YD6~41 flirting with consciousness on a drive through the savanna

This 41st chapter: Vitrine of Consciousness, effectively uses the road trip as a vehicle to explore the abstract concept of consciousness.  The writing style, with its vivid descriptions and introspective tone, draws the reader into the narrator's experience, making it a relatable and engaging exploration of a complex theme.

 The hands of my wristwatch flashed, 10:00. My mind launches glimpses to find my past route. Connecting stretches of roadway through waving savanna hills. Oxen and wagon vestiges meandering tracks east. Shining specks changes I’ve witnessed over the decades punctuating once Voortrekker outpost. I bring back my mind, to driving the Bakkie up the leafy Sunnyway. At the 7/25 nameplate, I swerve onto the concrete apron to a stop before the gate grill’s black bars etch in the sun-drenched panhandle driveway along clinker-brick walls. Channel a distant entrance porch beneath the terracotta slope of a Marseillaise roof.

I press a code - Honk, honk, honk - the sound echoing through the peaceful adjacent villas, peeking tiled hip and valley pitch tiled roofs and wraps of shrubs over the boundary walls.

The mere thought of Jean, frustrating me, by our custody arrangement — I shift into reverse gear. Backing up the Bakkie, Gavin’s figure flickers in the shadows of the stoop. But I engaged myself, parking in the shade. pull forward, up the grassy sidewalk for the jacaranda’s shade in front of Lionel and Gavin’s friend — “Steve’s house.” 

Behind me, the gates resonate the chain links’ metallic rifling. The rearview mirror winks at my habitual wait shortcut. Gavin scooch from the upright bars, and mirrored Lionel’s silent spright approach. Lionel flings his shoulder satchel over the side of the Bakkie cargo side - thud - while, Gavin places his bag next to mine on the cargo bed. The passenger door flings open, to a disapproving voice, “Daddy, look how Lionel leaves his things!” 

“Ok! Gavy. We’ll sort that out later,” I say. My mind lingers to break, but a promise made to Jean, it’s a promise tied to Lionel, 

Just as I thought, I settled with Jean to cover the boys’ medical bills. Lionel’s words, a punch in the chest. “Mom wants to know, when will we be back?” feeling frazzled, I blurted out, “A couple of days.” That didn’t suffice. He frowns stress. “Three. Four,” I amend, melts his mother’s fears. Relieved that’s settled, he asks. “Will we be back for Christmas? Because every year we go to Peter’s for the day. He gets mad, cooking if nobody eats.” His words took my breath away, I came from New York, only to have restrictions put on me.

My boy figuring in the gaping door, as my mind clips back my frustrations, filling with the adventure of Voortrekker tracks winding along asphalt roads across vast savanna lost on the horizon. To appease Lionel fidgeting, “Sure,” I blurt out. My gaze falls on the SFB Properties (Pty.) Ltd. checkbook, a relic of my abandoning South Africa. Lionel eyed what held him back in front of his brother. Leaning on the seat, I write out the blank spaces when breezing through my mind. ‘I can leave without holding on to my promise!’ but Lionel and Gavin shadows in the gaping light. “Here,” I say to Lionel, handing over the check.

Lionel dashes off, vanishing around the clinker brick corner, scooch through the gate’s bars, Gavin relaxes, to perch on the edge of the seat, swivels after stepping in, scoots up closer, waiting out by the open door.

Lionel’s slips-slops - flap, flap, flap . . .- return, puffing, he says, “Mom said, `Thanks’.” I tweak the ignition key, as Lionel squeezes up into the toy-like cabin, pulling the door shut. The Datsun’s engine purrs. We pull away from the shade, circling in sunlight onto the asphalt to drive down Sunnyway.

The boys nestled since birth with the verdant hillside tapestry fades as we descend into the trough amid villas, weaving toward Kelvin’s edge to an expanse of open veldt. Silent in the familiarity, we turn into Northway and prolong the wall of fences paired with pitched tiled roofs, toward the ridge. By a raised “Stop” sign, I steer right, engaging the Old Pretoria Road. Through the screen run. I glimpse at the upcoming Johannesburg-bound trickle of traffic along the security — ‘we were on course.’ 

