Sitting on the Balcony, cnr Noord and Banket, Johannesburg

Sitting on the balcony on a Sunday afternoon. Quiet, peaceful, rocked gently by the rumble of the occasional train going by. The tremors were felt even in the courtyard. One was on a perpetual journey. Kinetics, movement.

Sitting on the balcony, so quiet the mice came out to play on the pavement. They did! Chasing each other, no other purpose for being out. It prompted a little story I wrote: The Mouse, the Owl and the Snake.

Sitting on the balcony, towards five o’clock, leaving the door open, going in to make tea or fetch a beer, can’t remember which, coming back out a ruckus: a guy coming from Nugget Street grabbed a vendor’s purse lying on her trestle table: she turned her back to pack up her wares. He didn’t get far. The taxi drivers grabbed him, gave him a klap or two, stripped him naked, got the woman’s purse, gave it back to her and let the thief make his way.

Sitting on the balcony, it’s night, Salif Keita playing, a woman cleaning the streets downstairs. What a job! All alone. Later they were given security guards: the woman cleaner gave the security guard hell. I couldn’t understand what was said but I could see his face uplifted to the heavens; why me? She never let up the entire Noord Street, could still hear her when they got to the corner of Claim and beyond.

Sitting on the balcony, it’s night. Two women cleaning the street. One seems to be new at the job. Drunk, crying, cursing her fate to have to do such a job. Don’t blame her.

Sitting on the balcony. Often. Uneventful. Just sitting.