Nita was a 18-year-old girl when Martin first encountered her. She crossed the road with the resolute stride of a defiant teenager. Her expression was serious, but her actions revealed a subtle eagerness to capture attention. Martin observed her—a slender girl with a deep complexion, round, expressive eyes, and untamed hair. Her slim frame hinted at the early signs of adolescence.
He addressed her in Afrikaans, and she responded with a cheeky tone. It was hard to tell if this was her natural demeanor or merely an act.
"Could you help me find Uncle Tin?" he asked, keeping his tone steady as he watched her closely. She appeared amused, slipping a finger into her mouth before responding. "What will you give me if I tell you?" she countered, her boldness catching him off guard. What followed was a back-and-forth exchange, more like a game of cat and mouse than a straightforward conversation.
"R20?" he offered tentatively.
"Is that it? That won’t even get me something to eat," she replied, glancing around. Martin's eyes followed her gaze to a woman standing under a tall tree. She was well-proportioned, seemingly in her twenties, and rolling something between her fingers. Her stubby movements caught Martin’s attention as a banana-faced man joined her, urging her impatiently to finish.
"Drugs," Martin muttered under his breath.
"Fine! R50," he conceded. Without warning, she hopped into his car, her actions quick and unhesitating. Before he could say a word, she was already fiddling with the radio.
"Drive!" she commanded, swaying playfully to the rhythm of the music.
As she directed him, he noticed a different personality. Fun-loving. Singing to the tune on the radio and playing the music more loudly than he liked.
"Where to now?" he asked. She instructed him to take the first right, guiding him into a narrow, dingy street. The area was lined with small, crumbling brick houses, their yards encircled by patches of dry, barren sand. He recognized the area from his youth, though it had seemed in better condition back then. He had grown up in a makeshift shack of wood and corrugated iron, sharing the space with his fisherman father and his perpetually drunk mother. A few houses were well-maintained, but most had fallen into disrepair. Watchful eyes lingered on every corner, and he felt certain that word of his arrival was being silently passed along.
"Stop at the shop!" she ordered. Martin promptly brought his electric vehicle to a halt as she jumped out to purchase an energy drink and a pack of cigarettes. The car quickly drew a crowd of curious children, their faces dry and dusty, captivated by the unfamiliar vehicle. Nita seemed to revel in the attention, proudly showing off her newfound companion.
"Drive!" she commanded again, asserting herself as though she were in charge. "Nice car! You must be rich!" she exclaimed with a playful tone.
"Not really," he replied, masking the truth. "How much farther?" he asked, growing increasingly uneasy with the surroundings.
"Around that corner, then take a left at the next one," she replied. Did that even make sense? he wondered to himself.
He regretted not bringing his other car to this part of town. The area, near the sea with its sand dunes and patches of fynbos, came back to him. This was Rolbos, a place whimsically named after a drunkard who once stumbled into a patch of low-growing fynbos. Cape Town had a peculiar habit of naming places this way. Iekie's Corner, for instance, wasn’t marked on any map, not even on Google Maps. Surprisingly, it wasn’t named after the man who ran the fruit and vegetable store on the corner. Instead, it got its name from Iqraam, a disabled worker at the stall, whose nickname, Iekie, became the area’s unofficial moniker.
"Stop here!" she commanded again. "Where's my R50?" she demanded. Martin pulled out the money and handed it to her.
"Where's the place?" he asked.
"You're looking at it," she replied ambiguously, without indicating a specific direction. He glanced down the road, about 50 meters ahead, feeling perplexed.The house was barely visible behind what appeared to be an overgrown creeper, with no proper gate in sight. "Is that it?" he asked skeptically. She nodded, then promptly opened the car door and hopped out. She did not look back, sucking on her drink.
He drove a little farther and stopped in front of the house. Martin sensed watchful eyes peering at him from behind the curtains of the neighboring home, which stood out with its well-maintained appearance. The garden was tidy, with three distinct entry points—unusual for this area. The place had changed since he’d last been here, and he wasn’t sure if the people he once knew still lived there.
He stepped out of his car, locking it behind him, and cautiously surveyed the surroundings. He wasn’t entirely sure why he had come, prompted only by an SMS he’d received a few days earlier, asking him to visit Uncle Tin’s house. The area had changed so much that he was no longer certain of its exact location, though a few elements still felt familiar.
The curtains in the semi-detached council house next door shifted slightly—a constant reminder of the curious nature of this tight-knit, insular community. The front door of the neighboring house creaked open, revealing a stout woman in a doek, floral dress, white apron, and slippers. Time may have passed, but she remained unmistakable—Aunty Dor, the local shebeen owner and brothel operator. Though she would never admit to such labels, being a devout churchgoer, her establishment was known for its orderliness and strict rules.