Until, the road signs flush my mind, to decompose old and new interchanges. Amid our excited voices, I raise concern. “Cooks!” I admit, “I’m stuck.” 

My mind sniffs out those days as teenagers. With my brother, Igor, saddled on our racing road bikes riding the country road heading home, in Kyalami. I take my chance. The overpass to a lucky mirage, to the access ramps that made sense. I veer right onto the deserted lanes, to feeling free, merging with Johannesburg’s outbound trickling traffic, tapering the roadway through pillars passing underneath the Western bypass, my mind’s fragility filtering through my brain.

My mind drifts back to the early days of courting Jean, my boys’ mother. Remembering Nelspruit, in passing with my Volkswagen 411 sedan. The country road east, narrow gravel road shoulders and jagged asphalt edges perpetuating to disappearing into the bushveld remote village chief recruiting labor. Then driving my Volkswagen pickup, fetch the men from the homelands, accommodate them in hostels in Alexandra to work on construction sites in the city.  

Pretoria ahead, encased in a panoramic capsule, as I’m overseeing the dashboard dials, “We’ll find the way.” I blurt out, cutting through the silence. Surrounded by a traffic - whoosh - my foot feathering the gas pedal, respecting the speed limit. Road signs, overwhelming with names, stress inducing, I flush out of mind, confronted by “Pietersburg,” to the north. Yet reassuring “Nelspruit” but to the east and paired on the overhead sign. 

The two-band perpetuates through golden savanna. My mind soars an eagle circling overhead, seeking to map a prevailing tangible route. Overriding from entering Pretoria’s roadway scar perpetuates through the golden savanna. Yet, my boys’ exuberant fills the cabin — a wispy cloud high in the skies. On Helios’ path, a blurred jealous streak, the zodiacal threshold to Aetheria’s retreat, shadowed her aural reflection far from reaching me. 

By the subtle and ample preemptive view of the splitting asphalt bands. Diverging a course, subtle folding back, curving with a trickle of traffic overpass highway traffic. From behind the bridging concrete parapet to blend into the landscape. In the grip of uncertainty, “Is there another off-ramp?” I ask myself, My mind racing, “No! I don’t think so?”

I pull over behind the yellow line, traffic wheezing by on both sides. “That’s clever,” I blurt out. “Now that I need a map. . . in the rush to pick you guys, that slipped my mind.” Through the threshold of a peaceful halt, my remote consciousness filters the road composing, skirting Pretoria. “That’s it,” I exclaim. With a glance seated in shorts, the gear shift brush Gavin’s bare knee. Pulling away from the highway traffic, bouncing over the curb. shake across tufty cropped grass at the crotch branching lanes. “Further along. . .” I say, “the Pretoria skirting highway branches off toward Witbank.” 

“Yaa Dad,” Lionel chimes in, “it passes where granny (Whitehorn) has land.”

“Yes Daddy, I know,” Gavin adds, as the shaking stops, for a smooth ride up the emergency lane. “This is the way,” I say, accelerating up the incline. The speedometer climbs to 120 km/hr and merges back into the flow of traffic. “That’s it, Cooks. We’re on our way.”

Lionel’s silence gives way to a mischievous grin. Then, unable to hold down his thoughts. “My mom said, 'you can talk! Dad.' You gave her such a headache last night. 'Two hours with your father’…” short of saying, bound to make anyone’s head spin.

We approach an identical Bakkie, its cargo bed overflowing with rope-bound goods. That’s obvious, as if destined for the homeland. 

“Dad, can’t you go faster?” Lionel’s voice creeps with impatience.

“Yes! Lionel. I think so,” I reply, “But, I don’t want to blow this little engine to smithereens.” 

“No daddy. You mustn’t go faster.” Gavin interjects.

Lionel and I debated the engine size, “fourteen-hundred, twelve-hundred. . .” springs loaded, tires ducking into the mudguards. Sharing a thought, 'We can’t tell if the engine is tuned at all.'  

