Helen Walne’s Human League

I drove on my brother. I walked on my brother. I spoke to a cop on my brother. I kicked a Coke can on my brother. I watched a man sleeping like a run-over crow.

Earlier, I’d done Durban to death.

First, I whizzed down water slides at uShaka, shivering in the early-morning breeze. As the hours ticked past, the park filled up. Children clutched adult hands as they queued for the Jika-Jika (Family Rafter).

After a 15-minute wait at the hot dog cart, my nieces gobbled down their lunch, smothered in mustard and tomato sauce.

“Look,” said the little one, poking the vienna. “Pus and blood.”

A group of teenage girls – brown, black, white, pink – shrieked past in bikinis and sarongs. They looked like the UN. On holiday.

After four hours, we’d had enough of chlorine and sharks. It was time to hit the ice rink – literally.

While my nieces – and everyone else – raced across the ice, I fell three times. But so did the guy in the cap. As we inched our way around the perimeter, clutching on to the wooden bar, he pointed at his girlfriend gliding effortlessly from corner to corner.

“I told her a brother doesn’t ice-skate. I grew up in the Berg. All we had were cows. She’s from Durban and had rollerblades.”

We spent the next two hours windmilling our arms and snorting with laughter. By the end we triumphantly wobbled together across the width of the rink.

Next, I sat on the new promenade, watching my nieces tangle their kites in the air; watching the holiday folk soak up the sun.

Two elderly Indian men sat on the grass in deck chairs and shared a flask of coffee. They tilted their heads back and watched as the yellow kite hovered and then nosedived into a nearby soccer game. They smiled at my niece as she shyly retrieved the kite from a sweaty black boy about her age.

Two okes sauntered past, their flip-flops making lazy schoomp-schoomp noises. A tattoo covered the arm of one of them: a phoenix snaking its way through playing cards and dice. Luck. Resurrection. Out on the beach, a woman in a beige bra lolled in the shallows.

On our way home, I took a detour and drove down Richard Walne Road. My brother, a musician, died four years ago and during its controversial street renaming, the municipality named a road after him.

We pulled over and the girls held my hands as we walked on the tarmac. “It’s kind of like we’re walking on Dad,” said the little one. We kicked a can. A policeman greeted us. A tramp slept in the undergrowth.

After my weekend in Durban, and with Freedom Day tomorrow, I am left with two thoughts: we have come so far; we are adrift.

On the surface at least, most South Africans are quietly getting on with getting along. On the beaches, on the streets, on the ice, on the slides, there was a feeling of acceptance and respect. Exchanges were often warm and interactions were energetic. Even though it’s been 17 years since the birth of our democracy, we’re still new at it. We will make mistakes. We keep trying.

However, when I drove down my brother’s road, something felt off. While seeing his name in big black letters makes me proud, I can’t help feeling that just as many people won’t know who Khuzimphi Shezi is (the name given to Williem Road); many won’t have a clue about my brother. But at least the council spelt his name correctly. Activist Lena Ahrens, whose name was given to Manning Road, appears on signposts as “Lina Arendse” – yet another example of the sloppiness with which the municipality approached the process.

And there’s the rub.

While most ordinary South Africans strive to uphold and extend the freedom that was bravely won, our leaders seem to view it as a plaything; something they can exhibit and trade. They make decisions according to political whim rather than the interests of the people. They bicker and squabble. And all the while, the gap between leadership and nation widens. The chasm grows bigger. Things fall in: luck, resurrection.

It feels as though we’re at a crossroads. The signposts read: “Reality Road” and “Gravy Lane”. And along each one, the hopeless lie on the verges; the roofs of the houses are caved in.

[email protected]; Twitter: @walnehelen