A freezing winter's morning broke in Cape Town. Wind subsided, the sun shone shyly. I was about to take a walk to the colourful Observatory craft market to creatively browse, a Saturday morning ritual, when Mxolisi ‘the forgiver’ or Michael as he called himself, knocked loudly on my heavy, Oregon pine front door - a door yet to be disfigured by cold, steel, Trellidor security gates, clanging closure on white paranoia.

Mxolisi had a distinctive, persistent knock - demanding for someone who lived off the kindness of others! Loud knuckle-knocking and shiny brass bell ringing all at once, his presence was announced.

‘Hey, kunjani man, how you doing today? Just look at this …’ Mxolisi said, removing his bright orange, knitted cap from his Vaseline varnished shaven head, revealing a deep, stitched gash.

‘Those buggers stabbed me coz I’m with a Coloured woman, ek sê. I’ve got stitches, man. Ndiphantse ndafa. They left me for dead. No-one gives a damn anymore. Now I need money to pay for proper medicine. The clinic's got nothing – only Panado for the pain. Hey, kunzima – it's tough out there.’

‘Why don't you get a job, Mike – there's the RDP. Maybe you can even sell Laduma lottery tickets.’

‘Don't talk to me about that Reconstruction and Development Plan,’ Mxolisi reiterated abruptly. ‘There's no plan - what's that? Those RDP houses are already crumbling to powder. The election's come and gone, brother. Now it's you and me – black and white, we must look after one another. I’ve my wife. If you give me something, I give it to her so she can make food. I must support her you know.’

‘But you like to party, Mike. If you get drunk you’ll get beaten up again. Why do you drink?’ I asked inquisitively.

‘It's my friends, brother. Some of them work and then - you know, we go to shebeens …’

By this time we’d settled down on the stone clad front steps. Mxolisi believed in leisurely discussion as part of his economic empowerment policy. Drunk with freedom, the country tottered forward, tears of joy, sorrow, brandy, beer, battery, abuse, pillage and pain, surrounded the hand hewn steps where we sat, moving up one street and silently down another, spreading discontent.