Doctor Who_ The Also People - Ben Aaronovitch [55]
After all, Roz was certain that she was the only pure-blood African around.
She reached the edge of the sea and stood for a moment to watch the breakers. The incoming tide was slowly obliterating a trail of footprints in the sand. 'Woman Friday,' said Roz, thinking of the classic vid starring Robert Roundtree and Peter O'Toole. She should ask Bernice about that one, late twentieth century trivia being Benny's favourite obsession.
She was beginning to sweat. It was getting hot again and the dunes had been heavy-going, even with the soft-soled pumps Benny had left out for her. The water looked very cool and inviting. Ngizadada ngomso, she thought, quoting her grandmother – I will swim tomorrow. Today I work under a clear sky – Namhlanje ngiyasebenza ngaphansi izulu elizolileyo.
Umakhulu had also tried to teach her the proper walk of a woman. Goddess, she'd spent hours with a videobook balanced on her head while her mama lamented and asked the ancestors how she could have borne such a graceless child. The walk came back to Roz there on the beach, the slow steady distance-eating steps from the days when a woman might travel half the morning to fetch water. Days that her grandmother, born and raised at the Io Kraal, could no more remember than Roz could.
But it was practical when walking under the hot sun.
SaRa!qava's extended family came stampeding down for breakfast with all the decorum of a herd of elephants arriving at the last waterhole before the drought. The adolescents descended first, long-limbed and awkward as they walked through Bernice's floating screens and issued breakfast orders in over-loud voices. A squadron of toddlers flew down the connecting stairs, joining Smelly in her random orbits amongst the baking bread. Young adults, all of whom had been to the party the night before, crept in one by one and started looking for hangover cures. Bernice was secretly pleased to find that saRa!qava was sometimes forced to yell at her children just like any normal mother. In the end sheer weight of numbers forced Bernice and saRa!qava out of the kitchen and into the street. It took some outrageous bribery to get Smelly to relinquish her grip on the terminal. God insisted that it was going to be another glorious day and so they walked down to the esplanade. As they walked the datascreens lined up behind them like obedient children, an oxymoron saRa!qava insisted upon, and followed along, their images unwavering and clear even in the bright sunshine.
They chose a bistro at the western end of the esplanade where they had a clear view of the harbour. The tide had come in, the sea covering the pebble beach and floating the disparate collection of boats. Despite this the painter Bernice had seen the day before was still hard at work, standing calf-deep in the water as he patched up his mural. Bernice asked saRa!qava who he was and whether he ever stopped.
'Oh, that's just beRut,' said saRa!qava, 'and he's been working on that ugly thing of his for years. He almost had it finished last month but a micro tsunami washed bits of it off.'
'Hasn't anyone told him he can't paint?'
SaRa!qava frowned. The question had obviously never occurred to her. 'I doubt it,' she said.
'He's not annoying anyone and he's not exactly the most communicative person in the world.'
There were other people on the esplanade, out walking or sitting at the tables set out in front of the restaurants. Although saRa!qava admitted that you could order identical refreshments in any establishment in the sphere she was adamant that each place had its own atmosphere.
Shouts and laughter came from the harbour where a group of teenagers were preparing one of the ocean-going