Speakers bellow with sounds of Amapiano. Wanna join me for some air? I text my daughter, sitting right beside me.
“That’s some party, isn’t it?” my daughter said. She pointed to the back whence the noise came.
We sneezed to smoke that filled the air. I salivated to braaied meat whose smell hovered over my nose.
I sighed, “It’s Saturday.”
Empty beer bottles lay strewn on the ground. Siya’s room exhales a stench of alcohol and burnt cigarettes. The pungency of something burning intensifies. Atop the stove – pitch black and smoking like a chimney – stands a pot.
He lay on the floor comatose. No pulse. So much for ‘Happy’, as pumped by the speakers. So much for ‘Ke Dizemba boss!’