I look at this old timer folding a grey blanket; he's seen many years to be my grandfather. But he sleeps in the streets and pavements wherever Cape Town's CBD approves. He's meticulous with his work and folds the blanket with a clear precision. By his feet, a Shoprite PVC bag is placed neatly. It stores all his belongings, the whole of his life. And I can see just how much he values it.
I engage him a little bit, not quite sure which tactic to use as a tool to euphemistically arrive at a question I so earnestly wish to pose: 'Sir, how did you end up in the streets?'
I wish to know but feel I should let the sleeping dogs lie. I struggle for a short while to steer our talk towards a conducive space that will precipitate the posing of that all important question I so want to ask. He pushes my navigation attempts through a number of detours which sequentially drop off hints of where he had been. But I'm sure he's not aware of this leakage. But it could also be intentional. Some things of this world require that you build up on an idea to arrive at the crux of an issue. Perhaps this spontaneous relation of where he had been serves as to discourage many questions I may have about other elements of his life. All I know is that he's a great story teller. He relates his story with prominent confidence and a warm tone carrying nostalgia, but at the same time not paralyzed into a state of stagnation or immobility. He moves on with his story just as his life had moved on up to the dispensation of living in the streets, to which he appears to have no qualms about.
I listen; I listen attentively at how he weaves a sad story into an interesting and engaging listen. But I get sad because the very story ends up neglecting him in the streets of Cape Town whose winter not
only brings cold air but rain too; a terrible combination for people who do not have a shelter to hide from the moisture. His story does not have a happy ending; his character had been developed through various stages of successes and bliss; living in Somerset West, Johannesburg, and Klerksdorp among other places only to end up back in Cape Town where his character development deteriorates into street life instead.
He squeezes his blanket, which he managed to compress into an impressively thin fold into a small plastic carrier bag – that’s my cue. I stand up to bid him goodbye. He reciprocates enthusiastically, perhaps because someone from outside his immediate social space engaged him. It's certainly not because I'm leaving him in peace and he's relieved that I'm going - I did not pry.
As a matter of fact, as I leave him beaming his happy smile in my direction, I realize that I did not get to my question: 'Sir, how did you end up in the streets.' But like a student who got more than they expected without exploring the set plan or question in their studies, I walk away satisfied with the insight the old man gave me into his life. But I also walk away very sad because he sleep in the streets.
(C) Deon Simphiwe Skade 2010
