I reckon I am going straight back to sobriety following this weekend. Maybe as much tequila as possible was not a good idea to consume on my first Friday night back off the wagon. My body went into mild shock when I shot the first one. That should have warned me.
But how else was I meant to survive Sandton and then that dark dingy over-smoked over-sexed gay bar in Melville?!
I tried to not move for the rest of the weekend.
But I had to, as a long lost mate had come to visit me for the Saturday night. I had not seen her in exactly a year. Great company I was! We sat on my couch for six hours, with me occasionally pointing out where things like the kettle or the heater were.
Somehow I had made it along the N3 & to the airport. And it was there that a quiet chunder was AGAIN necessary. Lovely.
But at least, I thought, I’m at the airport. On a Saturday evening. No chance of anyone else knowing about this.
Monday morning 8.30am I receive a call from one of my sweet quiet unassuming Zimbo colleagues: Hey Champers? What were you doing at the airport on Saturday? I thought you might have broken down or something?
The problem with seeing such a good mate, who lives between the Cape and the USA, is that it makes you realise what you are missing sometimes. Her worries of life are the same as mine, we get ranting and raving over the exact same topics. We might touch on the subject that she is engaged, and that she is now primarily based in Michigan for her PhD, but rather we talk of the strike, of the kids she is tutoring in Kayelitsha, which of these kids is so on the ball, and who has not had an Afrikaans Matric teacher for this whole year.
I am sure I’ll go into sometime this week, as it has been playing in my head, but it’s the disconnection I feel. In this town. With mates from other parts of my life. That my day is focused on the world systems that are screwed up and I search for any creative idea to remedy these, in a democratic manner. That I fall asleep to books about Somalia & Rwanda in the ‘90s, that make me dream of Ivorian kids and machetes. My daily and life focus just is not what my most private & elite of schools brought me up to spend my money on. I just don’t relate to the world into which I was born.
That I feel more comfortable heading to Rosentenville to drop of my work friend on a Friday night, than I do awhile later in a Sandton club. And that Melville is my compromise.
What I have realised, is either I have to start reading cheerier books before I fall asleep, or I have to start writing movie scripts based on these dreams!
And the time has come to sit down with the guy, and bring an end to the decade long relationship with tequila.