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Palm Sunday

I go walking in the morning. I cross the railway line that runs alongside the road I live on and then I walk up a road and further up still. The joy of living in certain parts of Cape Town is surely that your eyes can clap the mountain, smack against it so much that it becomes normal. I chase the brightness, only turning down streets anointed by the Sunday sun. It’s quiet to walk alone at 8am, to wander. I wanted a long walk so that my legs could amble and my thoughts do the same. It’s a lonely task though, no dog on a leash, no fellow biker in tandem, just me. En route back I hear something strident, wait a moment, and suddenly I am standing in front of ten or so elderly gentlemen blowing into their saxophones and horns. All blowing heavily except one with a larger belly than the others, he doesn’t blow, his instrument hangs round his neck and he smiles, out of breath but content. Palm Sunday I think, studying the red breasted jackets of the musicians and the congregation of men, women and children following behind. The memorable story of that one-time arrival. I pause my walk to watch them pass, some form of respect mixed with wonder. A man breaks from the line and hands me a palm leaf folded into the shape of a cross which I accept. I envy them for a while. Envy the comfort of congregation, of belonging. Me on my solitary walk with my one-person’s problems, I envy them the weight of a world of sinners. They pass and I walk on. It’s a happy morning, really, and the sun keeps getting hotter.

  1. April 1, 2012 at 10:23 pm

    Enjoyed your post. Thanks for sharing.

    • April 2, 2012 at 5:32 pm

      Thanks for reading, Jeremy. I visited your blog, more men should too!!

    • May 23, 2012 at 5:52 pm


  2. Rolette
    April 2, 2012 at 7:18 am

    Oh Yewande, this really touched me so deep. In fact it felt like you took my thoughts and tuned it into words!

  3. April 2, 2012 at 5:32 pm

    Thanks Rolette!

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