I.

Park Station (Where the Performance Begins)

I stepped off the bus pretending I wasn't fleeing.

The lie held for approximately forty seconds.

Then a man selling phone chargers looked at me and said:
"Eish, bhuti. You look lost."

I wasn't lost.
I knew exactly where I was.
I just didn't know how to be there yet.

"Sharp," I said.

He frowned.
"You sure?"

I nodded.
He shook his head.
I nodded again.

This exchange taught me something important:
Johannesburg can smell uncertainty.

The security guard watched me walk through the station
like a man who'd just learned what knees were.

I tightened my grip on my suitcase.
It was swollen.
Heavy.
Still carrying Cape Town inside it.

II.

The Suitcase (Evidence of Defeat)

Let me tell you about the suitcase.

It wasn't just luggage.
It was a crime scene.

Inside:

• — Clothes I'd worn to a job I no longer had
• — A khaki journalist vest I couldn't look at without crying
• — Notebooks filled with unfinished manifestos
• — Printouts of articles I'd written that no one read
• — A copy of Wretched of the Earth I'd bought to seem serious
• — Boxer shorts I'd packed in a state of emotional collapse

The zipper had nearly given up.
I'd had to sit on the case to close it.
The vest had resisted like it knew something I didn't.

Now I was dragging this thing through Johannesburg
like a man being followed by his own funeral.

III.

My Mother's Voice (Always Correct, Always Unwelcome)

My mother called the night before I left Cape Town.

"So you're running away."

"I'm relocating," I said.

"Modise, you were fired."

"It was ideological differences."

She laughed.
Not a supportive laugh.
A diagnostic laugh.

"You think Johannesburg will be different?
You'll still be you when you get there."

I wanted to argue.
But she was right.
She's always right.
Which is why I stopped answering her calls.

Now, standing in Park Station with my illegal suitcase,
her voice returned:

"You'll still be you when you get there."

I looked down at my body.
Unfortunately, she was correct.

IV.

The Taxi Rank (A Linguistic Disaster)

I needed to get to Braamfontein.

A taxi driver shouted: "Bree! Bree! Bree!"

I approached.

"Braamfontein?" I asked.

He looked at me like I'd just done something illegal.

"Yes, Bree. Get in."

I climbed in.
Sat down.
The man next to me was eating a vetkoek at 11 AM.
Not judging.
Just noting.

The driver pulled into traffic with the confidence of a man
who believes speed limits are suggestions.

He looked at me in the rearview mirror.

"You're not from here."

"I'm from Cape Town," I said.

"Ah."

That "Ah" contained a full analysis.

V.

Braamfontein (The City Tests Me Immediately)

The taxi dropped me on Jorrissen Street.

I stood there holding my suitcase like a child holding a balloon.

People moved with purpose.
I moved like a buffering video.

A woman walked past and said:
"Sawubona."

I panicked and replied:
"Yes, thank you."

She stopped.
Looked back.
Shook her head.
Kept walking.

I opened my notebook and wrote:
"Day 1: Language failure."

A man selling sunglasses called out:
"Boss! You need protection!"

"From what?" I asked.

He gestured at everything.

Fair.

VI.

The Flat (Where Delusion Meets Infrastructure)

My flat was in Parktown North.
One bedroom.
Prepaid electricity.
A shower that worked on a philosophical basis:
sometimes yes, sometimes no, sometimes only cold to build character.

I unpacked the suitcase.

The khaki vest emerged.
I looked at it.
It looked back.

I shoved it into the bottom drawer
like evidence I wasn't ready to face yet.

I sat on the bed.

The room was quiet.
Too quiet.

I could hear myself breathing.
I could hear myself thinking.
I could hear the exact moment I realized:

I had no job.
No plan.
No friends in this city.
Just theories and a suitcase full of clothes
that smelled like failure.

VII.

Woolworths (The First Breakdown)

I needed groceries.

Simple.
Functional.
A task even I couldn't ruin.

I walked into Woolworths with misplaced confidence.

The lights were too bright.
The aisles were too organized.
Everything felt like a test.

I needed bread.

But which bread?

White?
Brown?
Low-GI?
Seed-loaf?

Each loaf represented a version of myself I wasn't sure I could afford.

I stood there too long.

A woman reached past me for sourdough.

I stepped aside like I was dodging a bullet.

Then I said:
"After you, madam."

In an accent that didn't belong to me.

She looked concerned.

VIII.

The Avocado Incident (A Quiet Humiliation)

In the produce section, I picked up an avocado.

Tested it for ripeness.

Then whispered:
"Land redistribution begins here."

A white couple two metres away abandoned their trolley.

I looked down at the avocado in my hand.

What was I doing?

I put it back.
Picked up a banana instead.
Safer.
Less political.

At the checkout, the cashier asked:
"How are you today?"

"Transitioning," I said.

She blinked.

"Pardon?"

"Fine," I corrected.
"I'm fine."

She processed my payment in silence.

I left with one loaf of bread, three bananas, and the growing certainty
that I had no idea how to be a person anymore.

IX.

The First Night (Alone with the Theory)

That night, I sat at my desk.

Opened my notebook.

Wrote:
"Johannesburg is a laboratory for my rebirth."

Paused.

Crossed it out.

Wrote:
"Johannesburg is a place where I will either rebuild or dissolve."

Read it back.

Too dramatic.

Tried again:
"I am here. That is enough for now."

Closed the notebook.

Outside, the city hummed.

Taxis honked.
People shouted.
Life continued without asking my permission.

I lay on the bed.

Stared at the ceiling.

Tomorrow, I would try again.
I would walk better.
Talk better.
Buy groceries without alarming strangers.

I would become the version of myself
I kept promising I was working toward.

But tonight—

Tonight I was just a man in a strange city
with a suitcase full of shame
and a vest he couldn't throw away.