Saturday nights feels right. Like a party you could say – jovially moving to the music, singing loudly, for once feeling alive. There are smiles on people’s faces, showing that they survived a rough week. There’s the smell of the braaied meat, and Granny’s favourite recipe. This means you are alive.

There’re loud laughter and celebrations from the uncle who’s watching his favourite team – moments to be saved. It’s endless happiness, glasses lifted for ‘cheers’ and a positive atmosphere. This is the point where you feel alive and loved. A glance at the moon, and it reassures.

The shining Sunday sun welcomes us to a white day accompanied by the melodious tweets of the birds – one could mistake it for a song. The sky is not bleak or black but so blue and birthing it’s ups and downs. Left and right drivers beep their bells to warm the rush. Vendors with buckets full of fat cakes calm their nerves with the sweet aroma. Christians move softly with their black books. We are alive and loved.