Nelson's takkies. (Sneakers)

Whenever someone from my family visits us in the US, there is always a trip to the outlet mall for a great pair of state-of-the-art brand new takkies, size eleven.


They are for Nelson.

Nelson has been my mother's gardener for thirty years. He was not much more than a child when he started working for my family. He loves the earth. He is patient and nurturing, and still trims the hedge which is now 8 feet tall. He clips each little errant bud with the concentration and precision of a surgeon. He rubs the earth between his fingers slowly, and tells me he can smell the life in it. He moves quietly and rhythmically, with the sun. He rakes slowly, weeds with care, plants gently, speaks little.

And runs like the wind.

At first, barefoot, to catch the bus home at the top of the hill. Then, to avoid the tsotsis in the dangerous parts of the township, who would try to corner him and take his Friday paycheck. Then one day, alongside my neighbor, Edward, a lanky middle-aged British plastic surgeon, training for a marathon.

For at least ten years now, Nelson has run the Comrades Marathon every year. Every year he wins a prize. He still trains with Edward. And every year he sports a brand new pair of takkies from the USA.
He calls them his lucky charm, and feels blessed.