The house is a heavyset mock Tudor, an anomaly in the dormitory suburb that supplies workers to the city. I have passed this way many times, always rushing to the next commitment.
One day, I decide to slow down and submit to my curiosity. I pause in front of the house. There are scrap metal sculptures and an old bath full of plants in the yard. The air smells of fynbos, wildflowers, and tree sap.
Sunlight brings out the colours of glass ornaments, pheasant feathers, and dream catchers adorning the front door. A chalkboard advertises coffee and cakes, collectibles and oddities.
The door is open. A cheerful radio jingle drifts from within. I call out an uncertain “hello” and step into the kitchen, where a cast iron oven is colonised by a cluster of biscuit tins, potholders, and mismatched porcelain cups.
Bronze bells tinkle in the wind, jarring me out of my trance. My steps coax dust motes from the wooden floorboards. I’m drawn deeper in by the scent of potpourri, earthy hessian cloth, and freshly brewed coffee. My boot heel pops open a tiny glass ornament.
A miniature Christmas tree bauble, perfectly formed and saved for next season. I rub the dust off the green onion-shaped form, the action taking me on a quick side trip into the past, to my parents’ home, where two green paraffin lanterns used to stand on the display unit in our living room.
I see rows of bohemian clothes with small cardboard price tags. There are signs of dual use: a butter knife with a smudge of fig confit, not yet hardened. A voice interrupts my thoughts.
A woman stands in the doorway, smiling, unbothered by my accidental trespassing. Before I can stammer out an apology, she waves it away, insisting that I stay for liquorice tea. It’s good for digestion and anxiety, she says.
The blades of the miniature windmill groan in the breeze. Geckos dart among the rocks in the indigenous tea garden, where sunlight casts dancing shadows through the shade cloth.
Lily introduces me to her partner, Arno. He exchanges a few words before returning to his project. He is filling a shallow cement pond with water and rocks, a new home for the golden koi fish waiting in a portable aquarium.
Arno and Lily are Belgian artists who settled in South Africa shortly after the first democratic elections in 1994. They host live music events to sustain their business, which spans permaculture, sustainable tourism, and ecologically sound subsistence gardening.
As we walk through the garden, Lily crushes lavender between her fingers and presses it into my palm. The scent releases something deep in me, tying this moment to another garden, another time. A friend now gone.
She leaves me to explore while she prepares coffee. At the heart of the garden lies an unexpected gem. A stone labyrinth, its circular path traced in smooth grey rocks.
Thick hedges shield it from the world. In this unexpected pocket of solitude, I watch the ants at work. Crickets screech an insistent chorus, drowning out the traffic noise.
I near the centre of the labyrinth. The ground beneath me is bare earth, simple, unassuming.
My mind fills with thoughts of uprooting, transplanting, growth, and belonging. It’s time for me to plant my own spekboom, time to thrive. I realise that I cannot do it alone.
Kneeling, I dig my fingers into the soil. It crumbles, warm and alive, a secret world beneath my hands. I rise and follow the scent of coffee.
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