There was no room for chaos under her watch. Patrons purchased their drinks and left—no loitering, no drinking, and certainly no revelry on her premises or even on the street outside. Any attempt to flout her rules was met with a firm and vocal reprimand. Drunkenness and disorder had no place in her domain.
As for the brothel, it operated with the same no-nonsense efficiency. Rooms were strictly by appointment: you arrived, paid, maintained your privacy, and left. Aunty Dor’s reputation for discipline and discretion ensured her authority remained unchallenged in the neighborhood.
Here is a corrected version of your text with improved grammar and spelling:
---
"My jirre, Boere!" she says in a flat Cape Flats accent. That nickname still holds meaning here. He was born with blond hair, blue eyes, and light skin—quintessential features of a White person.
"Hello, Antie Dor," he says, switching to his local Afrikaaps accent and hugging her tightly as he meets her at the gate. She seems shorter than he remembers, or perhaps he has grown. This woman was his stand-in mom when his biological mother was "unavailable." Being addicted to wine on the Flats was common—a curse some say runs in the genes of some Coloured people.
Aunty Dor, overcome by tears, invites him into her small, well-kept house. It’s still as he remembers it, just a bit more modern. She lets him sit down and immediately starts making coffee without asking, talking incessantly about how much she missed him and the heartbreak of losing her daughter, Lucretia, at such a young age—just twenty-four. She fusses around the kitchen as she always does when someone comes to visit.
Martin recognizes that the hospitality of the Coloured Aunties hasn’t changed. He feels at ease as she asks him about his life since he left Rolbos about ten years ago.
Martin had studied biological sciences at the University of the Western Cape, unlike his best friend, Jimmy, who pursued medicine at the University of Cape Town. Martin became a Life Sciences teacher, while Jimmy became a doctor in the state healthcare system. Despite the years, they frequently kept in touch, just as they had since their school days.
So, what brought him home? A cryptic SMS sent to his phone while he was busy teaching his Grade Twelves. Who even uses SMS anymore?
"Lucretia vermoor!" it read. "Oom Blik is dood."
The message came from a number he tried calling numerous times, but it always went to voicemail. He showed Aunty Dor the message, but she confirmed it hadn’t come from her. She wondered aloud who might have sent it.
The reference to Oom Blik, or Uncle Tin, was unmistakable. He was known by both names because he was always found doing one of three things: working in the garden, typing on his computer, or hammering away at some piece of metal. His house, tucked away next to Aunty Dor’s, was secluded and overgrown with a myriad of plants and trees he lovingly tended.
"Oh!" Aunty Dor exclaimed. "I have a box for you, left by Tin." She rushed to fetch it and handed it to him, along with a key.
"Whose key is this?" Martin asked. Aunty Dor shrugged, indicating she didn’t know.
"Before he died, he said to give it to you after his death. He said you’d know how to open it."
Uncle Tin had always been secretive—a White man who had one day moved into a Coloured township. The community had been curious. A White man in a Coloured area? Was he crazy? Didn’t he understand Apartheid and the history that came with it? But over time, the residents had accepted him as one of their own, seeing him walk to the shop with his peculiar metal contraptions.
Martin fiddled with the combination lock on the box, unsuccessfully trying to open it several times. Then he remembered Uncle Tin’s love for mathematics and computers. He tried a five-digit prime number the man had shared with him years ago. The lock clicked open.
Aunty Dor’s curiosity got the better of her, and she leaned closer to see what was inside. The box contained papers and two other keys.
The first paper Martin read stated that he was now the owner of Uncle Tin’s home, pending the completion of legal paperwork with the relevant lawyers. Martin was stunned. He already owned a fully paid flat in a good residential area. Why would he need this one? He showed Aunty Dor the letter, and she was equally surprised.
The second paper referenced Dot. Martin remembered Dot—a mechanical creation Uncle Tin had worked on for years. It had started as an awkward-looking Mars Rover prototype before being reimagined into a humanoid female form. Martin hadn’t seen Dot since he left. Why, he wondered, was she so important?
Regardless, the instructions were clear: he needed to see the lawyers to confirm ownership of the assets. Martin frowned, uncertain why Uncle Tin had chosen to leave him anything.
He left Aunty Dor’s house and walked to the gate of Uncle Tin’s property. The place was still fairly well-kept, thanks to Aunty Dor and Doepie, as he understood. Unlocking the door, he stepped inside to find the house preserved exactly as he remembered, with its old furniture intact.
Switching on the light in the dark passage, he noticed the electricity was still active. The water still ran. On Uncle Tin’s desk, there was a stack of letters from the municipality. Opening them, Martin realized all payments were up to date. Someone had been maintaining the bills.
Martin inspects everything. The backyard is well-maintained, thanks to Doepie, who is already there, watering the plants. He steps into the room where Uncle Tin had spent most of his time. The soft purring of machines fills the air. The computers appear to be in sleep mode, but Dot seems "alive," sitting motionless and staring blankly ahead.
