Home.

The worst of my jetlag over, I went to visit the Seniors' Club yesterday. I brought my mas some chocolate from my travels, Hershey's Kisses to be specific. Hershey's is about as average as my left toe, but the Kisses are a bit of a novelty so I thought I'd go with them. The women were thrilled. "From America!" they would tell every arriving club member, and "First class chocolate!" Oh America, even in your most average state you're first class aren't you? There was a great debate as to how many individually wrapped Kisses each woman would get, with Ma'Regina and Ma'Ellen proposing extravagance and "saving for a rainy day" respectively. In the end everyone got three to do with what they want, and the rest are to be kept on the shelf under the sink for guests.

I carefully extricated myself from the chocolate distribution debate, and instead started talking about my travels. I'd printed out a couple of photos, mostly of my time in Cambridge, and the mas ooh'ed and aah'ed at the beautiful old buildings and lamented the fact that they would never be able to go there. I never quite know what to say when the difference in our privilege is laid so bare, so I go now with a sincere "Ya, you would love it there: there are so many gardens and trees and places to walk. And lots of churches!" The women nod and smile. We get lost for a moment in our thoughts before Ma'Ellen calls out: "OBAMA!" and we all chorus "OBAMA!" in reply. "I just missed the elections," I tell them, "but I was holding thumbs for Obama." The women agree, they too were praying for an Obama win.

Tabs comes to find me, and is a bit put-out that I didn't come to say hello to her first, so I leave the bungalow and walk with her to the kitchen. She's preparing chicken feet, and I learn a new name for them: amanqina. I've heard of walkie-talkies (when paired with mouth/head parts) and runaways, but not yet amanqina. We practice the click, the "q" is really difficult to get right; it requires a kind of hollow sound that my mouth is just never happy making. Anyway, so she's making amanqina and we chat about what's been going on here, what's been going on at home, and then she asks how I'm doing. "Oh Tabs, we had some trouble in the family, see, my grandpa passed away."
She shakes her head sympathetically and prompts me to go on. We talk about my grandpa, about my mom and her siblings and how my granny is doing. "And the family is well?" she asks me.
"Ag you know Tabs, there are always politics with a passing, but yes, we're all fine."
I'm surprised when she starts laughing.
I leave my post at the amanqina pot and walk over to where she stands at the sink with her hands paused over the washing up: "what now?" I ask her.
"No, no," she chokes out her words between laughs, "I thought it was just us black people who had politics with death, I didn't know it was a thing with white people too!"
I laugh with her.

A week ago, when I was presenting my research during my whistle-stop visit to the California campus that employs me, someone asked me whether I felt that the women at the Wellness Centre had learnt as much about me as I had about them. I'd answered, "yes, I think so" but I hadn't been sure. As Tabby stands laughing, clutching the sink for support now as we enter hysterics about black people and white people and the tragic absurdity of the politics of passing on I'm fairly convinced that yes, such surprise can only indicate learning.

"Oh sisi," she tells me later and reaches out to hold my arm, "I'm sorry about your grandpa"
"Thanks Tabs," I answer, as I feel the gentle pressure and care of her squeeze.

So I'm back. Back in Cape Town, back in Khayelisha, back at work, back at the Wellness Centre. Back with the people who make my Cape Town the epic wonderland that it is.