african night skies

Flashes come back to me now. It happened that same night.

When bright, distinct, fashion colours of the eighties ruled. Turquoise, yellows and purples, worn by attractive suntanned ladies, who sparkled and glowed in loud, gold and black creations, overshadowing even the candlelight.

I was back at the dance held in the Globe, the night when Fiona called out to me, as she beckoned from the end of the table without lifting a hand nor even an eyelid. Oh to be able to do it all over again, start from that night, and get it right this time.

The Globe had been one of the first buildings there, before the rest of the insufferable humans came along wanting to make money and ruin the environment. It stood amongst the Natal foliage beside Cascades lake, where the original owners were probably buried in a tiny churchyard next to the scout hall. Green lush undergrowth of ferns and grasses still slope down to the waters’ edge beside the hotel, with an abundance of natural willows and gay frangipani trees.

Ah, flowers; Fiona loved to float these little waxy ones as a table arrangement. The hard, proud strelitzia was not a much-loved bloom of hers. But her favourite flower of all , which she would look out for when the nights turned nippy at the first signs of autumn, was the wild pink and white cosmos.
As we drove out of town and she would beg me to pull over so that she could pick a little bunch. She called these daisy-like flowers ‘her tranquillity’, and as she walked amongst them, she would have a look of total peace about her, impenetrable.

They came up every year on the verges around the grave yard too.

After the dance, I chose to leave everything behind me, but too, everything I had ever wanted in life? Part of me wondered whether I had said enough to Fiona, another part knew it was ordained and our moment would come.

It was five hundred miles to Johannesburg, the black night sky, showered in stars surrounded me, like a protector and welcome companion. I had to get to the main road, find an open petrol station and then the bakkie knew the way.

I needed time alone.


About liz2you

Life just happens when you plan something else. 50 years spent in Africa and relevant stories.
This entry was posted in Africa, Emotion, Life, writing and tagged , . Bookmark the permalink.

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