“Hallo Maria,” the lady with white hair says.
“Hallo Mamma,” says the lady with black hair and long fingernails.
“Ek gaan net dié broek was,” (I’m only going to was these pants) says the lady with the white hair.
“Dis reg so mamma,” (It’s okay mamma) says the lady with black hair and long fingernails.
I looked down at my own tray of dirty dishes from the previous night’s feast. It grossed me out; I could not understand the infatuation with food. My stomach turned and everything inside of me wanted to crawl out. The warm water streamed from the tap as if magic; steam rose from the washing basin like a pond of warm water in some enchanted woods. Movement caught my eye as someone walked behind me.
“Môre môre,” (morning morning) the stranger greeted me.
As if mechanical, I responded “Môre môre.”
“Mooi oggend,” (Beautiful morning) says the man who is no longer in my vicinity.
Do I respond? I have no idea any longer. I look at the tray of dirty dishes; I am grossed out anew by the sight of my human-created waste. I will need to touch that to clean it, I think. The tap closed, I pick up one of the cups and place it in the washing basin. But the water is gone. There is nothing in the washing basin. Did I forget the basin plug? I look at the bottom of the basin and see the plug in place. Strange. I open the tap again, the steam arise from the water again almost déjà vu-like. But it happened just a minute ago.
“Môre môre,” someone behind me says.
This time I decide not to respond. Nothing comes of it. Robotic-like.
I close the tap and look at the dirty dishes. Filth, human filth. Bits and chunks, meat, sauce, stains of humanity’s touch. For a moment, I can see the maggots crawling between the bits of meat and sauce, their squirming white bodies, black heads, devouring our waste. I stand frozen in time mesmerized by this grotesque moment. Intrusive thoughts take over and I plunge my hand into the sauce filled with maggots and I want them to devour me in the process. I want to turn into meaty slush and become food for millions of these erratically moving larvae. But nothing happens and the illusion is broken by the monotonous “Môre môre.”
I turn around, ready to scream at the robotic response. But no one is standing where the sound came from. I turn around and place the cup into the washing basin I just filled with warm soapy water. The hard clacking sound of a cup hitting the metal basin without resistance of the supposed water I just filled it with. I look at the plug and see it in place but no water.
Again, I open the tap. Someone walks behind me, but I could not focus on that any longer. Maybe they greeted me. Maybe I imagined the response. But my ears are filled with the sound of blood rushing through my body. How could the basin be empty? I look at the dirty dishes and despise them as they have cursed the washing basin I am sure.
“Nee mamma, daai knoppie werk nie,” (No madam, that button does not work) I hear the conversation next to me.
“Agh dankie Maria,” (Thank you Maria) someone responds.
After a while, the basin is still empty. Disgusted, I throw all of the dirty dishes into the basin and open the warm water tap. Water splashes all over me covering me in chunks of meat and bits of vegetables.
Postscriptum, or The Disgusted Dishes
Washing dishes is not nice. But we all have to do it. It is part of life. This story was inspired by the first dialogue; it really happened. The two ladies talked to each other like that. I thought about this and added the rest of the detail. The story wrote itself! In any case, I hope you enjoyed reading this short story with the absurd elements in it.
The photographs are my own, taken with my Nikon D300. The story and writings are my own creation, except the first two sentences exchanged between the two old ladies standing next to me.