Chronicles under Nimbus

Throughout my 40 000 kilometre journey under the ‘Shadows of Nimbus’, I’ve met and spoken to many people. Some in large sprawling houses, others in one-room shacks – black, coloured and white. Others were conversations in lazy lounges surrounded by rich purple Bougainvilleas. Or on their front stoeps, constantly interrupted by the incessant chatter of socializing weavers or the piercing screams of the inquisitive Pied Starlings. From time to time, I sat cross-leg on tin boxes in the local shebeen. But several occasions were spent in big wide-open landscapes under the shadow of a tree, sitting in a bakkie, leaning on a Baobab or some type of Accacia tree or just parked under the cool fan of a kitchen.

I listened to their stories. Conversations flowed like the constantly moving Orange River, rich in the local gossip about the scandals of the week. The drunken Volk, who interrupted church prayers one Sunday morning. And for what reason did Auntie Lettie fill her chocolate cake with cotton balls? Why was the Mayor spending time with the council secretary after hours? Was Meneer du Toit house in Roussouw Street, really possessed by the supernatural? Or 92-year-old Oom Kobus Karelse dangerous driving – should he be allowed to drive? He’d already demolished four stoeps and four bakkies? Are diamonds a girl’s best friend, or do they belong to a one-eyed gentleman in Port Nolloth? Endless debates around the Potjie would go on until the late hours, without the need to resolve anything. When I had a moment of peace and tranquillity, I wrote these stories down to share my journey with you.

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