It’s true I live nowhere. I have no face. I’m a bird, an otter, a slice of pizza, a lie. I plant mushrooms in shacks and gather horses from townships. I wander through the naked Karoo in a green shirt and ugly red jersey ‒ I’m a misplaced soccer fan in a valley full of misfits and beggars beating on a broken drum.
Yes, I can see beyond the curved curtain: my hand is on the beach-side railing and the parrot lifts its beak for food. ‘What are you busy with?’ asks the man who climbs in through the window, a broken wing falling over his face. The dog barks as we all stare into the camera.
My eyes are blindfolded, though I know the sky above me is dark blue and thirteen birds fly around my head. The birds are never still, but I remain still ‒ nothing moves in my hemisphere. My nose might be long and pointed, but at no time will any of the birds rest there. My mouth is stitched; I have many secrets to tell, but you will never hear them. Or perhaps one day you will, but not now. For now there is only silence.
The night market is ready to close, with emptying stalls, muttering shopkeepers, kittens playing in turquoise corners. Alleyways lead to nowhere rooms, where strange faces are met with desolate stares. We walk to the moonlit mosque. To the left there is a statue surrounded by police cars. The policemen are brandishing white sheets and laughing. You tell me the wet tongue is broken.