GINGER AND BUBBLES

4| COLLISION

My feet are guiding me, outside the gates, into the sun, and they have their vision set in the direction of the Grand Parade.

Once outside I stop in my tracks. My blood is heating up in my veins. My parched skin soaks up the warmth of the afternoon sun. My body tingles. Excitement, unbridled, warm and  light makes me dizzy. I close my eyes and inhale the air. Stories, overhead at coffee machines and random office talks about care-free lunch-hours and the fleeting illusion of liberty that lasted a measly sixty minutes beckoned. To me. It makes my insides flutter.

I repress the abrupt trepidation taking hold of me and allow my feet to dictate my path. Down Adderley Street, I meander. An air of newfound wonder and awe pulsate through my body. I pick up the pace and hit the pavement with renewed vigour. It has been a while since I felt this kind of weightlessness. I was free from work. Demands. Deadlines. Pressure...voices conspiring to drive me mad.

It's exhilarating. This sudden surge. This connection to a common Ubuntu. From now on I will step outside every day. I will not exist until my next project. I will live. Make every second count of my statutory lunch concession. I will explore the Central Business District with the excitement of a girl on the verge of adulthood. Waiting on her partner to whisk her away to her Martic Ball as the sun sets. Twinkling with the promise of a million thrills...

Swept away by shoppers, pedestrians, hawkers, beggars and commuters pursuing their duties side-by-side I walk further and further towards the Grand Parade. I feel my body ease into relax mode as the sights and sounds drown out the turmoil inside my noisy head.

Unperturbed by the cacophony of hooting cars, emergency sirens, calls for prayer from the Muezzin, and the tolling church bells in the distance I open myself up to the Mother City and allow her to dazzle all my senses.

On the corner of one narrow sidewalk, buskers drum, sing, and dance. Passers-by stop and listen while others spontaneously join and dance to the pulsating rhythm.

Inside Snoekies the tables are lined with people chatting, unwrapping, and sharing parcels of fish and hot chips.

I look across the City Parade humming with vendors selling rotis, boerewors rolls, hotdogs, and take-away food. Here and there people are lined up in front of container-food stalls. Others peruse the merchandise on display.

Everyone is in a zone of their own, even the lonesome statue of Edward VII facing the City Clock perched high above the large honey-coloured building. In silent acquiescence the statue and clock seem to watch over Darling Street as loaded buses and taxis come and go, hauling weary workers out of the belly of the hot and humid city.

The smell of sauteing onions wafting from a boerewors stall stops me in my tracks. That, and the sight of the man biting into his roll, licking the sticky, wayward droplets from his fingers to prevent the sauce from spilling onto his navy suit. I can't remember which year I stopped stepping outside the office for a boerewors roll covered in oily onions and dripping sauce. The smell of the caramelised onions sizzling in the pan on the gas stove causes my mouth to water. My opportunistic stomach also climbs on the bandwagon, sending hunger pangs designed to disarm my long-term resolve to never, ever ever abandon my own nutritious, packed lunches...

I never noticed it before, but today it crept up on me unnoticed...this uncomplicated freedom of a breathing, sauntering humanity eking out a living. Entertaining strangers. Selling the only things they possess to the highest bidders on the streets: their God-given talents and labour.

The massive clock announces that it is 3 pm. I take out my packed lunch and give it to the beggar sitting on the grey steps beneath the statue. It is a skinny young man in rags. He receives it with both hands. With his eyes fixed on the bread he flashes a greatful smile that hardly lasts a second and starts biting into the soft sandwich.

I tarry among the stalls and throw my gaze over the square hoping to find a shady spot to eat the warm boerewors roll in my hand.

"Hello?"

I turn to the voice coming from my left as I'm about to sink my teeth into my boerewors roll.

"Miss?"

Then there's a voice behind me. I swing around to see who it is. Then someone else speaks into my right ear and I turn to my right just as a hand taps me on my left shoulder.

"Antie?"

I'm closed in by four or five male figures in hoodies and dark glasses. They are talking simultaneously. Shouting. Making strange sounds. It's coming from all directions. The front. Left. Right. Behind me. Hands are frisking my pockets. Lips are licking my fingers and ripping off my rings. I'm encircled. Trapped in the confusion of the moment. In my mummified state someone yanks my handbag from me. A pair of dirty nails grate into the flesh of my neck and rip off my gold chain.

I'm frozen. Speechless. The orchestra of chaos causes a fleeting uncertainty. I'm paralysed as the onslaught of their thieving intent, hell-bent on collecting whatever valuables they might have overlooked, continues.

Then, as suddenly as they appeared they were gone, scattering in different directions like rats.

I'm shaking uncontrollably. Numb and dazed I cross the road. My eyes are fixed on the back of the tall figure making off with my handbag in his clutches.

All of a sudden something collides with my head and there's pain, confusion, and more pain. I'm flung to the ground amidst the sound of screeching tyres, hooting cars, and swearing drivers.

A veil of darkness closes in while I'm hovering outside my body, above the accident scene, looking down at myself writhing and convulsing in my body fluids and excretions in the middle of Darling Street. My onee eye sees the blood seeps into the black tar. It follows the thin stream trickling down the side and into the drain on the side. Then there's sirens.

"Stand aside. It's the ambulance. Stand aside," I hear someone say.

I try to lift my head. It is heavy. Very heavy. My face hurts. I see the ambulance. Its doors flung wide open. I see police vehicles. They are directing the traffic. I see pockets of onlookers. Paramedics are tugging at my arms, inserting needles, and attaching fluid in plastic containers.

"Stay with me. Come on, stay with me."

Someone is pressing down on my chest with his palms. Hee grabs my chin and places his mouth over minea.

"Stay back. She needs oxygen." Someone else is shouting.

"I got her. There's a pulse! Take her, now!"

I am lifted innto the ambulance. There are beeping sounds and lights and voices. Trailing off. Softer and softer...

"Ginger... Bubbles.."

"Ssh. We got you." Someone is stroking my hair.

Then nothing. Like at the crossroad. Nothing.