There is an enclosed garden outside my bedroom window. Surrounded by an eight-foot ivy-covered wall, the space measures eight paces deep by twenty wide. Miniature agapanthus appear in December and bright orange clivia bloom for my birthday in January’s heat. When I divorced five years ago, I transplanted their bulbs from the home I left behind.
A scattering of arum lilies grows around a birdbath that I bought with my settlement. At the time it was an essential item, something to ground me in the new place, an icon on which my jittery spirit could focus. A month later, I acquired the indigo bearded irises that grow beside the mossy ornamental path.
I discovered the bearded iris bulbs flying through the air while on one of my morning walks. They were being tossed over a high wall and landed in sprays of moist earth on a pile of rubble. A refuse removal truck would arrive later that day to remove the homeowner’s building debris, so I returned quickly with my little Mazda hatchback and lined the boot with heavy plastic. I filled the car with as many of the forlorn irises as I could rescue.
Once home, I planted the bulbs and trimmed the bruised leaves. As water spouted from a watering can, settling the soil, I wept for my uprooted self, my lost things, but mostly for my children who were left behind.
In the late afternoon, the setting sun glints on the burgundy leaves of an ornamental cherry tree that grows above the irises. When the clouds hang low after a majestic Highveld storm, an otherworldly glow lights the garden and my heart leaps with joy for having lived to see the beauty of another day.
Beyond my pretty garden, on the other side of a high wall, traffic races along an arterial route linking the business and shopping hub of Rosebank to Johannesburg’s northwestern suburbs. The street that once housed white middle-class South African families, where housewives stayed home and exchanged bobotie recipes over picket fences, has gradually transformed into an upscale business area.
Across the road is a corporate publisher. On one side of us is a print shop, on the other a feng shui consultancy. A vintage clothing boutique, an optometrist, a Pilates studio, and an architectural firm comprise the rest of our neighbors farther along the street.
Families who once lived here have moved on to more secure areas and gated communities. Their homes have been redecorated–the Oregon floorboards sanded and polished, wooden doorframes stripped, and the pressed steel ceilings given a new lease on life. Internal walls are knocked out and floor-to-ceiling windows are installed. Gardens are pulled up, replaced by parking lots.
Last week a “sold” sign appeared on Miss B’s gate. I haven’t seen the diminutive pensioner who taught piano in her home for many months now. Soon, I imagine piles of bricks and heaps of sand will appear outside the property. The hedge will be torn down and a bright new face will appear on the street. Another art gallery will pop up, or perhaps a dress designer’s studio.
Some six months after my divorce, my partner and I attended a Baha'í prayer meeting with a dozen other members of the community. Just as we were about to leave, six armed men bounded through the door and ordered us onto the ground. One of the men repeatedly hit my friend in the head with the butt of a gun. As I lay facedown on the floor, a man jumped on my back.
“Kill them all,” the gang leader ordered.
They say that when you face death, your life flashes before you. For me it was three hours of willing myself to survive, to remain calm whatever happened. For three hours, waves of terror pounded each of us. I hoped the sick old man recently released from the hospital would pull through. His heart wasn’t good. The mother of a crying baby was told to shut the child up lest they do so themselves. Fortunately, the infant fell asleep in her mother’s arms.
After being robbed of watches and jewelry, we were bound. I was facing the door when the men first entered and, as I saw them, I kicked my handbag, containing my mobile phone, under a couch with a long overlay. Because the thieves cut the telephone line, my mobile served as our lifeline that enabled us to get in touch with the police once the men left.
Every time the irises bloom, whether in a spring flourish en masse, or as a lonely single blossom, I am reminded of how I entered the garden the morning after the attack to discover the transplanted irises flowering for the first time. I stared in utter astonishment.
Today, I look from my window at the bare branches of the ornamental cherry tree. Soon pointy little buds will appear on its wispy twigs that blow in the cold July wind. For a brief week in late August, their pale pink blossoms will erupt to remind me of my arrival here five years ago. The rezoning application is due to be passed by the council shortly. When it comes through, I will move on again. We’ll probably settle closer to the school where I teach. In December, I envision we will be packing.
The lone winter iris that unfurled today reminds me of the last time I visited my mother-in-law in the hospital. I took her a bunch and held them up to her. She removed her oxygen mask for a minute, inhaled deeply, and lay back, smiling, on her pillow. I arranged the flowers in a vase where she could see them. A day later, she was gone.
When the day of my next transition finally arrives, and the boxes are packed and the furniture loaded, I will go around the garden with a little fork and gently tug at the base of the clivias. I will uproot wild garlic, arums, and agapanthus before they are razed for the new owner’s parking lot. I will dig down around the iris bulbs, and lift them into a carrier bag.
And at my new home, I will replant the transported roots. I will trust that, like me, my flowers will recover if they are given a second chance. I will yearn for their blossoms that remind me in turn that I have mastered the art of survival.
