Accidentally on Adderley Street

We stood behind the shattered glass and caught our collective breath.
"Uhm, what's going on?" I ask the woman standing next to me, once the burn in my throat has abated. I knew that there was a protest, but there's always a protest somewhere in Cape Town... I'm not used to this. I'm not used to walking out from the taxi deck and down onto the street and having rows and rows of faces running toward me and forcing me to change my course.
"They're striking," she answers me, after a breath.
"Who is?"
She shrugs in reply.

I have a meeting at the provincial legislature in ten minutes, and I'm stuck behind the spider webs of cracked glass at the Golden Acre entrance on Adderley Street. I push through the small throng gathered at the doors to the security guard who'd pulled them closed as soon as he'd got inside.
"I need to get out," I said.
He shook his head.
"I need to get out," I repeat.
He looks at me like I'm crazy, but cracks open the door and pushes me out, slamming it closed again behind me.

Adderley Street is messy and filled with people and shouts but it's walkable. I can hear people in St George's Mall, and it doesn't sound walkable. Most people are walking and running down towards Strand, getting as much distance between themselves and the group on Wale Street, I suppose. As I walk past the flower-sellers they're upset. Usually they greet me, usually we chat about what's in season and how beautiful it all looks. Usually we laugh. They're pushing and packing and protecting their flowers and all I get is a shout, a warning: "Hold your bag, they'll take it!" The they are coming.

I reach Spin Street and ask someone, "Who is it, who's striking?"
"The people who want housing."
That's right, people. People. People. People. Not theys and thems. 
Someone pushes me and I fall, someone else lifts me up, "Sorry," he says, as he grabs my arm.
"It's not your fault," I smile.
We keep moving.

The provincial legislature is surrounded by people. I slow my pace finally, there is no real movement here, just people standing and sitting and walking. Someone is talking on the steps, some in the crowd respond. I am tempted to stay here and talk and ask questions. But I squeeze through the crowds and am lifted up to the railings on the side of the steps by a man who can't quite seem to work out what I'm doing, but is nonetheless happy to help. The policeman on the otherside of the railings is not. I explain my predicament and he tells me, "Walk round."

As I walk to where the crowd starts to thin I notice the empty NikNak packets rolling and rutting along the pavement and street. Hundreds of bright yellow packets; I can't quite make sense of it. I learn later of the looting and the small vendors who lost their stock. Their stock of empty NikNak packets, rolling and rutting along the pavement and street.