The Mother City Waits

Dreams of days spent after a lifetime of work...

I want to sit in the sand on Muizenberg Beach, rubbing caramel feet together and have  grains of sand settle between tiny toes free of sandals and buckles and bows. I want to bite into crisp red toffee apples whilst sitting on rocky edges at Dalebrook for hours as the chugging of passing trains robs us of our peace for brief moments. And we stand leaning against each other for balance, furiously waving back at excited children and passengers in third class carriages, two strangers among the rocks, old enough to know better but still young enough to find joy in waving at trains.

And I will lick my lips made red by syrup and kiss him on the mouth as he whines about the stickiness. I’ll laugh, poke out my tongue, and challenge him to swim. We’ll tumble into the tidal pool, where waves batter us against moss-slick rocks. There we’ll cling to each other, our spirits alive and defiant, unafraid of death because in that instant, we are utterly alive.

These are the moments Cape Town gives you, stitched between mishaps and detours that become the best kind of stories. And we will wander around parks and mountains and take long breaks, Acacia trees offering very little shade along the Pipe Track, where we will nibble on boiled eggs and trail mix, and tell stories about getting lost in Jonkershoek, eventually finding our way out, or climbing Lion’s Head to watch the sunrise, and being delayed by a mountain rescue that makes the news…

Oh, the tales we'll tell... and our hearts will remember what our tired bodies have long forgotten. And we'll remember being homesick for her mountains and trails, these beaches that welcome both sharks and surfers, swimmers and sun tanners just the same, taking care of them all. And our return home will be celebrated, knowing that when our duties and responsibilities towards our families are fulfilled, she would be there to welcome us home.

With Table Mountain as its backbone, the Mother City stands strong for all her wayward children. To know her is to know suffering and beauty, creativity and resilience, love and peace. Cape Town is loud and boisterous and giving, and she has survived in the face of all men's atrocities and violence and everything that history has hurled at her.

To come home is to celebrate survival, hers and ours. The Mother City has waited, as she always does, for her wayward children to return. And so, when the sand is once again between my toes and the mountain cuts its silhouette against the sky, I will know what it means to be home.