Suicide Watch

The smell from Ouma’s kitchen is still in his nostrils, boboti with mashed potatoes
still baking in the oven, a pot of green, pea soup still steaming over the stove, filling the tiny
kitchen with its wide window which overlooks a vast barren field where many young men
and women, ignoring the warnings of their mothers and fathers, still venture into. He has
been there, that is how he met Rosalie who stands beside him now, waiting with him,
waiting for the next taxi into town.

He remembers the smell of wood fires and burning grass on cold, frosty nights with
his young friends, Muis, Poort and Jan, the stale stench of cigarettes on their jerseys
and coats, as they waited for the ladies to arrive for a fresh bout of courting. It is a
ritual which is passed down from Ouma and Oupa who recalled nostalgically how
they first cast eyes at one another in Hanover Street which now stands empty and
desolate and bereft with the strong scent of unwanted weeds, or so he has been
told.

He longs for the boboti, the rich aroma of fresh basil and sweetened yellow, or
savoury rice, as some in the Court call it.

We will fetch some daaltjies and samosas on our way up to Trafalgar Street, Rosalie
assures him, not wanting him to turn his dejection and repressed emotions of
disappointment and hopelessness on to her fragile frame. She has done her best as
far as she is concerned, what more can she do? Is it her fault that they are trapped
on the Flats in an endless cycle of poverty and empty hopes and empty promises. Is
it her fault that he is without work, is it her fault that he has impregnated her, she
tried so many times to keep her legs closed to him, but her arms turned enduringly
open to his overtures, the strong scent of his sweat and roll-on too much to bear. It is
true that she does love him dearly, but why is love so cruel, why do we all fall into the
same trap? We were told by Mrs Jaantjies to wait a little longer, to complete our
schooling, but with Moeder struggling to find new char jobs in Rondebosch
and Claremont where there are more African women than ever before, their strange
odiferous smells poring out from every second mevrou’s kitchen. It is said that they
are much cheaper than we are. The sight of Vader returning home, every Friday
night, late, reeking from copious amounts of beer and brandy was just too much. The
beatings and red welts were just too much. She grew tired of waiting, she told her
mother one morning, tired of waiting for the tide to turn, for this land of milk and
sweetly-scented honey to be hers, to have and to hold.

Wayne had made his promises too, when she found out that she was with child,
standing in the doorway of the kitchen, clutching a yellow-tail in his left hand, and a
snoek with glaring, dead eyes, still smelling very strongly of the Cape sea. He said it
was in his blood, to sail upon the oceans and reap its harvests. She remembers the
exhilarating smell of the salt as the waves crashed over the rocks at Clifton beach
one stolen Sunday afternoon. The allure was too great to resist, there was still a
chance that Wayne could land a sea-faring contract, it was all that they had left to
hope for. Now, even that has been taken away from them, now what we and our
forefathers have always done, for centuries, has been taken away from us.

Rosalie does not know that Wayne has self-consciously decided their fate, ensuring that the
Glock remains concealed under his knitted jersey, she does not notice the deceit behind his
despairing eyes, she has always trusted him to do the right thing and what was best for
them in the long run.

The taxi arrives, at long last. Rosalie and Wayne are anxious to reach Cape Town
before dusk, it is no longer safe to walk about the streets at night, Wayne warns his
beloved. The vehicle’s fumes of wasted gasoline fill their nostrils once more. It is a
familiar smell. Another journey through the winding, dusty streets of the Cape Flats is
about to begin. Will they reach their destination safely they wonder. It is a question
they ask one another time and time again. Oh, if only we could afford our own
wheels, they lament. The driver is a sight for sore eyes, they muse. Rastafarian
dreadlocks cover his equally dirty face, is it he that smells so strongly of sweat. Or is
it the gap-toothed gaartjie whose bare arms are hideously pockmarked by gross,
green tattoos?

The whole of the front seat is taken up by two dangerous looking men, dressed in
the American gangsta style. Are they indeed gangsters? Wayne does not know, he
is not from this township. Rosalie does not seem to know either, she is usually
indoors when the gangs come out to play. To rape, murder and steal, that is what
they do best, that is all they know. Now they are doing quite well, they say,
memphetamine is all the rage, it is very much in demand. Wayne and Rosalie, who
like to take a beer every now and then when they are visiting Cape Town, would not
dream of touching it. It is not the life they yearn for.

There is a clattering sound accompanying the strong gaseous smell of the taxi’s
interior, it is coming from the fore. Gaartjie and Driver seem oblivious to it. The
elderly lady, standing on the corner of Forest Road, now clambering into the taxi, has
noticed it. Still, it may pass, and in any event, she needs to get to Mowbray before
evening sets into her ailing spine. The horde of young teenagers, standing outside
Vanguard Shopping Mall, who are at first reluctant to board this rickety specimen of
a vehicle, have also noticed this sound. Nervous glances are passed from one
passenger to the next, Wayne and Rosalie smile nervously at one another. The old
lady raises her eyes to heaven knows where. They are grateful. Hanover Park has
passed them by without any incident. The gangsters have long clambered from the
vehicle. Their place has been taken by a well-dressed African couple, they must
still be in their twenties, Wayne and Rosalie remark to each other. Everyone cannot
help staring. It is not a familiar sight. Imagine that, two Africans in Bridgetown.

The Africans depart the taxi, thankfully. The gaartjie expresses amazement at their
preciseness at dictating the exact change for one hundred rands, he cannot
overcharge them, they recall the fare, eight rands, sixteen rands in total, that is, he
hesitates with hands trembling, to work out the exact amount due to the well-heeled
passengers, eighty-four rands. A nurse has boarded the taxi which is sounding ever
closer to its automatic death, just at the robots which signal the border between
township and suburb. The students and the old lady depart the taxi in Mowbray. It is
the bumper, the driver remarks joyously to his partner, it is going to come apart, we
must see to it when we get to the deck. The nurse departs the taxi at the foot of
Groote Schuur, her shift starts at six. It is five-thirty. We are almost there, Wayne and
Rosalie glance happily to one another.

