The Streets of Johannesburg
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In Cape Town, people can wander freely, and marvel at the clean and white glow of the buildings. It is a happy place, nice hotels with fruit buffets. Always something you’ve heard of, papaya, mango. The world is beautiful.
If you listen to the history books, this country was torn apart. If you listen to the locals, nothing ever happened. Here, you could laugh at the past, and distance yourself from the present. I loved that city. No longer.
For the time came to leave Cape Town, the expensive houses and peaceful harbor faded away. This was Africa.
They noticed me, I know, and smiling white faces darkened.
Now I am sitting in my shadowed hotel room, in only my undergarments. I was stupid; I had 2000 American dollars in my pocket. My conference is tomorrow, I do not know if I will go. I was stupid; I chose to go to Cape Town.
Johannesburg, where the buses and the factories fill the air thick with smoke, that man... this must be all he knew. What compelled me to walk out into the forbidding streets, I cannot pinpoint. It was night, and staring out the window, my legs began to carry me out the door.
I walked down the middle of the street; there were no cars, no people. The man, he was barely visible against the black of night. Then, he appeared, walking straight toward me, and I to him. I was amazed at this man, for he had appeared out of nowhere and said nothing. We met, in the middle of the road and both stopped.
Both, we were actors, and this was a play performed countless times in this city. We had our roles, he, the poor black man, lifted his gun and demanded my money and clothes. I, the rich white man, gasped with fear and shock, cried, "Don't hurt me!", and hastily handed him my wallet. He spoke his line, I removed my jacket and pants. Our final bows now, he ran away, arms filled, and I stared back, eyes red with disgust.
Then, a miracle. He glanced back, for only a moment, but his face, it shall be imprinted forever on my mind. He was no longer the nondescript poor black man, his face was vivid now, his eyes teared with 50 years of government-endorsed oppression. Every crease in his brow told the story of a beating, an act of hatred, a moment of despair.
Then he left. I was utterly alone now, no one in the world to speak to. My knees weakened, I fell to the ground. The silence mocked me, for Cape Town, for wealth, for the lightness of my skin. There was nowhere to go.
I don't know how I ended up back here, at my hotel room. The sun is rising now. In an hour, my conference shall start and the first speaker of the day shall take the podium. But I won't be there.
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Wow, awesome. I love the comparison of the 'robbing' with a play. That was really well thought out.
Where did you get the inspiration for this story? Were you involved in something like this, or come across it often? I find it hard to believe you dreamt it up completely, since the style seems so journalistic. The language and the ideas in it seem so real.
Welcome to IndyFluency, I hope you stay :)
I have been to South Africa, apartheid leaves its mark still. It was not under the circumstances of a conference, but the differences make their mark. Johannesburg is a real city, with real human suffering. Cape Town is more picturesque, more touristy, more white. This is the impression I got from my visits, true or not.
As for the style of writing, I was not going for journalistic, but I am descended from 3 generations of journalists (and one surgeon, the gene seems to have skipped my great grandfather).
Looking at it again, I can see some NPR influence on the writing that I was not aware of. I listen to the station a lot.
very, very nice. nice commentary about social issues, too, but done in such a way that didn't sound too preachy, more actually enjoyable.
Very real. Powerful. It touches the subject of a real issue, and it takes guts an intelligence to write like that.
Incredible. It's almost poetic in how it runs, I think. But I still feel like your descriptions of places (in a human sense, since it often relates to environment sewed into civilization) is bloody brilliant. So few lines but any more would be showing off. -^^
Stellar work again, mate.
This is great. I've been reading books by Alan Paton, Alexander mcCall Smith, Isak Dinesen, who all write about Africa. You have that same...hm...serene...yet...urgent, I guess...feel as them.
I was entertained. I like how this is a full complete story told so optimally. Shows true language mastery.