The Liberation Of Angelo, Angel Oh, Angel Low and the shoes
THE · A · II · HAZE · Oo · O2 · DUE · TRI
Cape Town, South Africa
[ZEF]
2014-02-15 –
moh*men'tss of today
»Where is your shoes?« he asks.
He is one of those guys who work on the streets downtown of Cape Town to give the anxious people a feeling of safety and ›everything-is-under-control‹. I smile and point at my bag. He smiles. »Ah.« He points at me and says »You walk like Moses.« I look at him, because i thought i would be just walking on my bare feet. »You know Moses?« For a split second i am about to make a joke like ›yeah, sure, wanna have his cellphone number?‹, but due to his serious attempt of making a conversation i just confirm »Yes.«
»What's your name?« he keeps asking. »Lucas. What's yours?« »Angelo.« I ask again, just to make sure: »Angel?« – »Angelo, i am Italian.« He touches my chest at the place where my heart is with an honest touch and continues »I can see, you are a man with heart, i have to work here until midnight, i am hungry, could you help me out with two Rand to buy some food?«
For the first time in days i feel actually happy and willing to give something. As soon as he realizes it – and the fact, that my hand starts digging inside of my bag for the wallet, his voice lifts up »or 5 Rand«, »Jaja« i say, laughing »100 Rand« — »Nono« he says, »5 Rand to buy some food … I don't drink alcohol, i don't smoke…« he continues. Right then a small portion of disgust rises inside of me. My hand immediatly stops digging. »Sorry man, you just lied. — I can smell that you drink.« »Nooo« he looks at me with wide ope eyes »i don't drink.« – »Sorry, man« i repeat while starting to turn away from him, »i can smell the alcohol.«
With kind of a panic and helpless gesture he tears and smells on his shirt around his left shoulder, as if it must have been his shirt or something…
We look into each others eyes intensivley while i start walking away. His look seems to contain every possible emotion there is, and, amongst it, a big portion of disbelief.
|