Diaspora

At O.R. Tambo, trying to avoid the sandwich frustration I had last time, mostly by drinking more beer. Beyond the drop-off zone, beyond the skeleton of the Gautrain, I can see the Kelvin power station. Six squat cooling towers, then a few thin fingers, then another two. Maybe they were added later? I once spent a week working in the shadow of those towers, a week made bearable only by the knowledge of my inevitable departure.


Next to me is a table with an older man, maybe my father's age, maybe five years more. He is seeing off his daughter and her husband. The son-in-law sounds Australian, his wife is on the diluted South African stage, but also with a good dose of the down-under twang. Their baby is bouncing around in a pushcart, waving all his appendages at a colourful book. "Baby Touch Playbook". The grandfather tries to hold the his grandson one last time, but the child is more intent on chewing something inedible.