08/11/2025
A Tale of One city
The period :
It was the time to honour the dead, it was the time to experience being alive, it was the age for the younger generations to speak, the age for the older ones to listen, it was the epoch of hustling, the epoch of being hustled, it was the season of external expression, it was the season of internal search, it was the Spring of the woke, the Winter of the onlooker, we had the whole world at our fingertips, we still returned to the room of the mind, we were all seeking nirvana, we were all relishing in samsara….
It was an eventful weekend in the city where the mountain rises from the great life giving ocean. Friday night the Homecoming theatre in District six welcomed all seekers wanting to deepen the awareness of roots, and those of us seeking the pleasures of a free event in this city. Halloween being celebrated all over, but this event I thought, a screening of short films delving into the truest past of a people with all hues and tones and bloodlines, this is the purest form of celebrating our ancestors, of honouring, of connecting, of learning, of welcoming our dead into a living space. As I ascended the arteries of the building, towards a screen room called Avalon, I wondered if my fellow viewers also reflected upon the legend, that place where King Arthur went to be healed from his final mortal wound. As various tones of brown ascended, I wondered if what we would discover and learn about ourselves in the bowels of Avalon, would lead to some sort of healing. Writing this and thinking back to the aftermath of the sensory smorgasbord that was presented in the form of places, movement, research, art, the melting pot of stories of a people, witnessed by Hoerikwaggo and mother ocean, I am overcame by grief, grief for a genocide of a people, still happening now. The torture went from public executions, slavery, grinding down of dignity, erasure of their history, to denying their descendants a part of the future, dangling carrots in front of their faces and saying here boy, leaving a trail of breadcrumbs, just enough, so that the remote possibility of som**hing better erases the need to know thyself. My time spent in Avalon taught me one thing though, the first part of ones healing journey starts with the immensity of grief. Sitting with our dead and acutely feeling through their stories they tell through us….
The Tales :
Regurgitated from the mouth of homecoming, the Uber driver awaits. Soft, insistent rain washes away the remains of the day, as we are ferried towards a much needed libation with an Obscene Parrot and its friend Osiris. The parrot doesn’t have much to say tonight except for nursing the wounds of her regulars, but she invites us to go and break the proverbial bread with Osiris, awaiting at the back. Medusa sits down at the table with my friend and I, while dark priestesses, a few ghosts and I would guess a werewolf float casually by. I curse out loud, for I forgot this was the fun part of honouring the dead. I am enthralled by Medusa’s locks, and acknowledge the mystical powers of my friend and as we gaze upon the young maiden Medusa’s youthful countenance. Osiris gently nudges us to leave, as he wants to retreat to his throne in the afterlife. The colourful parrot has filled up and it’s here the stories of life just this week, reaches my curios ears. I chat to, let’s call him Agent M, and learn about his small business of being a jack of all trades. He specialises in wall paper applications, hanging stuff, fixing, fitting, plumbing, and the list goes on. It is his story about his previous employer that fascinates me though.
For fear of being ostracized in a city that seems to have no platform for a person of my skill set ….yet….. I will refrain from naming these institutions as I’m still following the breadcrumb trail.
Agent M is a down to earth guy. No airs and graces, yet I can sense the proudness when he speaks about the work he does. When he started at this now iconic landmark in the city, it was still in its infancy but the colossal size of the dream was already taking shape. Agent M’s job was painting the vast space, doing the installations that was meant to take the breath away, evoke emotion through artistic expression. He installed pieces that captured the essence of the heart of the Dark Continent. When Agent M one day decided to take the day off for his birthday, after working long and erratic hours, because that’s what we do when we help build someone else’s dream life, we forget about what our dreams are…..and invest ourselves to the totality of theirs, he was fired the next day. Yes, no build up, no warning, no I need to speak with you in my office, fokkol, niks…..just a curt, oh you not working here anymore.
I gently excuse myself from a tale that extracts bitterness within me; you know, the one where those with power believe it’s their birth right to step on others.
