in front of me.  

A taxi conductor hung his head and half of his torso out of an open window. He began banging on the taxi door, loudly. Taxis are a primary form of transportation for locals. Previously, I only ever experienced this from inside the safety of my getaway car. With his right hand hovering in mid-air, he began making eye contact with prospective passengers, aggressively summoning them. “Workshop?” he called. I shouted back “Next time”. And just like a cheating boyfriend, he had found a new patron to try out his persuasive techniques on.

Something remarkable was the sheer volume of noise emitted from the taxi. And I don’t mean the summoning conductor, although he did contribute. Taxis are almost always inclusive of a multi-talented driver. They say that women multi-task but he’s on his own level. He doesn’t only drive the vehicle, that’s an afterthought. He is proactive in that he summons passengers from his window by excessively hooting.  This, while receiving money from the conductor and returning change. He does this without actually communicating with him because they cannot hear each other over the loud music. The driver usually mans the on-going playlist. The playlist including African Kwaito music as well as a fully equipped sound system ensuring that their passengers are never composed. Basically, if you do manage to conquer the volume debacle, then the in-built sound system is sure to literally rattle up the insides of your body too. A sure state of agitation for any newcomers. Imagine a Suzuki Huyabusa level of sound. It was window rattle inducing, even from outside the taxi.

After the taxi’s music passed by, a new faint music began to play. I questioned whether the music was always there. Moving closer, I noted that the instrument of choice was a drum, a talking drum. The player of the drum came into my line of vision. Seated on a deep maroon velvet cushion was an old Black man. He donned a half-white beard and multiple items of denim clothing coupled with six pearl white necklaces. To top it off, a fedora hat. He reminded me greatly of Zethembe. It was as if I was looking at an older version of him and I was experiencing predetermined nostalgia. A young coloured lady, who had a few well-kept dreadlocks joined the occasion. She swayed along to his rhythm, while playing a rattle, which I later learned was a Shekere. It seemed like a wooden structure that had a bulbous end which was filled with seeds, or at least it sounded like that to my not so musically inclined ear. Their orchestra of sound was not loud nor disturbing. It had created a certain comfort to the situation. A fresh round of adrenaline surfaced as I was strung along by my accompanying friends. 

Men crowded around the scene of a few colourful solid and striped balls on a pool table. As if the table’s pure function was to fuel the male ego. This and a toddler perched on the edge of the table, soaking in all the good sunlight, while fiddling with the balls in play. This was a point of humour for me. I could just imagine the reaction from the guys at campus if someone were to fidget with the pool table. The atmosphere here seemed to be much more relaxed and family-orientated. The toddler’s mother, about two meters away, was selling fruit from a well-constructed make-shift fruit stand. I watched her splash fresh water on a mountain of green apples. The sight was something of contentment. I reached into my pocket and found a few coins.

“How much for an apple?” I asked.

She held up just her index finger. At first I thought she was telling me to “hold up”, but then I realized that she was telling me that an apple costs R1.

I picked an apple, the kind that has speckles of pink on it. I handed her a coin.

“What’s your name?” I asked, smiling at her.

“Naomi” she responded, now bearing a radiant smile.

She had a perfect set of pearly white teeth.

I looked down at the floor and immediately noted how it greatly contrasted with Naomi’s teeth. Bottle caps, banana peels and grunge, all mixed with murky water. At that moment, all I knew was that I needed to escape from the smell, so I stopped breathing through my nose. Do you know when you start breathing through your mouth and then psychologically you start tasting what you didn’t want to smell? I was in that pickle. It was quite amusing though. I classified the grub as “Abstract Dirt”, a phrase only a free-thinker would understand. Stepping in some grub, absent-mindedly, I had to undergo a mini surgical removal of my foot. But it was too late, my shoe and toe was already victim. The “Abstract Dirt” was sticky and smelt like a two years dead rat. After some deliberation on possible damage control, I continued moving, now opting to tip-toe around. I studied a vague cabbage leaf shriveled amongst the dirt, almost brown with fermentation. That must have accounted for the smell.

The other smell that was wafting about, good this time, was from the chunks of meat that were being braai’d. The meat was thrown on an open fire grill, sending waves of smoke into the sunny air. The smell of freshly grilled sustenance swallowed the masses as they queued up to get a taste. “Shisa-nyama” they call it.

I asked a friend if this happens on a daily basis, if town was always this alive. He said that although these people maintain permanent stalls in town, there is always something spontaneously happening.

I turned my gaze to a nearby table, where a jar of R1 lollipops were being sold (now R1, 50) along with a few outdated Nokias and Telkom landline phones. I saw a stall carrying randomly sized picture frames, copious amounts of shoe glue and many single shoes united with single socks that are probably eloped and partying somewhere out there. Next, I saw a young black man standing with different coloured pairs of jeans hanging from his arms and shoulders all the way down. I looked down to the floor to find a bed of well-made denim jeans interwoven to allow the customers to get a look at all of the colour and size options. Arbitrary objects were being casually offered to passersby. I observed the foot on a passerby, leading me to a pleasant smelling food store. Mealies were being sold, roasted or boiled, at R7 and R9, respectively. Nearby was a small spice store, spewing out grand smells. Splattered all over the floor was bright red chili powder; something straight out of India.  There was also little plastic packets carrying an off-white rock substance. Apparently the substance is ingested and then the person becomes addicted. In my head, I was screaming “Cocaine on the streets!”

 ”Umcako”, Ntokozo said as she nudged me. One of a few times that she made sense of the evidential confusion on my face. She had such great insight into the makings of town life.

Geometrically designed trousers and blouses. The colours; yellow, red, blue, green and black. I started noticing how that seemed to be the trend of dress code around me.  Very quickly, all I saw was the graphic ethnicity in each item of clothing exhibited. It was as if I had stepped into a physical gallery. I started seeing each bracelet, bead and clothing item as a form of expression. I continued walking, but I would swear that it felt like I was running. Running through culture and manifestations of humanity, art, music, philosophy and literature. It was a moment that had triumphed over my fear, delivering me, sincerely, in front of art.

Written by Sauda Haffejee