Three days had now passed since there was electricity. Refiloe had 10% battery life left on her phone after recharging at her parents’ home earlier in the day. In addition to that, there had been no water since the morning. Joburg Water had promised restoration by 2pm, but 48 minutes had already snuck passed that deadline, breaking the fragile hope, a hope impaired by past empty promises.
After her time at UCT, Refiloe couldn’t bear the thought of chaotic imprisonment in her parents’ Bryanston home, so she opted for a place in Broadacres. All the belongings from her parent-sponsored flat in Cape Town could barely fit into the modesty of her self-funded one-bedroom apartment. The corner of her bedroom had a piled stack of boxes of things to throw away, but between earning and living, there was barely enough time to do so. Until now.
She mustered up the energy to overcome the inertia of 5 months of procrastination and started loading the boxes into her car. One by one. In and out of the apartment, until the car had no more space for anything else. Energised by the achievement of carrying 4 boxes, she started the car and began the drive up Cedar Road, looking for a place with large dumpster bins.
She came to the parking lot of Food Lovers Market at Fourways Mall and asked the security guard if he knew of a place that she could throw things away. He looked at her suspiciously, but after his face indicated that she’s not his problem, he directed her around the back of the shop. She drove, and finally saw 3 large dumpster bins. She got out of the car, and opened the boot until she noticed a ragged man hunched over and digging through the bins. Her chest started beating in panicked paces as her mind started the common and familiar calculations to assess the risk that she was in. The man stood up as straight as his hunched posture could allow and turned towards her in shock. Her heart calmed down. He was an old white man.
“Could I please throw some boxes in here?” she asked.
“Why are you asking me, I don’t own this place, do what you want” he said in his Northern-Cape-small-dorpie accent.
Refiloe opened the boot of the car and started carrying one of the boxes to the bin. She tried tipping it over but struggled to do so. “Could you perhaps help me?” she asked the old man.
“Just put it down on the floor there, you people always have nice things you throw away”, he said.
Unsure whether to be offended or grateful, she reached back into her old private school manners and put out her hand to greet him. “I’m Refiloe”, she started. With a cynical look, he slowly lifted his hand to shake hers. “You can call me Gogo”, he said. The awkward uncertainty of what was going on turned her quickly back to the car to pick up the next box.
“You know this electricity nonsense is getting out of hand,” he started. “Before, you put on the switch and like magic the light went on. Now you have to know about Kusile and Medupi, about batteries and inverters and the path between the switch and the light is no longer magic.”
She paused confused because she didn’t expect him to know about batteries and inverters. Before she needed to muster words to add to the conversation, he continued: “it’s just like with the water. Before you turned on the tap, and the water came out. Now you need to know about the Bryanston reservoir or the Randburg reservoir, and the old asbestos pipes and the newer pipes. The magic is gone.”
At least now she knew that she didn’t need to contribute to the conversation, so she went to pick up the third box.
“You know, people like you come here to throw away things that were supposed to make them happy. I’ve found the most amazing things here. Books, and plates and old cards and decorations and letters to best friends with their pictures attached”. He turned, pointed at her and looked deep into her eyes and started as if telling a secret: “I even once found a wedding ring thrown out here into the trash. Imagine, on the altar they stand there with all sorts of lies to each other until the magic fades and there’s an overpriced ring in the trash.”
The conversation started getting too heavy for their unfamiliarity to carry. Refiloe kept trying to push the thought her parents’ imminent divorce into a closed box, but it kept springing out at the most inconvenient times. Like this time. “Well, they can try and work at it” she whispered.
“Let me guess, you’re one of those university graduates who has the whole world in front of you, and wants to change the world and become a billionaire while doing so”, he said followed by a mischievous smile. “Shut up!” she shouted. “You don’t know me!”. She lifted her hands to push him in anger, until her sensibilities returned. She remembered that he’s a hobo.
“Don’t worry. I’m not some fortune teller. I don’t know your future” he tried to reassure her. “I guess we all need some magic just to get by”.
Irritated and angered, with the last box out of the car, she got in and started the engine. She rolled down the window and said “thanks for your help, have a great day” with as much sincerity has her tenuous social position could allow. While driving back down Cedar Road, the traffic lights turned bright, signalling the return of electricity. The magical relief filling her heart started drowning out the competing nihilist thoughts. Life could finally return to normal again.