Friday, 24 March 2017
This formidable moment.
She smiles apologetically from across the counter and says, "Sorry. We've only got a 4:30 slot left."
I tell her with a mask of serenity that it's okay. Maybe I'll come back tomorrow. But inside, a thing sinister and indescribable is screaming, "You're a fucking barber, not a cardiologist!"
It's alright though. I caught a midday movie up at the local cinema. Something about loving. A play on the protagonists' surname, the affliction they're beset by and the forces arrayed against them (which of course, are anything BUT loving).
I came out to a sky filled with dark clouds that threaten to break the hearts and bank balances of many. But to me, the coming storm appears now a friendly and welcoming deluge against the too-perfect heat and dazzle of early afternoon light.
So I drive around nearby neighbourhoods not recognising whole sections of streets and highways as the music of South Western Townships plays at a respectable volume.
I do not recognise this tax agent or that pastel billboard for a struggling bijou shop. I do not recognise close-cropped lawn after close-cropped lawn and the houses blurred behind them.
Sitting in the shopping centre, now. Even the yelps and angry cries of happy children, which normally tears something out of me, sounds like a pleasant melody as I monster down a burrito with crinkle cut chips, washed down with an orange soft drink - all of which has as much relationship to Mexico as Karl Marx has to Groucho.
Still on the movie and I think - as I have done many, many times - that the only thing more stupid and contemptible than love, is willfully making an effort to prevent love from blossoming.
Soweto
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