The family wedding was set to be an exquisite occasion. Our wedding outfits were carefully chosen weeks before the event. My two sons would be handsome and smart in their crisp white shirts and neatly pressed black pants, all bought especially for the nuptials of their precious aunt. As a sensible mother, and realising that children’s wedding outfits were generally one-off affairs, never to be worn again, I’d applauded my recession-savvy ways of borrowing shoes for my youngest son.
Alive! The word pops into my head as we enter Johannesburg’s Oliver Tambo Airport. Ironic really, isn’t it, for a country with one of the highest crime rates in the world. Yet I feel it. Sense it. Am reminded of a friend who says he comes alive every time he returns – feels boring, bland and disconnected for weeks in his new country, Australia every time he goes back.