I tolerate a little weight my foot exerts on the gas pedal. “I don’t understand why Ivo told me, `It’s good for the city, but on the open road’…” as the needle nears 140 km/hr, ‘and yet,’ I’m thinking. Coming from behind, the driver offers us a sheepish grin. As the overpass levels out across the overpass to a two-way flow of traffic, we stare at the spectacle, the hefty man accompanied by his woman crammed into the tiny cabin, and swiftly left them behind to fold back to the leading lane.

Pretoria’s suburban developments, shining predators, creep up the savanna’s undulating hills. As the highway circumvents, keeping me in suspense. Until, shadows flash across the windshield. The sun’s silver efflorescence on the signboards, alongside the double split-arrows “Witbank,” erasing doubts about our route. The highway bends eastward, launching to cruise. Lull trailing far spread translucent taillights, hypnotic along the pair of white concrete ribbons traversing the savanna. 

“Are you hungry?” I ask, the perpetuating highway through the country in front of us. “No, Daddy,” Gavin says. 

“Gavin!” Lionel interjects. “Dad! I am hungry.” Lionel turns to Gavin, his voice laced with dismissal. “Gavin, you don’t have to eat.” 

Driving on a stretch of highway with a trickle of traffic,  “Wendy’s” sign splashes out of the savanna. Lionel hails at me, calling to the off-road complex. His eyes tense, searching, as I drive coming around the face brick wall, plastered with “Wendy’s” plastic signs, until we park. 

With a swing of opening and closing doors, “Ok. Come, Cooks” resonating my words, gathering behind the Bakkie, among a few cars shimmering. We headed across the brick paved parking lot. Stroll past the CNA bookstore, and other shops. Lionel finds Wendy’s at the center of the complex. But while I’m distracted, reminisce about Pizza Hut. With a passageway branching out from the corner. “That’s clever.” I exclaim, how the design channels back to the glowing parking lot. “Let’s go to Pizza Hut,” I say, brushing off Lionel's desire for Wendy's. As I press open the adjacent plate-glass doors, Gavin voices his agreement.

We walk across the green carpet, weaving through the scattered tables of families in the restaurant’s dining hall. Short of a decisive back wall, pause. A young waiter waves menus from behind us, to pose on our table. He back steps a few paces to retrieve. We’re pulling out our chairs to sit — Lionel across from me, Gavin beside me, and picking up the menus. The Pizza Hut logo staring up at us. The student waiter reappears. He stands by. He notes our order. “Can I have one of these menus?” I asked the waiter. “In New York, I fitted out a Pizza Hut Express.”

“I can’t,” the waiter replies, “But I’ll call the manager.”

The waiter serves up our pizza pans, retrieves himself. As we were cutting and eating our slices, a man approached our table. “I’m the manager,” he says. I repeat what I had said earlier to the student waiter. He offers me a customer-friendly visit to the kitchen. “Thanks,” I replied, accepting his offer. The manager leaves us to enjoy our meal, breezing through my mind, ‘I’ve seen enough stainless-steel kitchens.’

Gavin’s pan with two slices.  “Daddy, I’m full,” he whimpers. Lionel and I exchange looks, stretch a hand and pick one slice each. The pans were empty, the drinks consumed. I wave a hand, calling for the bill, as a long road waits ahead. The student waiter poses the bill on the table. I flip the ticket, to unfold. From my wallet, handing him the cash. Sneaking out from running into the manager’s graceful guided tour. “Thirty three Rand!” I exclaim wide-eyed, ‘a little steep. We could have done with a New York Express at three Dollars?’

We approach the 1400 Datsun Bakkie, not alone shimmering in the sun and waiting. The cabin doors open, Gavin scoots, while Lionel and I slip into our seats, pulling the doors close. I tweak the ignition key, the engine purr, shift into gear, back up, to drive from behind the shelter of the wall, tracking the sneaky asphalt through the savanna to the main road. We weasel our way across the median, merge with the traffic to pursue hypnotic traffic. Cruising the two-way carriageway, crossing straight over the undulated golden savanna. Small clusters of bi-centennial eucalyptus shade a track, a reminder of Voortrekkers, traveled the land. We pierce our way and in stealth, coming up to butterfly wings rotating around us, scorched tilted ground onto slipping behind us. ‘How can something grow here?’ Next creeps up another Boers’ field of young corn, slipping behind.

