In the fish restaurant, all is calm – the Southern

Ocean has given up its harvest. We are dining

on names that once swam in explorers Journals,

now acting out the role of fish and chips or dover sole..

The staff are uproariously attentive. We are flattered

with their jokes, overwhelmed with happiness to be

our friends and guides. Of course, they all are black.

We, and all the other customers, are white.

And this is multi-racial Western Cape,

where Dutch settlers stole the land from Khoikhoi folk,

who got there first. They likely had no concept that land

could be owned, like wives or cattle, and was not there

for every living thing,  man or beast. Now, post-Mandela,

the Cape pretends to harmony and doesn’t notice

Irony. White culture seeks to sell itself as everybody’s

friend -and old relationships Persist in subtler forms

and, true, the food is good, the wine accommodating.

The sacrifice of fish has cast aside the darkness,

emboldened us to walk the streets and feel no fear.