So lost in her thoughts was Sitshengisiwe that she completely missed the bus stop at which she should have alighted, and found herself at the bus’s last stop, the bus terminus at City Hall. She did not much enjoy coming into the heart of the City of Kings because, even though the segregationist laws were no longer in place, as a child she had been intimidated by the written and unwritten laws and policies that had policed the city. She alighted from the bus and almost tripped over a young coloured man in RF military fatigues sleeping in the afternoon sun with his back against the wall of the public toilets, which smelled of concentrated urine and other bodily functions. Although the public toilets on the corner of Grey Street and Eighth Avenue were meant for blacks, Sitshengisiwe had never had the heart to use them. She did, however, find it in her Christian heart to feel sorry for the sleeping soldier, even though during the war he had probably not hesitated to kill people who looked like her. It helped that his long hair made him look a little like Jesus. She carefully stepped over him and was grateful that though her life had indeed sunk low, it had not sunk so low that she no longer had any dignity to hold on to.

Navigating the terminus filled with several bus stops was a nightmare, and for a time that was all Sitshengisiwe could concentrate on because there were so many white people on the pavement waiting to board buses. There were blacks, coloureds and Indians as well, but Sitshengisiwe almost did not see them because she was so intent on not bumping into and therefore accidentally touching the white people. She did not know much about white people, but she definitely knew they did not like to be touched by black people. Yes, there had been a ceasefire, and yes, it looked as if the country was marching towards independence and majority rule, but Sitshengisiwe was certain that none of this meant white people were suddenly all right with being touched, albeit accidentally, by black skin. By the time she was ready to cross Fife Street at the pay-to-use toilets reserved for whites and kept clean by attendants who, at the top of every working hour, sprayed a powdery-smelling air freshener that Sitshengisiwe could detect even as she stood outside the facilities, she was exhausted from the conscious effort it took not to connect with her fellow countrymen.

As Sitshengisiwe crossed Fife Street, she decided she would go to Lobengula Street and do some window-shopping to while away the time before going to TM Hyper to buy the cheap and salty smoked salmon (which probably wasn’t salmon at all) that Philemon loved so much he demanded that it be prepared on his birthday every year. She would have to be very delicate about how she presented the future she envisioned for them.