It’s 2020, the year of Covid. I have in effect emigrated back home. It’s Sunday afternoon, and I wonder what I would be doing if I were in Joburg. I would probably have spent the day outdoors at a brunch, or in a garden and would probably be heading out for an art movie in Cinema Nouveau in Rosebank. I’d then probably have dumplings or pizza for dinner. I’d return home to my cottage and plop down on my couch, exhausted at my social activities over the weekend. I would listen to the crickets in the night, and my landlord’s dog Muffet would scratch the door and I’d let her in. I’d admire my Sorbet pedicured nails. I’d welcome the thunderstorms and may pour myself a glass of Pinotage or a cup of Rooibos. I may even have invited company. I’d then retire to my bed, in between my Egyptian cotton sheets.
I’d wake up in the morning to the sounds of the birds. I’d stare at the blue sky and think about how lucky and blessed I am, and experience equal amounts of guilt for living such a self-centred life. But then Nolitha would knock on my door to clean the place or Muffet would again be asking for her morning biscuit. And so I’d wake up and make my Mauritian vanilla tea on my gas stove and eat my Woolies low GI bread with fresh local butter. I would write out my to-do’s on my blackboard for the week and life would go on.