The roadway narrows to a single band, and cruising for a while. “Dad, can you go faster?” Lionel calls out.

“No, Lionel,” Gavin interceded, “Daddy is driving fast enough.”

“Lionel,” I say, “We’re doing hundred-forty and passing everyone. This little thing’s jumpy already. Don’t we want to get to Hazyview? We’re in no hurry. Are we Gavin?”

“No, Daddy.” Gavin replies. “There is plenty of time, Lionel.”

“Cooks. We have to be at the Spar before seven.” Ilse said, 'We can do the journey in four-and-half hours.'

The thoroughfare stretches endlessly, Lionel leans over Gavin, glancing at the dashboard dial after overtaking a car, and we’re folding back. “160! Whoa! Dad.” 

“This little thing doesn’t even slack,” I say. “Uphill, it doesn’t strain, in need to downshift gears.” the wind whistle, drowning out the engine whine. 

“Yaa,” Lionel says wide-eyed. “Dad, this is great!” as the perpetuating road keeps us occupied, staving off boredom.

“Daddy. How far have we still got to go?” Gavin asks. 

“About halfway, Gavy,” I reply, while the fuel gauge needle falls fast toward the red tank icon, and raises concern. The Ultra-City filling station just doesn’t want to appear. My mind conjures up a scene — the three of us stranded on the side of the road throwing thumbs for a ride to the gas station — leaving my boys behind, isn’t even a thought. Reaching the end of the Highveld plateau, with waiting for fewer blue road signs, and towns sparse. “Where is Ultra-City?” I plead out loud. 

Lionel had passed here by bus, he kept on bringing up this Veldskoen. . . — skin-filed-shoe on an excursion? Then a brown road sign flashes past, raising an anxiety. The needle dipped into the red fuel tank on the dashboard. “I wonder if we’ll make the thirty kilometers indicated to Ultra-City?” I say, easing my foot on the throttle. In the rearview mirror, vehicles overtaken, closing up on us. Then, another brown pointing sign flashes 20 km, I further slow down, traffic whizz past, then flash “10 km.” -- “I think we’ll make it,” I say, as we're coasting down the hill, veering off onto the driveway to a stop beside a fuel pump.

“Lionel,” I say, “While they’re filling the tank, I’ll wait here. Will you get us something to drink?”

“What do you want? Dad.”

“Bring me a coke.” I turn to Gavin. “Gavy, what do you want?” In the driveway, Lionel waits. Then, Gavin responds, joining his brother to see for himself.

Watching my boys distancing, their sunbathing reflection of the storefront glass, through the hollow of sliding doors, disappear in the shadows of the store — the threshold of consciousness. I glance back at the attendant, a blank expression holding the hose-nozzle by the flank of the Bakkie’s cabin. I jest the language across the open bushveld, “Jy sien hier-die Bakkie, hy flieg. . . — You see this Bakkie! It flies. Loses the cars behind,” I kid. The pump attendant's bamboozled eyes clears, smiling. On a cue, sunlight waxes Lionel and Gavin’s return from the shadows of the store, to step into the Bakkie. I’m left standing by, as the attendant flickers doubt, “Honderd-en-sestig. . . — Hundred-sixty, and faster. . .” I say. “Now he’s thirsty.”

The attendant pays an eye at the pump display, squeezing a few cents more of fuel into the tank - clang - the fuel nozzle slots back to the side of the pump. “Vijftig Rand … — Fifty Rand, Baas,” he calls out. I pull a red banknote from my wallet which, when handed to him, digesting, turns away his breast pocket Shell icon. I stand by as the young man’s yellow overalls cross the driveway to the cashier window hatch. He returns, a wide grin stuck to his face. He hands me my change.

