Of love, loss

When in Obs obnoxious hippies are a given — but sometimes you can meet the love of your life and lose them just as swiftly

They walked into the place, that place in Obs with the bottomless coffee and black consciousness books, dreadlocked revolutionary artists in abundance. Black people in this hippy neck of the woods are drawn to each other like bees, but of course, they act totally nonchalant about it, leaving their German groupies to do the buzzing, eagerly intoxicated as they are by a dizzying proximity to blackness.

The place was noisy, and I was half-listening to conversations around me when they walked in. I stared in awe and it felt like everything went still around me. I know this is cheesy, but honestly, they were everything a human is supposed to be and I couldn’t help but think of a line from my favourite poem. Right, like a well-done sum.

It was Sunday, so I had both the newspaper and my laptop open in front of me, next to my box of butternut, grapes and wedge of watermelon, bounty from Mr H who sells fruit and vegetables in the hall after high mass at St Michaels. That’s where my uncle and his family worship, so that’s where I go to sing praises and be with people. Supporting Mr H is the cherry on top.

I’ve never ever seen a bruised fruit on his table, and once, after I “accidentally” gave him an extra R5, he corrected my change and gave me a free packet of carrots to improve my eyesight next time I count coins. I am convinced he plants scruples alongside his seeds and serves them as honest-to-God goodness. On the rare occasions that I need more human interaction after stocking up on the earth’s candies, I go to a coffee shop to people watch while I pretend to write.

I can’t even tell you what I was writing about that day, probably another pap story or half-baked PhD proposal when in they bounced, with a spring in their step that made me suddenly aware of my shameful posture. When I straightened up, I noticed that the nipples of the girl next to me were suddenly standing straight out like rapt arrows directing all energy towards the back of the deity ordering the breakfast roll at the counter in front of us.

The girl closed her laptop, abruptly terminating the Skype call to what looked like her mother, stood up and cleared her throat like something out of a movie. I had never actually heard such a wellarticulated ahem before this.

“I have seen you before.”

They turned around and looked at her, kindly but without recognition. Then at me. Then back at her, eyes travelling from dirty Birkenstocks to my box of vegetables, up to her now offensive teats (no bra, obvz) before finally returning to look at her face. A lazily indulgent smile spread, like an unnecessary but nice-to-have blanket on the beach.

“Maybe, I don’t know. I haven’t seen you before,” they smiled generously, and that should have settled it. Germans are persistent though and she was batting her eyes so furiously, I was surprised their dreads weren’t blown backwards by the sheer physical force of her flirting. Shame, maybe she was Dutch, who knows.

“Are you at Afda? You look so familiar!”

They narrowed their eyes at her. By now I had given up all pretence of innocently picking up stompies and leaned back in my chair, arms crossed behind my head and settled in for a show.

“No. I am not at Afda. I do not live in Obs. We have not met before. You seem like a nice enough girl but I am not interested, and I’m not buying whatever it is you’re selling. I don’t want a weekly delivery of organic vegetables from your vegan commune co-op, and before you even think of asking, no, I do not sell weed.”

I was torn between laughing and clapping and shouting hoorah for this African angel but, before I could respond, the European, who had been gawking open-mouthed throughout this eloquently delivered invective, sat down in a huff and turned to me as if looking for an