It’s the middle of December in a small coastal hamlet along the Garden Route. Two old people are sitting on their veranda. They are South African and call it a stoep.
The man is quiet; the woman talks a lot. The man and the bird don’t always listen as they know what the woman is going to say before she says it. Their names are Obie, Lynn and Tommy Toraco. Behind them is the roar of the Indian Ocean that echoes off the mountain and Afromontane forest that surround them. Nothing could be more lovely, they both think.
