The carpet cushions my skin as I lie sprawled, belly-down in the lounge, a purple pencil crayon in hand and a half-coloured picture craving to be finished…
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"I can only tell you things that happened as I saw them, and what the rest was about only Africa knows." – Oom Schalk Lourens
It vaulted onto her face, its limbs clinging to her soft skin. One minute we were playing in the garden, the next Kate was shrieking blue murder. There was no way that I was going near those mandibles.
Hundreds of beaded eyes look up, reflecting the turquoise blue African sky with glassy indifference.
Being given 50c to spend at the Spar down the road was, like, better than winning the grand prize on Telly Fun Quiz. No seriously. (Okay, not counting the trellidor.)
There was no water. So they filled barrels and piled as many as could into the car, and headed for Katlehong.
After some serious debate, we made our purchase and upon arriving (late) at the designated spot, discovered that the car was gone. Had we gone to the wrong parking bay? No. I know my mom. No patience. She’d gone without us.
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The waves exploded towards slab and shore as Octo-dad clung to the jagged side like a human barnacle, adeptly extracting the shells; his long hair clasped to his face and beard as he returned with the treasure.
There was a fluidity to our roaming back then. In and out of each other’s houses and around the neighbourhood—proprietor of secret places and favourite games.
When that overloaded Beetle propelled through a red light and little Kate pointed out the infraction, she was met with a hasty and uncharacteristic, “Shut up, Kate”. It was then that we knew things were serious.
Back in the 90s… school lunch was a mountain of butter on brown bread and a sliver of marmite. And then there were the kids with ham sandwiches or strawberry jam on white bread. I hated those kids.