“Are you hungry? Cooks” I asked as a matter of courtesy. 

“No. I don’t want to eat,” Gavin said.

“Ok!” I say. “That’s alright, I need some coffee to wake up. . .” I tweak the ignition key, pulling out from the shade, toward the yellow sun-shade canopies, only to stall amid vacationers’ cars, minibusses, and caravanners. We step out, meeting at the rear of the Bakkie, cross the sun baking brick paving toward Wendy’s. “Ugh,” I exclaim, “Our suitcases and bags!” On second thought, I say. “… We’ll take a window seat overlooking the car park.” 

Beneath the shaded porch, I push open the wood framed glass door. Our entrance draws the gaze of a rounded face waitress with a short afro-hair, to clutch and close to her chest carries the menus. She trails us through the quiet dining hall, as we head for a glowing car park beyond the large window in the shade. Lionel settles across the booth table, while Gavin scooting along the bench seat beside me. 

The bored, submissive, down-turned eyed, cast the waitress’ culture, placing the menus on the table, and turns away. Distancing toward the cashier in a purple uniform and pointed white collar, joining another waitress chatting. Twisting in my seat, I call her back from the group to our table. Her eye at the edge of the table, mumbling through thick lips, Lionel repeats his order. Then I speak up, “I’m going to have coffee. You Gavy, do you want anything?”

Left to ourselves, drinks are served up. The glow in the eye's corner. Not realizing we’ve been lucky, to have the sun at our backs the whole drive. “We might just make it in time,” I say, with a glance at my wristwatch. Finishing our coffee, Gavin his milkshake, to rise weaving by empty tables. Paying to the cashier. ‘I’m running out of money,’ I’m telling myself. “I hope we’re going to make it with the petrol,” I blurted, walking out, with Gavin’s little voice pipes up, “Daddy, Can I see?” with a twist of my wrist, I flip the flaps once again, opening my wallet and behind my Seven Star mini dairy I lower to Gavin’s eyes the back purse, revealing a single ten Rand banknote.

We step into the sunlight toward the screen shaded Bakkie, sliding back to our seats. I tweak the ignition key, the engine purr, and driving away, exit, until drowned out by the wind. We accelerate, passing the first car grinding up the steep hill. “We’ll not catch up on the cars we lost sitting at Wendy’s,” I remind my boys, “or, before that, at a snail’s pace to save petrol.”

In the rearview mirror, a BMW approaches steadily, adding a little excitement into the drive. “He’ll not go to pass us.” I joke, “I’m not going to let him.” The old model of BMW draws alongside, a village of eyes peering over at our Bakkie, their car’s suspension bearing the load, tires embedded into the wheels’ wells. As the BMW driver edges past, I tease, “We’ll get him on the downhill.” Across the undulating hills the BMW appears, catching glimpses into the hazy distance until, on the edge of the Highveld, lost altogether from sight. Lionel and Gavin, joining in the excitement, reminded me, “The BMW 535 is the only car that overtook us.” after we left a trail of vehicles behind.

A signboard flashes by, revealing the upcoming intersection, and to sight “Sabie” — far inland on the Lowveld, to wonder. “Have we got to branch off here?” I blurt out. To meet a “Stop” with a blizzard-fright. “I’ll ask the driver,” I tell my boys, as a minibus-taxi stands in sight loaded with passengers across the junction. “If he doesn’t know the way,” I mutter, “Then who would?” I get out, and stand by the roadside, waiting for a break in the fast traffic whooshing past, swirling my clothes. I hurry across the white lane, and yellow zebra lines. A car wheezing past, so close, at a stand, raising my awareness of the speed I drive. Reaching the driver’s window, throwing me a puzzled look. “How do I get to Hazyview from here?” I ask. “Which is the shortest route?” I add, “No. Rather, which is the fastest?”

