Crashing into Dane.

1

Dane's mother does nothing but brag about her son.

"My son just came out top of his class in these last exams. He never leaves the house you know, unlike these frigid boys hanging about the corners, smoking weed and getting people's daughters pregnant."

"Uhuh. Your son is a good boy. If I had daughters his age, I'd make you my in-law. And someone needs to do something about these restless teens hanging around the neighbourhood, making life uncomfortable for all of us."

I hear her friend reply from behind her. It takes all of me not to shake my head at my very regular customer.
She always stops by and buys our carrots, and every weekend she stocks up on almost our entire table of vegetables.

I think to myself that she must be some health instructor or vegetarian, she buys too many veggies for this ignorant and self harming township.

I smile at her. "Will that be all Mrs. Mapanzura?" She nods as she continues to brag about her apparently perfect son with the good grades, who'll be going to university the following year.

I could also go, if everything works out the way I'd want it to. Its just been really hard staying positive lately, Dad keeps getting worse and the treatment won't work. It simply refuses to kick in and save the one man my heart beats for.
As if she hears my thoughts, the lady with Mrs. Mapanzura, Annette, the single mother whom people claim killed her husband for inheritance, looks at me with a sad smile and says to me, " oh honey, I'll bring you a few pamphlets from work, I know things have taken a turn for the worst, or so it seems, but I'm sure you can get a scholarship, your father says you're very bright yourself as well."

"Thank you." I nod at her as they both walk away and I squint my eyes at the scorching African sun. They mumble something else about me before they part ways at the stall three rows away.

I sigh.

I don't really mind what people say about me. Its just that this neighbourhood is too small. Everyone knows everything about anyone. It makes me uncomfortable a bit. But I don't mind, not really, I'll be out of here soon enough...I'll just have to be a little patient.

I want to travel the world and paint. Paint really pretty pictures of everything and everyone, maybe even tell little stories of this neighbourhood in a little collection some day.

The sun starts to set and I watch the beautiful golden glow it gives the entire market. People walking around, bathing in the golden glow of the sun, its time for me to start packing. Dad doesn't want me staying here after sunset. He says it's a dangerous neighbourhood and people do weird and funny things to other people for no reason. I remember how he said that, I saw the concern in his eyes the first day I started selling at the market. He never wanted it to come down to this, but the world never dances to the tunes we play.

Things had been really good before he fell ill. We used to eat out twice a week, he'd drop me off and pick me up at school in his old truck. He'd paint with me, he was terrible, really bad, but he said it soothed him. I know he did it to watch over me and spend time with. I used to paint at the stadium, he had designed it as a student he said. I loved the stadium, it was an enormous concrete structure with pale but comfortable terraces. The view of the sunset and rise from the top grandstands was incredible.
He had taken me there to show me around when I was just a kid, he had said he loved his job because he felt like a magician. Draw a few lines here and there, and then an amazing building or dam or whatever would appear. He even made it sound so magical. I loved it.

Dad was amazing.

He is amazing. I just have to keep praying that the treatment he's taking will work, because I won't lose him. I can't. He won't lose this battle to this terrorist of a disease.

I start packing the cabbages away, then the lighter veggies on top. I get an ice-pop from the lady in the next stall. I drag my stacked little cart behind me as I walk back home.

I love the market, I love the people...the energy and vibrance that radiates from them. I love the stadium too, the whole township is not such a bad place to be, but the walks are the worst for me. Because too many people are in the streets, too many people look at me, and whistle at me. I don't like it. It makes me uncomfortable, so I squint my eyes and bite into the ice nervously as I walk by a gang of young men. They are too young to make a move at me, but old enough to make me uncomfortable as they stare and whistle. Home is not too far off, just a couple of streets over by the corner.

I get home and I'm relieved.

Mr Michaels is just leaving, with his bag hung over his shoulders. He's not too old, in his early thirties, strong build and kind eyes. But he makes me uncomfortable, he asks me too many questions. His coloured accent sells him away but he is dark skinned and has hazel eyes. He looks after Dad, he visits every two days. Spends the day with Dad. He's the son of an old friend of Dad's, so we pay close to nothing compared to the care he gives Dad.

Dad spends most of his days in his studio, working on something, drinking herbal tea and draughting what I think might be his will. He won't let me see what he works on, but I caught a glimpse last night as I handed him his medication. "Two in the morning, three in the afternoon, two at night," the doctor had said as he showed me a little chart of how dad has to take his tablets. I was just glad he didn't need me to inject anything into him, that would have been very hard for me.

I walk by Mr. Michaels and nod as he waves and closes the door behind him.

" There's a lady who wants me to get a college scholarship dad, your people are getting out of control." I say with a fake frown on my face as I walk over to his desk and kiss his cheek.

He smiles at me before letting out a little laugh, " my people, huh?!"

"How was your day? Whatchu do with Michaels?"

"The usual, cardio, a little bit of stretching. He mostly wanted to talk today, he seems worried."

He looks out the window beside his desk. He looks worried too.

I ignore the panic that flashes across my chest and the heat forming in my throat.

" I'm sure you'll start getting better, Dad, have a little faith. Its a rare bone disorder, its not cancer..... you'll make it through...even if I have drag you to my art expos in a wheelchair. Stay strong."

He looks at me with a glint of tears in his eyes, but smiles.

"Sweetie, it's HSD, they haven't found a cure, my bones get weaker by the hour, I'm not recovering, I need you to be ready for anything."

My eyes tear up, the heat burns my throat, my hands tremble a little.

"Dad. You'll get better."

I walk out and go up to my room. The bed is cold and my clothes are all over the bed. I forgot to fold my laundry last night. I stare up at the ceiling and wonder if I should give in to his demand. I don't want to be ready for anything. I want to see him get better. I want the world to have better doctors and better nurses, who don't tell their clients they have no hope of surviving.

I can't cry, I won't.

I get up and start packing up my laundry. I start my bath and let the steam fill the bathroom. I just want him to be better. I close my eyes and will the tears away. There's a laminated painting of praying hands beside the mirror, I want to talk to God and let him know that I'm about to lose it. But I purse my lips and and sink myself in the hot bath. He will get better.