The cool air on the always busy patio of the parrot beckons me. About to leave the seat at the bar, a young man standing behind me, tells his friend how unfair his woman is. The unfairness apparently seems to stem from the fact that he was tasked to carry a few of her personal belongings. You know the usual things, her sheet music, a scarf, and let’s not forget her wallet. You read that right, not her bag, her wallet. I give him some encouragement in the form of,” you lucky it’s not my bag you have to protect, I carry life in mine, and it’s heavy brother….” They laugh, and invite me for a joint at their table should I feel so inclined as to make life lighter.
As I’m standing outside on the now packed balcony of the parrot, I can’t help but smile at how easily joints are passed from one stranger to another. I come from an era where your dealer was the carguard in the parking lot, a banky was an actual bag for putting coins in(normally the standard bank ones), your route back home with your purchase was marred with anxiety, for what if campus police saw you…..yep, the good old days. I like these days better though. Dagga, yes I said it, is a medicine for sharing. And the patrons of the Parrot, are a sharing lot.
About to summon a ship to sail home, the upset young man from the bar catch my attention and invites me over to their table. As I take a seat next to an African queen, I am welcomed to the tribe with a joint, promising that the remainder of this night is about to become way more insightful. A few drags later and African queen and I start to scratch the surface of som**hing more mystical. It dawns on me that the young man from the bar, is beholden to the queen, as he passes her belongings. Hmmmm, interesting, that he doesn’t relinquish her wallet though. What a hard life he must have…..
Commencing our interaction now from a higher state of self, we go deep. The queen hails from Durban. We verbalise our feelings as women in motion, we speak on where we at, and through all this I’m trying to understand what profession she’s in. Before I can actually ask, I notice the sheet music again. Andrew Lloyd Weber’s name on the top. At this stage we pause for a break as upset young man from bar comes over with a tray of shots for the table. It must be so hard now having to only take care of her wallet I think, but hey, that’s none of my business.
I mention to queen, that I’ve seen a local Cats production a few years back and that Grizabella was my favourite cat. Queen stares at me, laughs and tells me she’s an opera singer, that she’s part of Andrew Lloyd Webber’s Cats musical hitting Cape Town in December. My mind, body and soul does an all hail the queen move as we go even deeper. We talk about the stages we were in our life’s when the decision to lock our hair came to be. Hers being one of already 13 years, mine is 4. Only thing is, at this moment, her locks are wrapped in synthetic hair. She takes my hand and allows me to feel her true locks underneath all the plastic. They are long and beautifully thick my touch tells me. I tell her that they are also sad. She stares at me, and says, “They are telling you what I feel.”
In that moment of connection I realise how the light bringers and bearers are still forced to give up parts of their essence. That in order to grief the injustice of it all, the universe leads us to Friday night encounters with other beings of light, that touches and feels and speak the language of truth in a world numbed by the boxes they are put in. We say our farewells through touching our foreheads together. Golden threads locked in, acknowledging a sacred vow that we’ll meet again, whether in this life or next.
What must be must be:
The rest of the weekend becomes one of haggling over prices for plastic plant pots, supporting charity shops, walking from 2025 into 1890 to grab some sushi, and helping myself to some plants at said sushi bar.
A Red bull flugtag Sunday, which started off weaving our way through throngs of people and ended with escaping the madness with a long breather at a spot where we could have the clearest view of the largest of tables and the motion of Mother ocean crashing out the noise of helicopters. Looking at Hoerikwaggo, I could not help but think how everyone can sit at that table, yet the table has been set to accommodate only a few.
Being Here:
A liminal space of being the intellectuals will say. And they’ll be right. Where am I transitioning to within a city where luminosity has become a cry for attention? And so I’ll walk, and let these tales touch me, and I’ll write and with faith, my presence here will be like cracking open a pomegranate whose sparkling bright red kernels will be feasted upon and the natural light will stream in through the large cracks. And I will serve my purpose for a while, knowing that it was the tales found here, that lead me to an infinite state of flow.
