My dear Sisters,
The city has surrendered itself entirely to rain. It does not fall so much as persist—an unrelenting seepage into walls, into wood, into the very temperament of things. The houses appear to hold it within themselves now; one sees the damp before one steps inside, as though the structures have taken to exhibition. Even the door to my lodgings refuses its duty—it will not close, swollen with the season. Such is the stage we have reached.
I cannot recall an autumn in Gauteng so cold, so insistently wet. It carries the temperament of a June elsewhere—some greyer, more restrained country, where the sun is spoken of rather than seen. I find myself wondering about home. Tell me, are the mountains in Lesotho glistening still, their sides undone by streams? Does the land there also feel as though it is silently weeping?
This morning I woke in a state of some exhaustion. I have been running more than I had intended—beyond reason, perhaps. My toes, I must admit, are not what they once were. They have lost something of their former brightness, and my favourite running shoes have taken to developing holes, worn my miles and insistence—an indignity I suspect neither of us deserved. Yesterday, climbing the hills of Northcliff, my heart rose to such a pitch that I thought it might abandon me.
There was no electricity at dawn, and yet, as I stood beneath the shower preparing for the library in Parkview, it returned with an almost theatrical timing, as though the city itself were toying with me. Work occupies me entirely, though it has yet to yield anything so vulgar as payment. My hours have grown irregular. Sleep arriving at five, departing at nine, as though it too were uncertain of its commitments. At times, I entertain the grim notion that I shall become one of those artists whose work is only properly regarded once they are no longer here to see it. It is a tedious fantasy, and I do not wholly believe it. Not in my case, I think.
The novel—yes, that stubborn creature—is nearly finished. I had imagined I might complete it in three months; we now approach five. Still, I feel we are moving, if not swiftly, then with a certain inevitability. I wonder, idly, who will read it. You, I suppose, though I am not unaware that reading has never been the chief pastime among you. Even so, one writes with some hope.
Mama has written to me—she requires money for house repairs come April. I shall see what can be managed. And you, what occupies your days now? I imagine Katty and ’Mita remain consumed by their work, while Mow continues, as ever, to live rather splendidly. Ree, I am told, has taken to motherhood—a son, no less. It is a strange thing, how swiftly time rearranges us. It seems only yesterday we were gathered at Christmas in those white costumes Mow designed thoughtfully at the last minute, and now five years have slipped by without so much as an apology. Lee, I trust, is preparing for her final examinations with due seriousness, and the teacher, Pippah, is sharpening the future’s brightest minds.
My days here are composed of small, repetitive acts: I read, I write, I observe. Occasionally, I speak with a stranger. I tend to the cat, clean her litter box, wash the dishes, and prepare supper. In the evenings, I walk with Anja as she exercises her dog, Sophie, around the park. There is a rhythm to it all, though not an altogether comforting one.
Earlier this month, I visited Alexandra township for the first time. One is struck immediately by a certain stripping away of dignity, something difficult to articulate without sounding severe. Not long after, I found myself in Hawick, in KwaZulu-Natal, in the company of Malcolm. To move between such places in so short a span unsettles the spirit. One feels, quite at once, grateful and resentful, fortunate and deprived. It is a most disorienting condition, as though one were being pulled in opposing directions by invisible hands.
I am to travel to Cape Town in April for editorial work. I approach it with a seriousness that borders on the absurd, given that it does not yet pay. Still, I hold to the belief that it will, eventually, and perhaps even handsomely. There are moments, I confess, when I feel myself part of some peculiar fraternity of artists—working endlessly, producing diligently, and yet receiving nothing in return but the work itself. It is a most disagreeable arrangement. And yet—I persist.
Do write when you are able. I find I miss you all in ways that are not always immediately apparent, but deeply felt, nonetheless.
Your brother,
Rapelang
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