9 December 2010
Thereโs something magical about Port Elizabethโs coastline on those rare, still days when the west wind doesnโt whip around the bay, sending even seagulls scurrying. Thatโs not often in a month, so when you do encounter a calm, clear day in iBhayi, you take advantage of it.
On a whim, I pull off Marine Drive into the Kingโs Beach parking lot. Itโs a wide expanse of concrete and even in December you can usually find a parking place. I head for a spot near a narrow road between two dunes, leading down to the sea.
There are three hours to go before my flight back to Joburg and thereโs time for a walk on the beach. Itโs busy โ there are buses spilling out kids for the last school day before the summer break and thereโs a circus tent set up and people are queuing for tickets. Going to the circus was always a special December holiday treat for me as a child. Returning to those warm memories of being on a merry-go-round with my brother and sister makes me happy. I want to be part of the carefree crowd.
I park next to a police van. Two officers are inside, eating lunch and seemingly not in a hurry. I have suitcases in the back of my car and sometimes vagrants hang around here looking for an opportunity to steal, so I appreciate the security the police presence brings.
I leave my shoes in the car, lock it, greet the cops and, carrying only my phone and keys, start on the path to the beach. Halfway, I get paranoid about the car and go back to double-check that Iโve locked it.
Police or not, there are often car jammers about. There is also, I will later discover, a CCTV camera that picks up my movements.
Kingโs Beach is nearly two kilometres long, extending from Humewood on the western side, to the harbour wall on the east. Thereโs space for everybody โ lifesavers and swimmers on one end, joggers, dogs and walkers on the other. It could be a best beach contender, were it not for the proximity of unsightly ore dumps and an oil tank farm, a legacy of apartheidโs spatial planning. They loom over the dunes, giving the area an industrial look. When the wind comes from the northeast, the manganese dust blows all over the show.
My friend Thembi and I have just spent a week at St Francis Health Centre near Port Alfred, being pampered, pummelled and starved. We drove back to PE this morning and I dropped her at my dadโs place in New Brighton, while I came city side to meet an estate agent. Nothing is too far away in PE.
Itโs my motherโs birthday in a few days and Iโve put in an offer to buy her a house in Summerstrand, close to the beach. The estate agent, as excited as I, popped a bottle of champagne while I signed the papers. Iโm sorry I wonโt be around to see Mumโs face when they hand her the key to the front door, but I need to get home to Joburg and to my business.
My daughter Celi is returning to South Africa after completing her Masterโs in law at Oxford. Sheโll be taking up a job at the Constitutional Court in the new year.
When I was a child, growing up in the township of New Brighton, north of the city, my father would sometimes bring us to Kingโs Beach. In the late 1960s blacks werenโt allowed on the main beaches, but Dad didnโt let that bother him. Heโd wake me and my brother and older sister before dawn and weโd be jumping over the waves by sunrise, before the white folk had stirred. By the time they arrived we were gone, sand in our hair and salt on our lips.
A lifesaverโs whistle brings me back to reality and I turn away from the teachers and parents hovering besides towels and mounds of clothing and make for the shoreline. From there I head to the harbour wall, a fifteen-minute walk to a quiet place where starfish, clams and mussels cling to the rocks, covered in emerald seaweed.
I bend down to roll up the trousers of my white linen suit, and then send a quick text to a friend: โDeal done, price accepted โ happiest day of my life to be able to do that for my mum.โ
Minutes later it was to turn into the worst day of my life.
Hermit crabs scuttle along the shore ahead of me. I can almost hear the clickety-clack of their legs. I once read somewhere that theyโre known for colonising shells when they outgrow theirs and will fight one another for the best โhomeโ. If a vacant shell is too big, theyโll queue up and wait until the right-sized crab arrives, then grab its newly emptied shell. Like humans, itโs natural to want shelter, to have somewhere to belong. Our physical surroundings play an important role in creating meaning and organisation in our lives. That why I feel so pleased to be able to provide Mum with a new home. I had my dadโs house renovated a few years ago so that he could live in comfort. Mum lives in Coega, about 20 kilometres away.
Iโm engrossed in my thoughts and donโt see him approaching at first. Iโm focused on the sea to my right and the harbour wall ahead. He comes from the dunes on the left, a pink and white womenโs straw hat on his head and towel around his neck. Something about his efforts to appear โbeachyโ donโt ring true. As he draws closer, I see his eyes and sense danger. I swing round, away from him, quickening my pace. As I turn, so does he, pretending to go back from where he came.
Seconds later heโs at my back.
โDonโt scream. If you make a noise, Iโll kill you.โ
He wrenches a ring that is precious to me from my finger and pockets it, then takes my sunglasses and my car keys. My phone he throws into the sea.
Iโm filled with a sense of dread. This isnโt a robbery. Something ghastly is about to happen.
Taken from Kwanele! Enough! by Andy Kawa | Published by NB Publishers