I
sit in the garden, kissed by dappled sunlight. It spills through high branches
and pools on the grass, still wet and fragrant from last night’s rain.
A
lush African green sits under a high blue sky.
Countless
birds chatter, click, caw and whistle - the song of the morning.
Hot
black tea with lemon serves as a sufficient breakfast. Nothing more is needed;
already the heat has done its work on my appetite.
I
slip through a side door and flick a switch on the wall. The electric gate
whirs into action and slowly reveals the world outside the compound.
While
I wait, a dusty grey creature with a red breast flutters by my feet. It is not
unlike a robin, though less plump and keener in its movement. I wish I knew its
name.
The
gate clunks to a stop and I step outside. Turning left as I’ve been told, I
head downhill towards the small cluster of buildings about a mile away. The
distant hum of a motorbike engine and the singsong shouts of farm workers tell
me the world is awake.
I’ve
been told that a man named Lerato keeps hens and will sell me some
eggs. The soles of my shoes slap at the steaming tarmac. I wipe my
forehead with the back of my hand.
The
motorbike engine grows suddenly louder then it whips past me carrying two men
in overalls. I step off the road and walk for a while in the red dust, leafy
crops brushing my arm as I skim the edge of the field.
The
ground levels out. Above the crops to my left, low, flat rooftops rise. A dog
barks a warning up ahead. As I approach the property, the dog is already
throwing itself at the metal fence, sending it rippling and jangling.
‘Cola!’
A deep voice calls. ‘Cola, woza girl!’
The
dog is well named, for its coat is a deep brown, flecked with a frothy white. It
comes to its masters call.
A
man in a peaked hat and dusty blue overalls holds a broom in a large fist. The
short stubble on his face is silver against his dark skin. He eyes me beneath
the shielding hand on his brow.
‘Dumela.’
I attempt a greeting. He mutters something I can’t understand. He calls to an
unseen companion who answers in a language they share but I do not. At last he
grins and opens the gate.
‘You
are from up the road, isn’t it?’ he says, shaking my hand.
‘Yes,’
I say, our hands still clasped. ‘I came to buy eggs?’
He
nods and grins. ‘Woza,’ he says. ‘Come,’ he repeats in English, then closes the
gate behind us.
I
follow him around the first building and past an old truck. Cola sniffs at my
heels.
Around
the corner men are sat in white plastic chairs, stained dusty red at the
legs.
A
conversation happens around me. It ends with a younger man leaving his chair to
sit on an upturned crate. Cola pads over to him to receive strokes and pats.
‘Sit.’
The men point to the vacant chair. I look to the man who met me at the
gate.
‘Sit,’
he grins, nodding as he points to the chair.
I
sit beside an older man. He offers me the tin cup he has been sipping from. I
raise my palm but he frowns at my refusal, so I take the cup. He smiles with
every tooth. I eye the swirling liquid with suspicion. I look to the man.
‘Try,’
he says encouragingly. I take a sip. It is sweeter than my lips are prepared
for but it has a burning ginger flavour that only registers after. I smile and
make approving noises. The man laughs.
‘More,’
he says. I blink and take another sip then hand the cup back.
The
man who greeted me at the gate breaks off from his conversation with the others
and turns to me.
‘England?’
he says.
‘Yes,’
I reply. He nods and so do the others.
‘Manchester
United?’ One of the others says. I’m not sure if this is a question but I nod
in acknowledgement which seems to meet their approval. I find myself wondering
if life would be a lot simpler if all small talk went like this.
‘I
came to buy eggs.’ I say, now looking around at the faces, wondering which one
is Lerato, if any of them are.
‘Eggs,
yes.’ Says the first man. He gives instructions to the younger man who gets up
and disappears behind the building. Cola follows.
A
silence falls. Only the hum of heat and the clink of tin cups are heard. I wipe
my brow and stare at my shoes.
‘Arsenal?’
says the same man as before. ‘The gunners?’
‘Yes,
yes.’ I nod. He smiles and slaps my hand.
‘English
football.’ He says in punctuation of the matter.
A
box of eggs is handed to me. Cola sniffs at my heels. Is it rude to ask how
much they cost? Should I take out my cash in front of these men?
‘Thank
you.’ I say. I scan the faces, looking for a clue. When none presents itself, I
pull my wallet from my pocket and raise it in signal.
‘Here.’
says the first man. He steps over and takes the wallet from my hand. He opens
it and pulls the wad of notes from it. The others chuckle as he mutters
something. He pulls out a single note from the wad and replaces the rest,
closing the wallet then handing it back to me. It goes back into my pocket as I
stand.
I
am taken back to the gate where Cola comes back to life, sniffing about my legs
and springing up on her forepaws. The man shakes my hand and says
something I don’t understand. Whether it isn’t English or it’s just his accent
I don’t know, but I say thank you anyway and he grins widely.
The
gate is shut behind me as I leave. Cola shouts her goodbyes and I’m away up the
road.
The
sun hangs a little higher and burns my neck. I shield my eyes from its glare
then trip on a loose stone. The box of eggs smacks onto the tarmac.
I
peel the lid open. All but two are broken. Facing back down the hill, I sigh
then shake my head. I hold the two unbroken eggs, one in each hand, resolving
to take them home. I’ll poach them for lunch then sit in my garden behind
closed gates.
About the author
Daniel Joseph Day is a writer and musician, living with his wife and
two children in Yorkshire. He has had short fiction published on CafeLit and East of the Web.
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