Parallel Lives
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Knowing our names
Margaret Mncadi Avenue is the six-lane road beside the harbour in Durban, its north and south carriageways separated by tall coconut palms. It used to be called Victoria Embankment. Naming and renaming has the potential to be part of a process of decolonisation. Names of public spaces can be celebratory, educational, affirming and unifying. There was virtually no public education about the 'new' names when the process started. Here is the little I found about Margaret Mncadi...
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Lament for the wall that kept no one out
Cities are networks of crossed lines and parallel lives. How we travel - on foot, by train, by ship, taxi or car - determines who we meet. The Parallel Lives blog reflects on how lives intersect around the harbour, the railway line, the inner city and the beachfront of Durban. Read more here
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Spirit
There is a breeze, umoya, that wafts like a spirit, umoya, over the sand and between the cross currents of the mind. There is a human on the shore, with waist length dreadlocks, forehead broad like a horizon, smart shirt shimmering bright as noon. He holds beads and a small bottle that he fills with sand and seawater as he chants to the ocean and the notes dissolve like salt. I tread the sand, millions of years in the making, like all our lives, whether crafted into flag-flying castles to be photographed for a price, or sifted unseen below the tides.
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Between the tracks
The tourist train between the city and Ntshongweniidles at Dalbridge then glides towards Berea. Past the black plastic shelters of those who have lost their homes and their hopes. Along embankments of litter. Into long tunnels hewn through cliffs (How many people took how long, at what cost to achieve this?) The train emerges into sunshine and stops next to a waterfall, splashing into a pristine pool. At the unkempt Ntshongweni station, a bus waits to take passengers to the market. There you can buy joy, love, peace and happiness, beautifully spelled out in wooden letters, serif or sans, natural, white, grey or…
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Smoke
Smoke rises from small fires and dissolves above the black tarpaulins along the railway line. Young men emerge, their lives worn wearily on hunched shoulders or gathered hurriedly in plastic packets as they are chased to nowhere. Hungry ghosts of lost hope. Backed against the very edge of existence. Smoke rises from the braai stands at the beach. It wafts the fatty aroma of boerewors and burnt chicken above the heads of laughing crowds. Cans, bottles, bones and boxes mark the territory. Litter as status symbol. Smoke rises from the pavement fires where vendors roast mealies. It mingles with the fumes from buses and taxis. Mixed messages rousing appetite and…
