I’m now miles away from the wall in the South, the one upon which an entire campaign was once hinged. The hair in this community is less dense, a more brazen black. I don’t believe I have seen an East-West heritage combination as I have in one day.
We walk into the community park, and find, right at the entrance, a grey haired woman with a sword in one hand and a red tassel on the other, slowly pierces the air as she sways from side to side, retrieving it, and then piercing another place, in steps, well known and precise, almost like a dance that has been passed down for centuries. She is observed quietly by an elderly man standing close to her. He seems to understand what she is doing. I call the children closer to stop them racing past her plastic sword. A man from a more known culture, a little further away stands amused, mimicking her movements for fun, but she continues unfazed, defeating her invisible foe.
Its 5.00 p.m. on a Sunday evening and the playground is full, of parents, of children, of grandparents, a very uncommon thing to see, the third tier of generation. Somehow I find an empty bench. Children are so joyful that they look as if they just broke free out of a trance; climbing frames, sliding down tunnels, rushing down the zipline and others, younger or less adventurous thrusting themselves back and forth to nowhere on swings.
An old woman with an old bonnet, stiff grey hair peeping out, passes behind my bench walking briskly next to a young, big blond-haired boy. She can’t seem to stop reprimanding him. I wonder where they could be going, him and her. Then I see his eyes, and notice the resemblance. A few moments later, I see her on top of a climbing frame. This time she’s speaking English. ” You stay! I come get you!” She tries to get into a web but she can’t fit. I look up and the boy is calmly looking down at her. He is not scared, but she’s agile enough to climb and soon she’s in the web, climbing. She pulls him off. A man takes a photo discreetly.
I remember another Asian grandma I saw at a traffic light. Alone in her car, at a red light, she was playing a flute, both hands off the wheel as she held a vanished black pipe, eyes almost closed as she moved her head to the rhythm only she could hear.
Is there someone here?
No.
She asks again, even though the bench is empty. She smiles at me and I smile back but I’m sniffling with flu and tissues and worried about her outlook. She has videos on her phone of people speaking like her, an Indian accent. She has not changed hers and neither have I. We could have been speaking in a shop in the old Kabalagala. She looks up and asks me briefly about my daughter. I wonder whether she truly wants to start a conversation or if she is just being polite. Her children are 13, 9 and 7. I contemplate asking her for advice. On what? I’m not sure. I sit quietly and critic my social skills. She calls someone and asks them if someone else came in today. Then she calls someone else and tells them she’ll see them on Tuesday.
I must make for interesting observation too. The people at the pedestrian walkway [A zebra crossing, which in the town I come from is usually the most dangerous place to cross] looked confused by me, a baby on my hip, her little feet peeping out from under a winter jacket, two other little children running around me. Every baby and little child is pushed in a stroller and all of them definitely have shoes on, little smooth baby sneakers and shoes that will never step on mud.
I watch the playground a little more. I’m constantly aware of the presence next to me. She offers me crisps [chips here]for the baby but I tell her that she only eats soft food. She doesn’t believe me. The thick cold air of yet another grey evening gets icy and so we begin the walk back home.
*
I heard recently that governments are not meant for efficiency. I fear how redundant my efforts have been, in the governments I have served, working for efficiency and yet they thrived on fake secrets from double agents, favours as debts, lies as power and confusion as business.
*
Mummy, why do you say ‘ka’ and not ‘car’? – 7 year old
*
Hey! Are you pouring water into that so it’s not tasty for kids? – 3 year old
*
Thank you for taking us to the park.
Oh, okay,. Thank you
What are you saying thank you for? For waiting? – 3 year old
PurplePretoria 