By Mmathabo Maebela
(Iyooo, we’ve been walking)
I seldom find myself on this side of Grahamstown. Unfamiliar with all the possible shortcuts, my friend and I opt for the long route that leads us to a corner opposite Shoprite. We turn to Chapel Street, leaving all the familiar behind us and stepping into a different world.
Chapel Street hums with movement as people walk to and from the Shoprite complex, now carrying two or three yellow plastic bags that whisper, “This grocery should last us till the next payday,” On the left, there are fruit and vegetable stores, a red one called Shafiq’s with a variety of vibrant fruits and earthy vegetables and a board written R20. (I wonder what that price belongs to)
A turn to the left leads us past muthi shops. One of the shop’s front stores is adorned with three different-sized driefoots that resemble the ones we use at the homesteads for iminyanya. There are two small drums on the floor, one mounted on the wall, and impepho and other herbs in a wooden box. Two ancestral cloths are draped around a pole- a black and white ingwe, and a red and white ilanga. The air gets heavy with an unescaped earthy scent from one of the herbs.
“oe, if you are spiritually gifted, ozophakamelwa idlozi la.”
We laugh as my eyes linger on the beads displayed on our bodies. Mine, a single white strand on my left hand, hers, two connected blue and white strands resting on her feet. A turn to the right leads us to our destination as the taxi rank begins to reveal itself in the near distance. A small bridge stands between us and the rank but also between us and the muddy stream running underneath it.
A new scent takes over as liver and pork skewers sizzle on an open flame; the aroma is so irresistible it leaves me longing for a taste. (We’re finally here). I catch a deep sigh from my friend, and she repositions her K-Way hat to protect her from the unexpected afternoon heat. We stand at the end of the bridge, looking at the herd of taxis parked in organised chaos.
As we stand, taking in the not-so-frantic yet pulsating energy of the place, my nostrils catch a scent of hair oil from a salon nearby. The salon’s exterior is a colourful red, yellow, and green container with images of dreadlock hairstyles permeating through a big glass window. Four men are present outside the salon. There are two who seem to be conversing with someone on the inside. The other one with a beanie, whom I now know as Tinashe, performs the deliberate ritual of twisting and locking as his client’s long dreadlocks dance between his fingers.
The occasional hooting, rumbling engines, and distant voices of conductors and passengers draw us into the perimeter of the taxi rank, and we find ourselves standing outside what used to be a Cell C container for paid phones back in the day. We watch uTat’unyama gently flip the skewers on the grill and carefully tend to the flames. The smoke from the grill attacks our eyes, blurring our vision of distant activities for a while. A few cash and skewer exchanges take place.
In the distance, a donkey grazes in the bushes. A tribe of goats scrabbles by.
I instantly recalled a conversation with uTat’unyama yesterday on my first anxiety-filled visit to the rank. He greeted me with a smile and allowed me to camp at his stand for a while. We spoke about the dynamics of the rank and how it is usually quiet, safe, and not-so-busy during the day, unlike ranks in big cities like PE or Joburg. “This is a village,” he had said (and perhaps he was right)
A gent pushing a loaded kruiver darts by, later returning with no load, and a friend pushing an empty trolley. Anele Book and Kevin Planke, I have come to know, hustle through assisting with moving shopping bags from the complex to the rank. On a normal day, they might make as little as R20 and around R50 on paydays. They also take informal jobs to make a living. “Perhaps you should see the dumpsite where we work to see our conditions”
A few shopping bags pass by.
One gent, close by, has his eyes focused on the quantum he’s been lent, to wash, that is. His hands glide from left to right, directing the cloth around the surface to the quantum, then back into the soapy water in his designated yellow 20l bucket. The cloth finds its way out of the bucket, and water crashes onto the wheels. Bucket slowly tilts, as each wave of water lends on the rubber and the rims, clearing them of dried mud.
(it’s time to head home now, plus mhhhhm, we smell like burnt wood)
We pass a fruit vending stall, and my friend buys an apple. Standing by the vending stall is uTat’uDingalakhe, who is conversing with some drivers standing by the taxis. “simbiza ndlebezedonki”, one of the drivers jokingly says to me. In retaliation, tat’uDingalakhe says we should get i-saag to shape the driver’s beard. We laugh. Just across the street, two gents seem to be collecting water to wash the taxis from the ground.
The taxi rank starts getting busy, and the voices of conductors get thicker and thicker in the air. “Hlalani apha, Hlalani” Walking toward Bathurst Street, floods of people walk in our opposite direction, towards the rank. The clock on my Vivo reads 5.05 pm.
As we head home, my mind goes back to the orange running shoes my friend and I had noticed while standing by the salon. His green and black socks embroidered with the phrase “Nedbank running club,” and his Saucony PWRRUN kicks rendered him visible, perhaps out of place. We watched him as his gaze shifted between the location plates pasted on the rank’s shelter.
He stopped, looked at us, smiled, and spoke.
“They’re from Mexico.”