“If you go this way,” the driver says, pointing toward a distant mountain range. “It’s shorter, but the mountain roads take longer.” Then craning his neck, a gaze on the tumbling landscape, “This goes to Nelspruit.” Nelspruit rings a bell. “Yes, That’s the road I want to take,” I say in a breath of relief. But I lost his direction, although, White River, and Hazyview, rings along my route, to repeat, “Thank you.” Turning toward oncoming traffic from behind the blind bend. I hurry across the road, hop into the Bakkie, by my waiting boys starting the engine, pulling away from the dirt road shoulder onto the asphalt.

The road winds and twists, descending toward the Lowveld, gathering greenery, our course channels through the valley. I scan the woods for the orange groves. “I wonder if this is the right road?” I say. 

“We’ll ask the way,” as we are approaching from behind, a man walking the perpetuating dirt road shoulder.

“How do you know, he’s not more lost than us?” Lionel asks. 

“We must ask those that go to school, Lionel!” Gavin says. 

“If he wears glasses. . .” I begin. 

“Then, he must have gone to school.” Lionel finishes.

In the shadows of tall eucalyptus branching canopies, at sight of a group of oncoming youngsters walking the road shoulder, among them one wears silver-rimmed spectacles. We pull up. Lionel unwinds his window and asks. “Veet julle die pad . . . ── Do you know the way to Hazyview?”

The group discusses among themselves, from which I make out, White River. “That’s it,” I say. “We turned off too early. We’re supposed to go through Nelspruit.” echoing the taxi driver earlier. I lean over Gavin’s lap and call past Lionel, “Dankie . . . ── Thank you.” as the young man retrieves himself from the window. The youngsters regroup, stare at us, as I glance behind for oncoming traffic, pulling off, do a U-turn, through low afternoon sunbeams reaching us and through the trees dappling on the tracking asphalt.

The road straightens out, revealing stretches of vibrant purple bougainvillea-lined farms. A road sign flashed a crossed-out red circle, followed by 60. I eased my foot on the gas pedal, as suburban houses creep up. A monumental sign, “welcomed to Nelspruit,” and herds of wayside houses with verdant tropical gardens, concede to commercial and retailers, as we pursue a course past the hospital toward the looming outcrop across the city. 

Leaving the city, we fast approaching a line of slow-moving vehicles. As I trail a minibus, my eyes wander to find a truck grinds its cargo up the mountainside. My rearview mirror winks peeking headlight over the central white line, but wild flashing. As I wonder, ‘what’s going on with the driver behind?’ Ahead, cars at a rhythm unhinged from the truck’s tailgate, accelerating through the clear lane from oncoming traffic, and folds back, distancing from the truck up the steep hill. 

“Stupid,” I exclaim, at the maroon Ford Sierra’s persistent attempt to overtake, but impeded, a few car lengths behind us, while I tailgate a minibus. “What’s the Ford driver’s problem,” I say, Lionel and Gavin crane their necks, to see for themselves. “I’m sure the Ford can’t even overtake this little thing.” but persistent flashing lights without closing the gap.

“Dad,” Lionel pipes up, “Up to now, only the BMW has managed to overtake us.”

“Lionel, that’s not right,” Gavin counters. “If daddy wanted to drive faster, he would have caught up to the BMW.” 

As the minibus overtakes the truck and folds back, I seize the free lane to hit the gas pedal, accelerating past the truck. The Ford flashing lights and honking, for a magic boxed-in escape. “Big and fancy, the car thinks, owning the road,” I say. The Ford moved up from the truck to trailing cars. “We’re doing 140, uphill, and this Ford can’t even keep up.” I say, as the needle hits 150 km/hr, The chain-link of traffic ahead unbroken. 

In my side mirror, a rectangular headlight peeks across the white broken line, but joined by the solid line. The front tire crosses, disappearing beneath the grill and slipping over until exposing the other wheel, joining along a solid double line. The Ford’s flickering grill and headlights fill my side mirror. “That’s stupid.” I say to my boys as the car edges past, the driver shooting me a dog snarl look. “It’s a woman! No wonder?” 

