Return

Slammed down into the past at Oliver Tambo International Airport in Johannesburg this morning, a forgotten world of half-lamented could-have-beens; the friendly cabin crew all smiles and relief and welcome to South Africa happy goodbyes; the courteous immigration official who’s job is to let me in, not keep me out; and I’m home, surrounded by the smells, the sounds, the smiles, the buildings that used to be, but changed, and a road I took to work, a restaurant I visited once, my first kiss, an old friend’s house, the first time I got drunk. I’m home.

Hi. Hugs. How are you? Fine. And you? Fine. Great. Great. And the soles of my shoes tracking red mud up the steps, over the rug, and into the hall filled with photos from my childhood, of my childhood; the mirror that hung over the fireplace in another house, another time. Bags on the bed and the gifts stuffed beneath socks and crumpled cotton underwear sprout from matching set suitcases: chocolate for my parents. Coffee. And shoes. Some perfume for my sister. She smiles and says she likes it. Thanks. Not what she wanted? Magazines.

How’re things? Family? Friends? Job? Weather? Nice to see you. I love you. We don’t say that. We can’t. We haven’t practiced enough. Maybe in another life. Not this one. Too late.

And I’m home. Birds bicker in the thick summer shrubbery. A siren whines on the next block. Memories everywhere in the pictures on the wall, but it’s the smell and the thick red mud that trap me, so I take off my shoes and wash them under the tap outside and the water is cold on my hands.