As a heaving, overweight mother of two small children, with heavy parcels at the end
of each weary arm, squeezes into the narrow confines of what passes for passenger
seats, gathering her two children into her belaboured folds, as an African man,
cellphone pierced tightly to his ear, where is he from, Congo, Nigeria, shoves his
way into a seat, a police van pulls up in front the taxi. The two constables are visibly
angry, livid in fact, and very keen to impose their authority upon a driver, not of their
tribe, and unable to produce the requisite license card. They are angry at being
addressed as chiefs, it is a derogatory term to them. The bemused driver meant no
harm, it is in his nature to show such witticism, particularly in this day and age. He is arrested.

The familiar and oily smells of Cape Town fill the nostrils of the passengers who
irritatingly board another passenger vehicle, thankful that they did not have to pay
another fare. Wayne is glancing at the magnificent blue mountain, its feet speckled
with indigenous trees, he does not stop dreaming, of wondrous moments, of a hose
beneath this mountain, he has not told Rosalie, this dream is too much to bear. He does not
stop thinking of his painful plan to end it all on the barren plains on which once stood
District Six. The narrow street that winds its way into Cape Town is bordered by old terraced
shops, used furniture dealers, green grocers, video outlets, loan shops with exorbitant
interest rates, one or two warehouses promising a revival of the spirit, and finally one
or two refurbished warehouses promising a new organic, aesthetically pleasing lived
experience. It is still the preserve of the whites, what do we know about class, style
and good taste, Rosalie wonders.

The African’s voice is booming, noisily it is irritating to the ear. He is surreptitiously
ordering someone about on the other side of his line. Wayne, Rosalie and the fat
woman with two small children glance at one another amusingly, the African’s
cellphone is large, hideous in its vain attempt at keeping up with a modern era of
mass communication, social media it is now called, though they know nothing of it
themselves. To them, a fashionable, shiny phone’s primary accessories must
encompass an MP3 player, a radio too, of course, and a camera in order to preserve
happy memories. This is when Ma celebrated her seventieth birthday, this when
Boet brought his new baby girl for Ma to see, this is when we all stood outside
singing and laughing, seeing to it that the new year was a happy, joyful affair. This is
when Awie turned twenty-one, and this is when the klopse decided to entertain us all
instead of taking their troupes to the white areas, today they practice as often as
possible, but it is not the same as in the old days when we were still quite young, and
even Pa would take part.

The new driver, thankfully, is oblivious to the African’s loud, pretentious attempt to
impress. He leaves the taxi just before the turn-off into Darling Street, no-one knows
where he is going. The streets are quite bereft of life synonymous with industry,
trade and entertainment. Vagrants lie strewn across weed-filled grounds, empty
bottles surrounding them. Looking up towards the mountain once more, Wayne
notices the old Anglican chapel standing alone, surrounded by empty streets and
polluted fields. Colourful memories cloud his eyes. The fresh smell of starch as
Ouma and Ma hang out washing to dry over Kitchener Road where he was born.
Tuesdays, the Muslims used to prepare spices, jasmine, cumin, fresh curry leaves,
and fresh cuts of meat, lamb mostly, it was affordable then, for the oncoming feast.
The ghoema had an acute quality about it then, old men reminiscing upon days still
before Wayne and Rosalie were born, singing in perfect harmony. The sweet,
sugary scent of koeksusters is also remembered, as well as the long, mournful call to
pray in the early hours of the morning before the sun rises.

Evening is approaching rapidly now, the taxi makes it way rapidly up a long, steep
hill off Darling Street. We are almost there, Rosalie and Wayne glance at each other,
relieved. They can see shadows creeping into all the familiar corners of the old
Parade which was christened Isaac Ospowich Square many years ago now, they still
do not know why. The deck is another journey all on its own. Dark-skinned men,
smelly, some hideous-looking, pockmarked with the ravages of wars, or street fights,
lurk under the pillars of the beneficent port as passengers escape the taxi’s
murderous grip which held them through a long, nervous journey. The pleasant
aroma of African delights, pots of meat with samp, rhythmic beats not familiar to
them, accompany their short, quick journey across the deck. Purses, CD pouches,
DVD’s, pairs of training shoes emblazoned with American legends partially hinder
their walk across the perilous bridge. They clamber down wooden stairs, and
finally they are on solid concrete.

The old clock tower booms six o’ clock as Wayne and Rosalie make their way across
the Parade which is empty of custom now, only litter being swept up by the mighty
south easter reminding them of the business of the day. Stalls with clothing, reams of
material, plastic Chinese toys, kitchen utensils, opulent scents of perfumes and after-
shaves that fell off the backs of trucks crossing the border into the Limpopo,
pleasant-smelling curries accompanied by rotis. Young African urchins selling
plastic bags, Coloured men selling super glue guaranteed to stick, older peers in
finely starched white overcoats unveiling gold jewellery of the lightest carat. Old
ladies who have long ago discarded their beauty and covered themselves shamefully
and firmly with coats and scarves, selling mielies and samosas. The ongoing traffic
of Darling and Buitenkant Streets is heard in the distance while Jan Van Riebeeck’s
Castle stands firmly to the left, protectively watching over the Parade and the rest of
a burgeoning city, awash with new sounds from faraway places. We are at
least safe, Wayne reassures Rosalie, as they board the next taxi, we are at least
safe. Unnoticed by her, he pats the side his hip, reminding himself of the fate that he has
chosen for them.