I like taking the train during the day on a normal weekday. The cabins are mostly empty which means I can get a window seat. There is also more interesting characters to watch coming in and off the train. Most of these unsuspecting victims of my gaze carry what I can only call an adventurous energy; the tourist seating at the edge of their seat in anticipation of the next sight, the father and toddler duo probably headed to grandma’s for that quality time that only a grandmother can give, the tradie wearing the weariness of his last shift in his messy tangled hair. This is a far cry from the early morning commute that carries Sydney’s mostly corporate work force to their day jobs. The energy they permeate is mostly pending doom, like lambs being led to the slaughter.
The train finally makes it to my stop. As I disembark I button up my overcoat bracing myself for the winds of this cold ass winter. Winter has arrived in Sydney and she has the enthusiasm of a child on a sugar high, she’s windy, rainy and has been hogging all the attention. Every conversation I have had up to this point has been laced with commentary on the drop in the degrees on the temperature scale. Frankly the Ugandan in me is over it.
My stop is Newtown, the quirky suburb I am lucky to live in. I tap my opal card on the doors guarding my pathway to the other side. And just like magic they open up leading me up to King street. If ever there was a street monarchy, King street would be king no doubt. He is covered with the glamour of the old colonial style buildings, paying homage to a space and time long gone and now opens up to flow of footsteps of a diverse people. This is one of the few streets in Sydney where I am not the diversity. My footsteps here are a little lighter, devoid of the burden of otherness. I walk with more length in my spine. Unashamedly claiming space and feeling that subtle warm embrace of belonging. I cross the road past the traffic lights, past the “African markets” shop. A hair salon ran by kind faced Nigerian woman who always greets me with a comforting familiarity whenever I pop in to buy some plantain.
I continue my walk past the Newtown neighbourhood center, my hands firmly placed in my overcoat to avoid the cold. As I take in the usual busy of King street, the afternoon sun makes a welcomed appearance. Shyly peering through the clouds, the sun throws her warm blanket over the cold street. Succumbing to the her charm, I slow down then stop. I am no longer in a rush to get home.
I decide to take a detour to blackstar pastry, a popular cafe in Sydney whose rise to fame and notoriety is their absolutely gobsmacking delicious strawberry watermelon cake. There is a decent line at the cafe, mostly tourists, armed with their iPhones, ready to bless the internet with yet another picture of this delicacy. When it’s my turn, I ask to take my cake to go because… sun.
I find a seat in the tiny square sandwiched between the Newtown community centre and the newtown police station, directly opposite the cafe. A perfect spot for both sun consumption and people watching. As I take a bite of the creamy goodness with the sun in my face and not a shred of responsibility on my shoulders, I feel what I can only term as Joy. A feeling of synchronicity and contentment.
I watch as more tourists flock to the cafe to claim their piece of the popular cake. An old lady sitting opposite me has her eyes fixed in the book on her lap. Next to her is a slim blond woman who is sitting on a block of raised concrete in a meditative buddha pose, with her eyes closed and earphones on. To my back is a homeless man sitting in the wide footpath. His back is leaning against a wall and his face is lifted to the heavens, claiming his share of the sun’s warmth. Life’s punches can be traced in the wrinkles covering his face. I start to wonder what his story is, when did life push him into the shadows and make him invisible ?
A couple of police officers walk over to him from the direction of the station. “How much have you had to drink sir”, crumbles of the conversation between the homeless man and a policewoman fall on my eavesdropping ear. I cannot make out what his responses are but I get the gist of the interaction. They want him to move out of the path as its the emergency exit for police cars and fire trucks. He obliges, with a slow pace he stands up and walks out of the way towards an empty bench in the park.
The sun as unexpectedly as she arrived departs, making way for the cold to once again hog everyone’s attention. I take the last bite of my strawberry watermelon cake, button my overcoat again and prepare to make my way down King street to the warmth of a place I call home. I walk past the homeless man and he smiles at me. I look into the depth of his eyes and offer a smile back. I walk home, marinating in the juxtaposition of emotions that are brewing in me, the luck, the privilege, the guilt and the gratitude.
I'll name this later 