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.

In the beginning

I walked into the boss's office, smiled, asked if he had a moment, smiled again, closed the door and told him I am leaving. And smiled.

He leaned back in his chair, sighed and cursed. I smiled. He asked the usual where, what questions. I explained about the UK, about studying. He said it is a bad time on our project. I pretended not to smile. I knew. He sighed again. I pretended again. He complained that it seems to be the fate of the company to train young engineers for a year or two before they moved on. I wanted to jump up and down and shout and ask why he thought that happens. Instead I just nodded.

We made small talk. About whether I would return. He told how he would leave the country if he could, if his wife would. I refused to give up my hope, my naivety, my youth. I said I hoped to. He said he didn't think I would.

He thanked me for warning them well in advance of my departure. I knew I wouldn't really make a difference. I smiled.

I walked away. He remained seated.