How late is it?" Con asked.
"Late, late," said the taxi driver. "Listen."
A newsreader was speaking to them. A million things were happening out there in the world: scandals and calamities, old lovers reunited, murders foul, great works of art and business. A lioness was moving through the city, she had been spotted in Strand, in Rondebosch, in Gugulethu.
They were seated at the old kitchen table in Woodstock. He'd taken a taxi that morning straight from the airport and found his mother sitting there, reading. It was a quiet scene, and he was visited by equal desires to wake her from her reverie and to keep it intact. Perhaps just sit quietly beside her, pick a book for himself from the shelf. He was intrigued; she'd never been a big reader.
From the bar one could look down and see the cars speeding home along De Waal Drive, and sometimes even a quagga or two romping alongside the wildebeest on the slopes above the highway There was one below them now, standing very still, its stripy zebra half staring out to sea and its pale rump mooning the drinkers at the bar.
"Bloody quaggas," said Amina. "Get all the good press."
Green Lion | 
