Tiny Urban Traces

By Adriaan Bester

IT WAS on a Tuesday afternoon, waiting for my turn at the Engen station in Sea Point, when the idea resurfaced.

At more or less the same speed that a lit cigarette butt dropped from the SUV in front of me, I articulated my brain spark in short breaths: Get. Me. Out. Of. Here.

It was summer, and we were trapped in tiny capsules some innocent inches above a petrol tank that, at least in my imagination, could mushroom us over Lion’s Head at any moment.

The grip of the consumer trap I urged to break free from was as strong as the hand on my gear stick that reversed me out of near disaster, heading for a scratch pad to plan my alternatives, now unfolding in a clear, yet racing mind.

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