The Knysna Bricklayer

Kelly had pressed a hundred rand on me despite objections, saying, ‘You’ll put it to good use.’ I thought I could buy food for someone, a power of intention that led quite a few beggars towards me. Having spent most of it, with just enough left for one more loaf of bread and a roll of polony, I was drawn to a solitary guy sitting under a tree who looked rather dejected. It turned out he was an unemployed bricklayer. The mother of his child had kicked him out. He’d almost had a piece job that morning, the driver of the bakkie had pointed at him and nodded – but then someone else had jumped on before he could get there. We sat chatting about life for more than half an hour and in that time he was approached by four different people who asked him for food. Without thought or hesitation he just handed over what little he had. I was astounded. Dumbfounded. This, after all, was a man who didn’t know where his next meal was coming from. A man who said he felt useless in society. Afterwards I was writing in a park, tears streaming, when a little girl of about four came up to me. She took my pencil and ‘wrote’ something for me. Then she removed my sunglasses, looked into my eyes and winked, as if to say: life is like that.