Obliged to slow down. As the double solid white lines rush up from the crest of the hill, the woman flips me off. A baby in the rear window leaves me with a curious stare, strapped into a baby-seat. The Ford folds back, ‘had I, a tractor unit, the fear of a giant, would have driven, the woman to tame her driving impatience.’ 

It’s no longer a motorbike Lionel wanted. “Well!” I say, “That is the last thing I wanted you guys to have.” 

“My friend, Steve, He drives his mother’s car? Can I drive?” Lionel asks.

“Sure, Lionel. I’ll teach you to drive.”

Over the hill, we approach the shadow of a vestige of Voortrekkers’ path, service houses flourishing tropical, vibrant gardens. Splitting along a random stone retaining wall curving along an excavated main road, of White River’s two tiers entrance. Leading onto a jacaranda median parkway to lined commercial storefronts down the slope across town. Short of the straggling suburban houses to an evening sky bearing onto the evanescent blurry bushveld, where the sun lays its last rays, we turn left following the “Hazyview” sign.

“I need some coffee to wake up, Cooks. Do you want something? A soda —  I mean a cooldrink?” I ask, catching my slip of the tongue.

“Dad, you’re becoming American.” Lionel laughs.

“Daddy,” Gavin smiles, “you say Dollars instead of Rand. . .”

“I’ll park here,” I say, pulling in through the white wall’s gateway to a side yard. The hotel’s saddled corrugated iron lean-to roof, colonial-style. Burly Boers, in khaki shorts and shirt, boots, looked-out at our arrival, as with wives crowding tables on an elevated terrace. “This little thing fits anywhere,” I say, veering and wedging among monstrous farm pickups. We step out, meeting at the tailgate. I glance back, leaving a thought for the pickup owner. Should they want to pull out, ‘… ?’

As we’re passing head-high windowsills, the sashes open to waves of noise in a smoke filled somber room, I figured out boisterous men drinking, smoking, laughing around a bar. “They’re not going to be out of there in a hurry.” I remark. “We’ll be gone before them.”

Walking by the gateway, around the house to the sidewalk, and toward the foot of a wide rustic staircase. Climbing a half-dozen stairs, feeling the middle-aged white-farmers in their safari suits’ gazes, ‘What are these city people doing here?’ Stepping on the terrace, we turn away from the crowded table, littered with beer glasses, cans, empty bottles. Over in the quiet, at a little table, I drew our chairs, alongside Lionel and Gavin, to face the street lined with Jacarandas trees. 

“Dad, I need to go to the toilet.” Gavin’s little voice squeaked. 

“Lionel, ask the waiter there,” I said, pointing to the end of the terrace. A long white tablecloth covers a table crowded with beer glasses, poised behind a hefty Black barman, watching for customers. Lionel encounters a slim waiter, exchanges a few words. The brothers vanish through a crack in the doorway.

The slim waiter notices me, in white pants, shirt and jacket, approaches my table, a silver platter at hand, with a napkin draping over his wrist. His posture and beseeching eyes asking my order. I considered ordering for Lionel, But Gavin has particular tastes, and I couldn’t remember his preferred brands. So, I said to the waiter, “Vagh ‘n bikie … ──  Wait a little for the boys to come back.”

Lionel and Gavin slip back into their seats, but the waiter is nowhere to be seen. Urge the lackadaisical barman, behind the large industrial urn. But blank eyes, blind to my hands waving, frozen, arms crossed, his white outfit stretches the texture across his broad shoulders. “I don’t think we’ll make it before seven at the Spar,” I say, “But Ilse said we can go to the police station and make a phone call from there.” Just then, the slim waiter reappears and takes our order. We finish our drinks, pay, and head back to the Bakkie, setting off on the winding road that leads through the hills to Hazyview. 

“We’re here,” I announce, coasting down the hill up to the painted line by the “Stop” sign. Getting my bearings, I veer left, heading through far scattered gleams peeks out the bush commercial buildings of a growing town. At the next intersection clusters a gas station, bustling with people, milling around minibusses. “I guess we’re close. It should be a little farther on the outbound road,” I say. With a wrist twist, my wristwatch dial shines. “It’s past seven. If Ilse is not at the spar, we’ll go to the police station. But let’s take a look.” 

