Wednesday morning. My head’s throbbing like Economic Freedom Fighters leader Julius Malema’s nuts after the pounding the party took last week.
Durban is its usual furnace. The air hasn’t moved since about Saturday. The sweat’s forming a liquid curtain across my eyebrows as it pours off my bald dome. I’ve got shoes, jeans and a shirt on because I’m meeting lahnees today, so my thermostat has blown and I’m drowning in my own liquid emissions.