Day 275: Shopping in Palm Springs, Soweto

Telana may be one of the best networkers I’ve ever met. Through her, I got to meet people who also challenge themselves to find new ways of seeing the world. No surprise then that when I heard of a Soweto artist who started art workshops for kids in his community, I jumped at the chance to meet him.

Vumelani is not impressed that I have nothing to add to his shopping list, but I really have everything I could possibly need: toothpaste, soap, shampoo, stone tool, bright green salad servers, CD by Kambro . . . what more could a girl possibly want?

His face pulls into a lopsided frown under one wayward dreadlock that always seems to sneak over his face. But that may just be his trademark.

Vumelani is an artist who concerns himself with the people around him. He makes time to give children art lessons during the summer months to ensure that they have stimulation, rather than just being left to hang around. There is a playground surrounded by homes whose walls face onto it. Vumelani asked the home owners for permission to let the children paint these walls with different themes each year. When I am there it is HIV and Aids – the walls boast red ribbons and bold prevention messages.

Vumelani has a way of paying attention to details. Maybe it’s an artist thing? He and his mother own a hot water urn that doesn’t work. On the first night I stay with them they slave away boiling water on the stove and in kettles to fill the broken urn in an attempt to keep the water warm until they can tip it into the bath for me. I, meanwhile, am made to sit down and relax. Nearly three-quarters of an hour later I am called to the bathroom. A bath is waiting for me – bubbles and all. It is one of the best baths of my life. The love and effort that have gone into it soak through to my consciousness.

The next day, on our way to the shops, we take a leisurely stroll past the kid-painted walls, past men playing dice for money, a granny hanging up some washing with a little one strapped to her back. The air is filled with the smells of cooking and the sound of children laughing. It is a poor but connected place and I remember wryly how the sight of townships used to invoke in me feelings of sadness and pity. Now I see things differently. I see how connected this community is. There are neighbourhoods in our country where people have high walls to ensure their safety, but which at the same time can isolate them from their neighbours. I get the feeling that, over here, triumphs and challenges are shared with greater ease.

We near a big supermarket. It is Saturday afternoon and busy. To the right a long queue of people is waiting for something, their combined body language making it apparent that they have been here for some time. They have shaped together to form a long, snaking line – one bending where the other protrudes, one exhaling where the next inhales. The people are quite calm, quite used to waiting.

Vumelani and I are engrossed in our conversation when I hear someone say something offensive. I do not speak Tswana, but I can feel, smell and taste that hurtful words have been flung. At me. It causes Vumelani to falter, momentarily. Vumelani’s usually easy, tall-man gait now has a jagged, disturbed tick. After a few paces he comes to an abrupt stop, turns to me, shakes his head at a conversation he is having in his head and politely asks me to please stay where I am. With that he turns around and makes his way back to a man in the queue.

When he reaches him, he stops and speaks sofly to him. I can not hear a word, but see his arms stretch out, palms facing up. I don’t understand why the man had angry words for me, and at the same time I understand completely.

When Vumelani returns to me he just says, ‘Thanks.’ and makes to go.

This time I stop him. ‘Vumi, wait. Please. There is something I need to do.’

I put my hand on his chest and when he looks into my eyes I know that he understands. Now I turn and face the queue where people may or may not have moved one place forward. The man is there and I walk up to him. He does not notice me, but some of his neighbours do. I can feel the whole line of people breathe in almost all of the air around us – the moment bristles with static expectation. Sensing my presence, the man turns to find me looking straight into his eyes. I can hear the queue sharply pulling its breath in even further, as though I were strapping a corset around them.

Shock is written all over the man’s face. Up until this point I have been reacting on instinct, so I have no idea what I am going to do now that we are face to face, insecurities to insecur-ities. Our vulnerabilities on full display. Standing there I smell the second-hand alcohol fumes hitting my face and feel his mixed emotions. And then I know what to do. ‘Please can I give you a hug?’

His disbelief washes over us. He is wary. It is untrodden ground, this. I just smile at him and stretch my arms out. His turmoil is reflected on his face. But then his arms move towards me. Slowly. He places them around me, gingerly, uncertainly, until he has me in his grasp and folds me in a strong embrace. We hug and he throws his head back and dormant laughter erupts in a hot lava stream. In a wild abandon that comes from victimless freedom he picks me up and twirls me around.

The crowd’s voice is frozen. Stuck. When he places me on the ground again I step out of his arms, take hold of both his hands and squeeze them. I wish I could remove all his ills, give him some of the infused spirit of uBuntu that has been travelling with me for so long now. We smile. I let go. I let go of so much.

As I turn around the crowd exhales. In a big way. There is chitter-chatter, laughter, tsking and scowling. Question marks and mixed emotions. Some women are ululating. But mostly there is relief that a new breath can now be drawn.

I feel as light as the air itself and find my path back to Vumi. He’s waiting there for me. Patiently. Tall. We look at one another. Nodding. Smiling. There are no words as we continue on our way to the shops.

As we looked at each other, that man and I, we both realised that words were completely unnecessary. This was the best conversation I had on my journey. We said all we needed to say in total silence.