He has always seemed attractive to me, but he is not. Bald and skinny with unreadable thoughts – now here next to me. ‘A surprise’ he said, ‘to see how you are doing’. How forgiving woman are.

The car-radio splutters black rap with bad reception as we are travelling along this desolate red road with the last sun glaring on the windscreen. A treasure – to be alone on this road with him.

If I told you that there have been moments where I swore in passion that my life was dependent on his breath and then 3 minutes later, spent, he would receive a phone call, him whispering ‘I’ll call you later’. Why can’t he talk now, what is this unknown conversation about that I, his wife, cannot hear.

Strange, even now, a couple of years later in my country, the phone rings in his hotel and he again says the same. Maybe it’s a code of someone that always has to know where he is, or maybe he has arranged a surprise for me. It has to be that.

He stops the car to look at the color of the stones on the gravel road, looking for the perfect shape to take to Los Angeles with him. Always looking, stronger legs, rounder stones, smoother blowjobs. We take some pictures as the sun is about to set, the lighting showing off my hair. He kisses me saying ‘whatever happens, know that I love you’. Anxiously looking happy, I get back into the car.

We certainly must have driven 2 hours, there has been no farmhouse, nothing, just a road in this semi-desert beauty, to show him the landscape I grew up in. I rather keep quiet than say something not smart or interesting enough. After all, it’s enough to keep my hands from clenching, concentrate, be cool.

Suddenly on the side of the road, a woman is walking. We stop in complete agreement, this woman needs a ride. She can’t be going very far, probably to the next village.

I jump out and say ‘would you like a ride?’ She speaks no English, but the gesture is understood. ‘Nkosi’ she says with big eyes. She’s a hungry-looking woman, probably in her mid-thirties but looks older wearing a stained dress, men’s socks on very skinny legs, and road colored running shoes. Over the piled on sweaters, a rather fashionable cotton bag that is pregnant with her belongings over her shoulder. With great welcome I move all the wooden bowls and tourist trappings from the back seat and offer her the space.

In this sense of goodwill that fills the car, I give her a box of Belgian chocolates, designer sparkling water and him, how sweet, gives her R50. Generally in life, that should make anybody’s day. She repeats ‘nkosi, nkosi’.

The sound of the beautifully wrapped golden box of chocolates that gets ripped apart with such brutality that I think well, maybe she has never opened a box with ribbons and intricate folds before. I turn to look and I see a mouth stuffed to the brim and a chocolate smile.

Then the smell hits – an acrid, urine not seen water for a while, you know what I mean stench. The man opens all the windows from his multiple button selection. Who are we to judge another human being.

Do you think she is going far I say in the most conversational tone. Probably just the next town, another hour or so. My God, can you imagine how far she has walked, we saw nothing for 30 miles. Poor woman.

She looks out the window as she has always the pleasure of being driven in BMW’s. So comfortable. When I smile at her with thumbs up, are you ok, ‘nkosi’ she says in the most childlike voice.

Not seeing any kind of settlement in sign language ask ‘where are you going?’ Cape Town, she says, Cape Town. A simultaneous freeze goes through the two of us, that is 6 hours from here, and we’re not going all the way. We’re meeting friends for dinner in Paarl. I try to explain Paarl, the nearest town coming up, maybe there? trains, all to the reply, ‘nkosi Cape Town’.

It’s dark outside now going through a mountain range, thin roads snaking through treacherous rocks on both sides. How long do you think she’s been walking, how many days would it have taken her to get this far. She left her village because her husband was cruel, or maybe she has a sick child in Cape Town. Poor woman, I rest my hand on her knee, everything is gonna be okay.

A town consisting of a main road, closed stores and a gas station to which we head for some explanation of this woman’s fate. Smiling, we explain our story to the attendant. ‘Would you ask her where she is going and that we cannot take her all the way”. An exceptionally short exchange and ‘sorry sir, we do not speak her language, she speaks Xhosa.’ Astonished we ask for someone that does, ‘no sir, he’s gone for today’. A kind of gloom befalls the car. We are responsible for her. With utmost urgency she has to get to Cape Town. Very well, we’ll take her to Paarl and put her on a train there.

It’s Sunday night and the highway is packed with racing heavy-duty trucks, we even pass an accident. Keeping my most calm demure after all, doubtful that she has ever driven at this speed before. ‘You’re going to be okay, we’ll put you on a chook-chook to Cape Town. ‘Nkosi, nkosi’.

So far the harrowing drive for 4 hours has been in tense silence. We have to hurry, the restaurant is staying open just for us. Finally the tunnel delivers us to the splendor of Paarl, a sprawling city where used to be just a town making wine. My memories are very fond of living there many years ago. On the cell-phone to get directions the thoughts pass ‘has she ever seen one before, who does she think I’m talking to?

Close to the hotel and restaurant we stop at the gas station to ask directions to train station. Please hurry, we’re late. ‘Oh no, sir, there are no more trains tonight, only tomorrow morning’. Explaining the situation again, this time not smiling and a blessing, someone speaks Xhosa. When addressed she starts behaving like a frightened child arms outstretched as if someone was about to beat her. ‘Yes, she wants to go to Cape Town to find work, no, she does not know anybody there’. Cannot say where she is from.

Suddenly we realize this woman is a homeless and disturbed being, without any knowledge or where she is and certainly no idea what Cape Town holds. We have changed her destiny.

Fine, we’ll take her to the nearest place for her to stay. Only on offer is a 3-star hotel. Nothing in white town, we have to go to the location, which is too dangerous for us to go into. By now, we have several people gathered around the car speaking in heightened tones. A suggestion, ‘sir, take her back where you found her, or the police station.’

By this time I am shouting ‘get her out of the car’, the man shouting at me to keep quiet, gives her another R100, yet the woman stays deeply rooted to the back seat. Insistent, she is going with us.

Screaming, she gets dragged from the car by the attendants. She gets up and walks away without looking back. No nkosi.

Shaken and still fighting we arrive at the restaurant to a sumptuous meal and recommended wine. The other guests must have heard my pleasure giggles right through the night.