Summer smells like makhelwane’s banana bread that she bakes every month end after getting paid at the local clinic she works at. Mouth-watering and inviting. You smell it all the way from the taxi rank.

Autumn sounds like gunshots from the Cape flats. It hits unexpectedly. You’ll do your laundry and hang it up only to find it soiled and tangled in a minute. Dust is the order of the day. The sun shies away and the wind takes over.

Winter feels like a gate padlock that has been on the ground through a snowy night that you have to hold with your bare hands and put together so you can lock the gate again tonight.

Spring tastes like stolen chocolate brownies that are usually kept in the top cupboard for “special occasions”, eaten in private.