Veronica and her daughter

I am walking back to Observatory from the Webb Savoy drugstore in Mowbray. It’s Women’s Day, the one day I’ve worked up enough strength to get over to Mowbray, and the clinic is closed. I've had the flu for almost a week, and I probably only had the strength because of Women’s Day. Irony.

So instead of seeing a doctor I bought yet another herbal remedy to help me sleep, smelled a bunch of lotions, and left. Almost home, I spotted Veronica on the corner by the bottle store (liquor store). Veronica sleeps on the street. We met on my second or third day when I asked her for directions to Main Road to catch a taxi into town. I could have figured it out myself I think, but something in me wanted another person to know what I was doing that day, even a stranger.

Veronica walked with me all the way to Main Road, talking all the way about how she came to Cape Town, how many children she had, how she lost her eye, the pain in her back. All in her fabulous Coloured accent. (Coloured is an ok word to use here. And I know it’s not politically correct for me to call any accent fabulous, but hers is. Sorry.)

“Promise me something, my darling. You must promise me this.” We have reached the Main Road and I suddenly feel like we are being watched.

“Sure, yeah Veronica, what is it?” She has now taken both my hands and pulled me to her in a hug. Her coat smells of smoke and dry attics. I should be scared that she’s going to take my wallet or something, but I’m not. I wonder if it’s even possible to skip being naïve.

“These Nigerians, they will say they love you but it’s not, it’s not, you musn’t trust, it is only for your visa my darling. Promise me this.” I’m relieved it’s a promise I can honestly keep.

I’ve seen Veronica around a few times, and I now know that she’s drunk most of the time, and seemingly happy. I gave her R15 one night because she said she really wanted to sleep in a night shelter because of the pain in her back and I couldn’t say no, though I knew everybody would tell me she probably used it for dop (booze).

Alcoholism in the Coloured community has deep roots. In the Western Cape, Coloured people were and continue to be workers on the vineyards and rooibos farms. These farms closely resemble plantations in the U.S during slavery; pay is low, and opportunities to leave the farm are few. Before the “Dop System” became illegal, workers were partially paid in alcohol. This system enabled workers to spend much of their free time drunk, numbing them to unhappiness with their situation. Today in South Africa, farmers get around the law by “gifting” alcohol to their workers.

Today I wave to Veronica but I really don’t want to talk, I want to go home and keep sleeping. The sun starts to shine as Veronica waves back to me.

“I was up there seeing my madam, but she wasn’t there. And this man, he was drunk so drunk, and this, he gave it me. It’s ok? I know I’m going to die, I know someday, but I don’t want to die today from this.” She smiles at her joke. I smell booze and something medicinal, Vick’s maybe.

Veronica hands me the bottle of purple liquid. It’s the wrong shape for alcohol, looking more like a bottle for witch hazel. The cap is white plastic and the label looks like it was printed on a printer that needs toner or something, but I can make out a picture of a matzo and possibly some Hebrew letters. I take off the cap and inhale.

“It smells ok to me, Veronica, but, you know.” What, am I worried she’s going to sue?

“People, they assume all I want is a drink. I’m hungry, you know? It’s sore here.” She presses below her ribs.

“Could you maybe sell this for some food?”

“No man, it’s opened see.” I nod.

I change the subject. I ask Veronica if she likes to sing. She says yes, I write my own songs, do you want to hear? And then we're dancing, Veronica’s pulling me around, singing right at my face 2 inches away about waking up to the face of an angel. People are watching. People having lunch at Mimi’s across the street are staring through the window, probably thinking wow, that girl must be foreign, to put up with that. I’m thinking be cool, be cool man. Part of me is glad for the human contact, but I’m soon ready to leave this public spot.

“I’m walking this way Veronica, do you want to join me?” I pick a direction.

“Yes my darling.”

A girl who was waiting next to us at the corner follows us. She looks about my age, and Veronica introduces the girl as her daughter, Shane. I ask a question I can’t remember, and she starts explaining everything in great depth, about leaving behind an abusive father in Bloemfontein, her sisters, her baby Abigail. She tells this story a lot I think. At some point Shane asks me for money. I knew she would. What the heck, I’ll take her into Kwikspar with me and I’ll buy her a few things. Veronica wants to come in with us but she’s holding the bottle of Manischewitz and she says she’ll wait outside.

Once we’re inside Shane starts complaining about her mom’s drunkenness, how she doesn’t touch it, not any of it. We pick out mealie meal (corn meal for making porridge), bread, muesli, sugar. Shane wants me to buy meat and, for a second, I think about it, then think again and suggest a bigger bag of mealies. This’ll really stick with you, I say. I feel weird telling her what to buy. I’m giving a gift, it should be what she actually wants. Why don’t I just get her some sausage? But I don’t.

“We musn’t have my mother know that we got this.” Shane says, lowering her voice. “She’ll just try selling it, buying drink. You must tell her you didn’t get us anything, and then I will follow you and get it from you and hide it from her.”

In the checkout line I ask Shane if she has a mobile phone.

“Why?” she asks.

“Oh, well I would ask for your number if, you know, if you had one.” Sounds so stupid out loud. These are not your friends. They need your money. I mean they could be your friends, but you have to start over and they can’t be your charity. That’s not a friendship.

Thankfully, Veronica is nowhere to be seen when we leave the Kwikspar, so I hand Shane the bag, we say a quick good-bye and walk in opposite directions.