The longer Madala remained in his worried state, the more urgent my curiosity became. This led to a barrage of questions, asked in polite yet searching tones: Were his books ready? How many? Had he managed to find transportation?

Several taxi drivers in our local taxi industry seemingly understood the financial struggles of being a Black South African. And in our instance, the man ceased being a taxi driver and became our brother.

As a boy I recall a slightly greying men patting my shoulders in a paternal embrace. He was my father, back from the "conference", after a few years of absence. As he pecked my forehead, his prickly moustache scraped my skin. My father had returned. However, I was naive enough to think it would be for good.