As we descend, the slope of a flocculent dark valley. Translucent in the iconic Total colors, a bubble rises, perched atop a mast. With our approach, unveils the translucent pea cap, on the fluorescence face of light from spilling out into space. The pumps’ storefront slumbers, blending with a cluster of flat-roofed commercial buildings in the background. Our headlights sweep the asphalt, coming around, turning into the side road. “There’s the Spar.” I exclaim, its iconic green tree a beacon in the dark cul-de-sac.

Underneath the supermarket’s narrow lean-to roof, the threshold Nyx infiltrated as though inexistent, from which remaining the plastered brands shine discount posters on watch. From which a figure emerges, turning heels facing the spill of our headlight, coasting to shine in the vacant parking area, a distant Passat and Mitsubishi truck. We pulled up to the guard, Lionel winding down his window, and I lean across my boys. “Es die mense nogh hier — is there still someone here?” I asked the heft guard. 

“Die Mad’am es hier . . . ── The madam and the boss are still here,” says the security guard. He points a baton above the storefront poster in the corner. Wavering flames of activity deep amid an office’s busy shadows.

I tweaked the key, silencing the engine. Leading an approach alongside the closed customers’ double entrance doors. With my keyring, I tap the window, Ilse to glance up and turn away offside to disappear from the office. She approaches the door, lifts a hand, pulls the top barrel bolt and holds while turning the key unlatching the door. “Hello,” She says, “Doar zejgh ghe ── There you are. We were about to leave. You’re just in time.” 

“Ik zen bly . . . ── Am I glade. You saved me from going to the police station to find out where you live?” I say to my sister, Ilse. Standing an arm in the air, a hand behind the door, we scooch through the gap, past Ilse in a red skirt and a white short-sleeve shirt, a pen clipped to her breast pocket, above the embroidered Spar’s logo. Counting, hinting at her staff, before opening the store to customers, and after closing time. “Hello Lionel. Hello Gavin.” closing the door, slotting the bolt, turning the key, and turning away, echoing, Lionel saying, “Well.” Gavin, “Alright.” Walking back, Ilse asks me, “And how are you?” — “Ghoe. . . — Fine!” I respond. 

Ilse leads us away from the row of shadowy vacant cash registers at the checkout counters, and dark aisles shine off the slumbering brands’ packed shelves evanescing into the rear darkness of the store. We step through a fluorescent doorway. Gerard sat, waiting, or resting after a long day. “Dag, hoe ghoat’ het. . . ── Hello, and how are you doing?” He greets us.

“Ghoedt . . . ── Well, well,” Gérard replies, turning to greet Gavin, and Lionel. He strikes up a lengthy conversation with Lionel while Ilse finishes her day’s taking of paperwork and closes the safe door. On our way out, in a staccato voice to staff, Ilse asks, “Wild ghe mei onz. . . ── Do you want to eat with us? Or would you rather go to De-M’ma?”

“Johnny, is by  . . . — by De-M’ma ‘n De-P’pa!” Ilse says, her tone hints at a warning. Brings to mind a field of wildflowers overgrown with weeds. I can’t help but wonder if my ex-brother-in-law, who is staying at our parents’ place, is about to end as usual when he starts drinking.

“Lionel. Gavin?” I ask, turning to them. “What do you think . . . ‘we should do?’_” My boys look as dumbfounded as I am at Ilse’s question. “It doesn’t matter where we go,” Lionel answers in a blunt voice. “You? Gavy?” — “It’s ok, Daddy.” But that doesn’t suffice for Ilse. Feeling obliged, I mutter. “We’ll have supper with you. If that’s all right, Ilse? Gerard?”

“Follow us, then,” Ilse says, shaking off the day working with staff. She holds the door. “I’ll be in the car. Gerard’s taking the truck.” As I head toward the Bakkie in the darkness, greeting the guard, I kid Lionel and Gavin,  “We shouldn’t get lost in the dark, keeping between Ilse, in her car, and Gerard in his truck.”