KASHIEFA AJAM

I WROTE a version of this story a while ago. Nothing’s changed – except I have entered my forties, my son is a tween and I write this as I cling to power (quite literally) waiting for my round of load shedding to end.

I am what you may call a proverbial breyani. After all, which other dish requires more ingredients than a scrumptious pot of this yellow rice favourite?

Just like breyani, with its oriental flavour, I am made up of a little of everything: Chinese, Arab, Persian, Malaysian, black and probably even white.

But here in South Africa, I am coloured, Cape coloured. Muslim. I couldn’t be more proud.

But I am unsure whether coloured people actually have a heritage. It just isn’t as clear as being Indian or Zulu.

I’ve lived in wonderful, cosmopolitan Joburg since 2004, and still I don’t really identify with very many people here.

I am Capetonian. I still have that accent. You know the one.

Which other group of people would stand right across from you and utter the words “Wat lewe jy nog?” (Are you still alive?)

I miss hearing unwelcome statements such as “Jy raak lekker vet, ne! Jy was anner dag so maer.” (You’ve put on some weight. You used to be so skinny.) But then stuffing my mouth with a masala steak gatsby to soothe the hurt.

I miss the family beach outings on Boxing Day, the Easter camping trips, the switching-on of the liggies (lights) in Adderley Street in the city centre during the festive season, the spirit of community at Eid and Christmas time.

Hell, I even miss the loud Kaapse Klopse (the Cape minstrels) with their multicoloured outfits, painted faces and interesting remixes of popular pop songs.

We may not have a clear-cut heritage, but we certainly do have a rich history and wonderful traditions that make us inordinately unique.

And so I will marinade the meat and make potato salad for the braai. Because frankly, there probably won’t be electricity anyway.

Ajam is the editor