Post it Notes
Book 2 - Chapter 1 - Goodbye Cape Town
‘Good morning, I’m Bonzo Waddington, and this is The Voice of Reason, your morning chat show on channel sixty-nine. The channel that blows your socks off and sends you into raptures of ecstasy.’
What an idiot. It had to be the biggest load of crap ever created by America, worse than Fox News and McDonald’s. They broadcast it before most people were awake in the morning, and it still topped the ratings. Then they replayed it after work, so people could listen in their cars going home. I just didn’t get it. Thank God I didn’t have to listen to it for another four months. Come to think of it, why did I listen to it at all? If that shit could top the ratings, Donald Trump could become America’s next president. Imagine that. What could be more odious than a narcissistic bigot, consumed with hatred and envy?
The night was closing in, and the intercom buzzer I’d threatened to move for god knows how long, was louder than a machine gun, when I stood next to it. I just hadn’t got around to doing it.
Shit, I screamed, after spraying a mouthful of rooibos tea over the kitchen wall. My frayed nerves had taken control of my bodily functions again.
“Yes?” I yelled, as I yanked the receiver off the hook.
“Taxi,” came the chirpy reply.
“You’re early,” I said, my tone more civil.
“Sorry Sir. I’ll wait in the car.”
Lucky for him he was ten minutes early, not ten minutes late, the state I was in. If he had been, I would have given him a fearful volley. I wasn’t good after dark since I’d been living alone, or when I had a plane to catch. The taxi driver dumped my bags in the boot, as I climbed in the back seat, and slammed the door behind me.
“Bad day, Sir?”
“Not really.”
“No problem, Sir. Can’t be too careful round here, day or night.”
“You can drop the Sir. I’m Alfie.”
“Sorry. It’s a habit.”
“And the sorry?”
“Habit too.”
I was kicking hell out of the cat. My agitated state wasn’t his fault, and I didn’t calm down until we reached the end of Blaauberg Road.
“I see there was another ‘Black-Taxi’ driver shot on Saturday at Bayside.”
“It’s getting bad. The private taxi okes like me, are scared. What about your house?”
“The house is secure. The high fencing, alarms and perimeter lighting cost a packet. But I do worry more now the Dunoon township is mushrooming.”
“I understand. And you’re leaving your house for a while?”
“I am. But Chubb’s armed response will take care of it, I hope.”
“They’re good. And I’ll do my best to get you to the airport safely.”
“Your best?”
“Relax.”
“I’ll try.”
I was not in the mood for small talk, or grovelers. But I did as he suggested, sat back in silence and breathed slowly, hoping it would help me relax. It seemed the yoga and meditation classes were affecting my bank balance more than my state of mind. Traffic was light and we made our way through Milnerton easily, before picking up the N2 at Mowbray. We headed across the Cape Flats, past the squalid ghettos of Langa and Bonteheuwel without alarm. But I didn’t relax until we swept alongside the roadside shacks, turned off the highway and drove down the airport approach road. I don’t know what it was, but after years of driving through the Cape Flats, I felt less safe than I ever did. It was a bad feeling, and sad to think, if things went well in Thailand, I may leave my home town, for good.