How long has she been like this? What had she been doing? And more importantly, how does he interact with her? It feels strange to him that he’s thinking of her in human terms rather than as an android.
He looks into her eyes. They are dark and lifeless. How does he switch her on? What would she do or say if she woke up? He notices that she’s connected to a power source and an internet connection, suggesting she is still operational.
Martin has some knowledge of computers, thanks to the time he spent with Uncle Tin doing mathematical modeling and coding, as well as his studies at UWC. But Dot is unlike anything he has ever encountered. "Sorry," he mutters to himself, realizing he’s again thinking of her as a person rather than a machine.
He touches the keyboard, and the computer wakes up, asking for credentials. Remarkably, he still remembers his login details and manages to log in. He’s surprised to find that his username and password haven’t changed after all these years.
The screen comes to life, showing lines of code running and what appears to be system updates in progress. Martin is amazed by the complexity but decides not to interfere. There’s too much to unpack—for now, he chooses to leave everything as it is and focus on settling in.
After settling in, Martin steps outside and notices a newspaper in the mailbox. He’s unaccustomed to physical letters or papers—electronic versions and social media have long since replaced them in his life. Upon closer inspection, he realizes it’s not a recent issue but one from several months ago.
The headline catches his eye: *Death of a Prostitute Found Among Alien Vegetation Alongside a Road by a Shepherd.* What the hell? An old newspaper? A prostitute? And shepherds—do people still have those? Intrigued and unsettled, he begins reading the article.
It doesn’t take long before he realizes with a jolt that the woman they’re referring to is Lucretia.
Lucretia? Really? He struggles to process the idea. He can’t recall her ever turning to prostitution before he left. Sure, she was feisty, bold, and fiercely independent—but she was also friendly, well-built, and... well, she had something special with him. Martin feels a pang of confusion and loss. How had things gone so wrong for her? In any case, who left the newspaper there?
As he leaves his new home, Martin feels eyes on him. He wonders if Bollie still runs the business here. Walking up to the closest pair of eyes, he asks in flat Afrikaaps, "Are you working for Bollie?"
The person looks at him with disdain and responds with another question. From this brief exchange, Martin gathers that Bollie, the local gangster, is still in business. Bollie leads *The Corner Boys (TBC)*, a gang infamous in the area. Though he’s been to jail once, his minions usually take the fall for him, ensuring his continued control over the neighborhood.
Martin continues down the street to Ieke’s corner. Old Ebrahim spots him and immediately recognizes him. Greeting Martin warmly in Arabic, he bestows peaceful blessings upon him, as was his way. Ebrahim hasn’t changed.
He offers Martin any fruit he wants from his stall. Despite the years and the rumors that Uncle Ebie had become wealthy, he remains the same humble Muslim man. He lives simply with Aunty Gaya, his wife, who comes bustling out to greet Martin.
Still the same plump woman in her floral dress, scarf, socks, and slippers, she exclaims joyfully and rushes to hug him. Her feet were always cold, he remembers with a fond smile.
"Come, come, Martin!" she says, offering him freshly baked koeksisters. Martin hesitates. He had long given up such indulgences, but he relents as Aunty Gaya and Uncle Ebie insist, serving him a warm cup of tea. They share their quiet contentment with him but also the disheartening changes they’ve observed over the years: the rise of drugs, crime, the erosion of respect among people, and the specter of death hanging over their community.
They tell him about Iekie, their nephew with Down syndrome, who no longer works at their stall. Something went wrong. Despite his condition, Iekie had a remarkable aptitude for mathematics and was excellent at selling fruit and vegetables. He was loved by everyone—locals, police, and even gangsters. Uncle Ebie often reminded him to stay on the right side of the law, knowing the dangers they had witnessed over the years. Iekie always listened.
But one day, something triggered him. He began reciting strings of numbers that no one understood, muttering them incessantly. Soon after, his behavior became increasingly erratic. Eventually, he was confined to a mental institution, where he spent his days either chanting or scribbling numbers on anything he could find, often with his favorite purple crayon.
The state psychiatrist who examined him described his condition as an altered state of mind, where he seemed trapped between reciting jumbled songs and endless sequences of numbers. Over time, they discovered that Iekie was reciting the digits of pi—an extraordinary feat. No one was certain how far he had progressed in memorizing the digits, which extend into trillions. Sometimes, Iekie would recite the numbers so rapidly that his eyes would roll back in his head, and he would collapse into unconsciousness. It was as if the numbers had taken hold of him, consuming his mind entirely. martin was concerned.
"What happened to Nesie?" Martin asked.
