‘Ah, no! They are just here to make sure there are no problems.’

‘What sort of problems?’

‘Ah, no! It’s nothing, madam. It’s just that after this business in Mpumalanga they don’t want any troublemakers here.’

On the pavement the men and women who side-stepped and shimmied past each other had that same purposeful air you see in commuters the world over, their eyes apparently fixed on some distant finishing post, which lured them on just as surely as a long-distance runner might keep her eyes on the prize.

The taxi pulled over. ‘We are here, madam. That is the building you are looking for,’ he said, pointing just ahead of them through the windscreen. He got out, lifted Lindi’s bag and shut the boot in a deliberately slow and smooth motion while throwing her a knowing smile, like two old friends sharing a private joke. She handed over some notes, suppressing the urge to explain what she had meant to say earlier. The taxi driver held out his hand: no hard feelings.

Lindi stepped back onto the pavement and watched the car ease itself into the heavy flow of traffic, another version of the frenetic movement that was now parting either side of her on the pavement. There was a hum of activity all around her, like a social tinnitus, but it was never distinct enough to identify its source straight away. Very few people were talking. They surged one way or another, heads down and concentrating on the mission. An urban anthropologist in some far distant time might study this daily migration and exclaim at the way nobody actually bumped into anybody else, guided by an inner sense of space and proximity. It was only when Lindi concentrated her gaze at a particular point in this streetscape that she was able to tune into its sound. From inside the shoe shop, just opening for trade, the forced chirpiness of morning radio, and from the newspaper boy, a punchy verbal précis of the story of the day – the lustful indiscretions of a local celebrity. And further up the road, the metallic clatter of a dustcart as it swallowed the detritus of a downtown night.

Lindi caught the sweet early-morning whiff of freshly baked pastries and bread. It was coming from a mobile stall a few metres away from her. The prices were written in permanent marker on the glass cabinet that shielded the shelves of food. ‘Sausage rolls – R10/-, jam rolls – R2/-, bunnichow – R20/-.’