As it was customary Old Lefofa sat brooding on his stoep at no 373 Maunde Street. As the blood stream of cars caressed Maunde Street: Taxi’s honking to beckon people going to the city or elsewhere locally and private cars honking in turn in annoyance of the unpredictable drivers; Old lefofa’s ill kept garden smelled of promise as he touched it with his sense of smell, head bowed by time and knobby wise hands clawed to a walking staff. Yes of course I said staff not stick for the device much served the latter purpose than that of the third leg: below where the time etched sage sat flow another blood stream. An insect sphere – a world of ants. More about the ants in a paragraph below.
Time is a leveler. It reduces everything in its path to beg for its mercy which nay it doesn’t grant. And it is in time that old habits are rooted:
He woke up at five, a timeframe enshrined by working as a guard in one of the Indian owned shops in Marabastad. He worked for an outfitter with a penchant for suspicion. If Moosa was stingy to his workers and partial to his watchman: the old man’s wife sometimes reflects, then he did succeed in giving Old lefofa a very suspicious mind.