Opening: Clustered predators round a kill. It’s a small car with a young woman inside it. The battery has failed and taxis, cars, minibuses, vans, motorcycles butt and challenge one another, reproach and curse her, a traffic mob mount-ing its own confusion. Get going. Stupid bloody woman.
Idikazana lomlungu, le! She throws up hands, palms open, in surrender. They continue to jostle and blare their impatience.
She gets out of her car and faces them. One of the unemployed black men who beg by waving vehicles into parking bays sidles his way deftly through fenders, signals with his head—Oka-ay, Oka-ay go inside, go!—and mimes control of the steering wheel. Another like him appears, and they push her and her car into a loading bay. The street hustles on.
Not a fan of the writing style but the reverse migrant experience made for an interesting juxtaposition.
3* July’s People
3* The Pickup