Nesie had always been striking—a beautiful, dark-skinned woman with deep, captivating eyes and an athletic physique. Her legs, strong and well-toned, reflected her years as an exceptional swimmer. She was dark-skinned all over, Martin recalled with a faint smile.
"She’s married now, with two children," Aunty Gaya replied. "She lives in the new housing scheme—a nice house—and works at the library."
That made sense. Nesie had always been an avid reader, excelling in languages. She had a strong command of English and Afrikaans and even knew some isiXhosa.
Still, Martin couldn’t forget the prejudices Nesie and her family had faced. Their lineage, crossing racial boundaries, had often been the subject of cruel gossip in the community. The derogatory K-word was sometimes thrown around during heated arguments. It stood out in this otherwise monocultural neighborhood, highlighting how different Nesie’s family had seemed to some.
Aunty Gaya started to say something but abruptly stopped, quickly changing the subject to flower selling—a new area they were considering diversifying into. Uncle Ebie glanced at her intently before standing up and guiding Martin to the edge of the stall.
"Visit the tavern," he said quietly, "that’s the palace of evil."
Martin found the statement puzzling. Uncle Ebie wasn’t one for exaggeration, so his words carried weight. Something unusual was definitely happening.
After walking a few streets, Martin arrived at Dennie’s Bar—a place whose name had always been a mystery to the locals. Stepping inside, he was immediately greeted by the familiar aroma of hops, tempting him to indulge.
He strolled up to the bar and ordered a Castle. The barman, expressionless and silent, set the cold beer and a glass down in front of him with a muted thud. Martin paid for his drink and took a seat at the table closest to the TV, where a sports match played in the background. The bar was dimly lit, but the atmosphere seemed to grow heavier as someone entered. It was Bollie.
"Boere, my bra!" Bollie greeted him in his booming, familiar voice, extending a hand for a slap. Martin obliged.
"What are you doing here?" Bollie asked, inviting himself to sit down and leaning back casually in his chair.
"Not sure," Martin replied. "I just got a message to be here."
Bollie nodded knowingly. "Did you see Antie Dor? What did she say?"
"She was happy to see me after all these years," Martin said, "but she’s really upset about Lucretia’s death."
"Sad, sad," Bollie replied with a shrug, his tone unapologetic. "Things happen here, but you mos don’t know. You uppity guys always leave us Coloured folk behind. Boere!"
Martin cringes at the statement. He doesn’t see himself as "uppity," but rather as someone who has grown and changed. Yet, he couldn’t shake the feeling that perhaps he no longer fits in here the way he once did. He quickly finishes his drink, making a mental note to visit Nesie and surprise her—it would certainly be a surprise. His mind drifts back to his younger days, when the four of them were inseparable: Nesie, Lucretia (or Lucy, as she was known then), Jimmy, and himself.
He remembers the pleasure of being close to the girls, both emotionally and physically. He had shared moments of intimacy with each of them at different times, as he had once cared for them both—Lucy a bit more than Nesie. Lucy had an extroverted, vivacious energy that translated into fiery, passionate encounters, while Nesie, quieter and more bookish, brought a softer, more tender connection. Yet, each of the girls had something different to offer him, something he couldn’t forget. As for Jimmy, he was never interested in any of it. He was just Jimmy, content with being himself and staying out of the whirlwind of emotions and relationships that the others shared.
Martin leaves the bar and notices another figure lingering at the corner, slouching even more than the first. As he passes, he greets the man, who nods in acknowledgment. It suddenly dawns on him—this is Slange, or Snake as he’s known. His yellowed eyes, the source of his nickname, glint faintly in the dim light.
Neither of them speaks. Slange simply bobs his head and spits on the ground—a nasty habit common among those who indulge in dagga. Martin shakes his head, thinking to himself about how easily diseases spread in this community.
As he continues walking, a shadow suddenly emerges from behind a nearby shack. The glint of a knife catches his eye, and a chill runs down his spine. His body tenses, adrenaline surging as he prepares to react.
"Leave him!" Bollie’s voice booms in Afrikaans, cutting through the night. His black SUV slows as it turns the next street corner. Bollie shouts a warning to the shadowy figure, threatening dire consequences if he lays a hand on Martin.
The would-be attacker hesitates, then backs away sheepishly. Martin exhales deeply, his heart still pounding from the close call. He wonders, not for the first time, if coming back here was a mistake.
Bollie’s laugh echoes through the street as his SUV roars away, leaving Martin standing in the darkness, shaken but unharmed.
Martin heads back home, reflecting on the eventful day. He had crossed paths with a few familiar faces, stirring memories of his past. Yet, the streets were now filled with unfamiliar children and young adults, their energy buzzing in every corner.
He doesn’t recognize them. Their faces, their mannerisms, even the way they carry themselves—it’s all different from the people he once knew. The neighborhood feels the same, yet oddly foreign, as if it has moved on without him.
