Adam Fletcher - Dont Come Back

T here are few things as wonderful as being greeted at arrivals by a sign with your name on it. It tells everyoneliterally and figurativelythat you have arrived. More than that, it informs them youre a sign-worthy human. It makes you feel like a million dollars, but costs about thirty.

Howzit? the man holding my sign asked.

Hows what?

Hows... it?

Hows it what?

Follow me.

I was in Johannesburg, or Joburg, as its people call it. A city that divides the critics: not between lovers and haters, but merely in the intensity with which everyone hates it.

Not that I had a problem with places people hated. In fact, I took pride in my ability to find pleasure shivering outside a bleak Soviet Bloc high-rise, waiting for a man who smells of vodka-soaked cabbage to drive me to unmarked graves in the woods. While South Africa wasnt exactly Turkmenistan or Saudi Arabia, it was officially the most unequal society on earth; Johannesburg had one of its highest murder rates; Jacob Zumas presidency was tottering on the cliff edge of public acceptability; and less than thirty years ago, its white elite were still refusing to share water fountains, bus seats, and the countrys abundant natural resources with their darker-skinned compatriots.

I had seven weeks to try to understand it.

Business or pleasure? my driver asked, as we exited the car park.

Ive never really understood that question. I mean, even grave robbers must find some kind of pleasure in their business, right?

Grave robbers?

Yeah. Theyre outdoors in the fresh air. Theyre meeting peoplemostly dead people, sure, but theyre still getting to know them, kind of. All jobs mix business and pleasure, dont they?

He chuckled. Im not sure driving in Joburg does.

The traffic is that bad?

Its worse.

Youd rather be a grave robber?

He winced. Bad back.

Well, in answer to your question, mostly pleasure. I neglected to mention the humiliation Id suffer in six weeks time, when I had to deliver a keynote talk, which I hadnt written, in German, a language I barely spoke.

We left the gritty urban highways around the airport and entered a leafy suburb. The homes retreated from the curb behind intimidatingly large walls and fences plastered with the signs of the private security companies tasked with protecting them. From the car, I could glimpse a bit of a roof, or the top third of an upstairs window, but not much more.

I was being teased, architecturally.

High fences, I said.

Yes. Same everywhere. Makes it hard to tell the areas apart. The only parts of the properties brave enough to confront the road were electronic garage doors, presumably because they could be opened remotely. The driver dropped me off in front of a double garage painted chestnut brown. Shall I wait?

Why? Then I remembered. I was on the street, albeit in a nice neighbourhood in the daytime. Ill be fine.

I rang a bell on the gate. The response was a compendium of clicking, clacking, and unbolting as an arsenal of home security was made inert. Eventually, the door opened to reveal John, a man in his thirties with sandy brown hair and a relaxed posture wearing board shorts and flip-flops. He looked like a man whose feathers were seldom ruffled and whose hands were happiest when relaxing in the pockets of his shorts.

Adam?

The one and... I faded out, losing confidence in the joke. Id been losing confidence in a lot of my jokes lately. Well, actually, there are loads. But Im your one. Yes.

Come in.

A cat ran up to greet me. I reached down to pet it, and it ran away in the manner of every cat ever. Thats Fred, said John, beginning the arduous task of relocking the gates various deadbolts. Always keep this gate shut.

For the cat?

No, brah, for the criminals.

The narrow alley behind the garage opened into a manicured garden that circled the house, gift-wrapping it in greenery. Were these the servants quarters? I asked, as John unlocked the door to the single-storey home Id rented in the back garden.

Yeeep. The South African e is a greedy little vowel, unwilling to share the limelight with its neighbours.

Ill probably take a walk around, try to find somewhere to eat.

Is it.

I frowned. The taxi driver also answered everything with is it.

You dont use that in England?

Nope.

We use it in every sentence. He laughed. It just means really.

Is it.

He winked. Nice one.

Im a fast learner.

Is it.

No, actually. Im a slow learner. Ive never been able to learn some things. My eyes swivelled in their sockets. Chess, foreign languages, the capital of Brunei.

Well, here, you only need to learn one thing anywayif you go out after dark, always take an Uber. Sometimes in the day, too, depending on where youre going.

Come on. Really? In the daytime? People feared the dark here so much I was wondering if the city had been the inspiration for M Night Shyamalans The Village.

Yep.

Just to walk down the block?

Down the block is okay. Downtown is not. Nowhere is okay after dark.

The next morning, I woke up from the nap Id never intended to take, having decided to lay briefly down and test the softness of the bed. Cats tease, beds deliver. I looked at my phone: 8am. I knew I should get up and explore.

But I was in bed.

I was comfortable.

I had Internet and food.

I rolled over and closed my eyes.

Guilt snapped them back open. In the previous month in Berlin, Id barely ventured outside.

The term adventurous is used as if its absolute rather than relative. Yet, in the trembling hands of the recluse, nipping to the shop for a Mars bar might require more adrenaline than a mountaineer needs to summit a snow-capped peak. Not that I was a recluse. Id just been doing a fine impression of one. I was also eating a lot of Mars bars, but that wasnt new. And unquestioningly the fault of Mars bars. For existing.

I couldnt keep doing the same things. What had Einstein said? The definition of stupidity is... forgetting the ending of the Einstein quote about stupidity?

Something had to change. In fact, something already had: I was in a new country. It was time to get up and salsa with the new. I sighed, picked up the phone, and made a call. A deep female voice connected. Hey there.

Hello. Is this Amahle?

Sure it is, sugar.

Erm... I said, thrown off by the friendliness of the tone. Im looking for someone to take me on a Soweto tour. Amahle was a guide whod been recommended by a friend back in Berlin.

Mmhm, then Im your woman. When?

Today?

Honey, today already started. Planning was not my forte. Fortes were not my forte. Im taking two Americans today. You want to join or you prefer a