The Brace Command

The Brace Command

Kiru Naidoo

After Kumi Naidoo and a few thousand others I think that I am Chatsworth’s most frequent flier.  That brings the very real possibility that I may die in an air crash.  I am not too worried about that.  It’s the events leading up to the crash that bother me.

This morning on an early morning flight out of Jozi I was sandwiched in between the great unwashed.  Those hordes who do the cheap ticket long hauls between New Zealand or some other end of the earth place and Durban via Dubai.  They travel over two or three days all the while avoiding the sniff of a bar of soap.

I am an aisle seat specimen.  I do that for various reasons.   One is that I get my jollies from my arm being repeatedly brushed by hurrying air hostesses.  But the aisle also has the “extra strong” risk.  Those heavily burdened strangers to soap with excess luggage to stuff into the overhead compartment.  They linger longer than most with their overhanging armpits.

Extra strong to the uninitiated comes from that old Chatsworth favourite Wilsons Extra Strong mints which come in the black, white, green and red paper tubes.  Their legend comes from sitting with Chiefs’ supporters from the hostels who raise their arms in unison every time their team scores.  It’s the reason I have always been a Pirates fan. ( I am ready to cross the floor if one of those dishy Motaung girls asks nicely.)   There I go digressing again – taking the N2 when a short left will do.

Let’s call her Janice.  Caucasian parents given their daughters such uninspiring names.  Janice was the partner, biblical or Mickey Mouse Club or both I am not quite sure, to the unwashed Jason in the middle seat next to me.  Caucasian parents err in the same way with their sons.  “Is this your bag?”, she squealed.  I smiled a half second acknowledgement and returned to my nostril defence barrier technique.

Well she got my consent to stuff her furniture over my dainty hold-all.  Janice was in the opposite aisle seat.  “Would I mind swopping?”  I unclipped, unhitched, folded tray table, grabbed newspapers – everything in one samurai manoeuvre to the other side.

And that’s where I met her.  A stranger to both soap and toothpaste.  Mrs Moonian was coming from Sydney.  She was on the same flights with Janice and Jason.  Such a nice couple.  She shared her meal vouchers in Dubai airport with them because she can hardly eat because of her short breath.

She went to help her grand daughter who had a baby but she had to leave after five months because the visa was expiring.  This was her sixth trip.  So nice the place is.  Big garden and no crime. Hardly Africans.  Few Aborigines but not much where they staying.  They got no burglar guards.

Her grand daughter’s husband is accountant.  “Immigrated” because his neighbour in the Mount Edgecombe Golf Estate was hijacked.  So nice townhouse he had to sell for next to nothing.  Now he bought a second house in Sydney which he is giving for rent to one nice Chinese family who can hardly speak English.  They got one teenage child because their country policy like that.

Grand daughter had second baby after fifteen years. Child is so lovely like one doll.  Big great grand daughter wants to be a nurse.  Parents are saying doctor but mind is made up about nurse. “Where you formerly from?”  “You working in Joburg?”  “All our fellas gone that side.”

Grand daughter was a teacher but not working anymore because husband doing so well.  They doing sideline with three pizza shops they bought.  Grand daughter’s husband says one day they will be like Debonairs in Sydney.  One shop they have a Bangladesh manager, another shop a Malaysian girl and another shop his brother is running.  They suspecting the brother is stealing.  Not nice to have connections running business.

Just then the plane hit some turbulence.  I pricked my ears for the brace command.  I have never wanted to put my head between my legs more desperately.