THE FUNHOUSE MIRROR COLUMN: In Kimberley, parched residents queue up with empty water buckets as the sun cranks up the thermostat. The asphalt sizzles, mirages dance, and cacti contemplate relocation. Kimberley’s weather forecast? “Scorching with a chance of existential crisis”.
By Monty Quill
IN THE heart of the Northern Cape, where the sun blazes with unyielding fervour, Kimberley’s residents find themselves in a precarious predicament. They stand in serpentine queues, their empty water buckets echoing with philosophical ponderings. “Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy?” they murmur, as if awaiting a celestial plumber, armed with cosmic wrenches, to mend the fractured tap that connects their earthly existence to the heavens.
And the current heatwave, my friends, is no ordinary affair. It’s as if the sun decided to crank up the thermostat and roast us like forgotten marshmallows. The asphalt sizzles, mirages dance, and even the stoic cacti are considering relocation. As the mercury soars, existential crises bloom like Namaqualand desert flowers.
Sol Plaatje, oh municipal muse, your water woes echo through the arid streets, as if the gods themselves conspired to turn your reservoirs to dust. The Newton Reservoir, once a vessel of life, now stands hollow, its concrete walls whispering secrets of neglect and bureaucratic bungling. The water pipes, like ancient veins, creak and groan – their leaks a mournful dirge, echoing across the sun-scorched city.
Behold the municipality’s water tanker – a lone wanderer navigating the sun-scorched streets. Its tires, worn and weary, roll reluctantly, as if protesting their fate. “I didn’t sign up for this,” they murmur, bearing the weight of an entire city’s thirst. The tanker trundles forth, a modern-day camel, its cargo precious and finite. Each drop dispensed is a lifeline, a fragile thread connecting survival to scarcity.
Turn your gaze to the horizon, where the sky blazes cerulean and unforgiving. The forecast reads: “Scorching with a chance of existential crisis.” It’s a poetic warning, a reminder that survival hinges not only on water but also on introspection. Perhaps, as the sun scorches our skin, we ponder our place in the cosmic tapestry. Are we mere specks of dust, or do we hold celestial significance?
So, dear Kimberley, stand in those water queues, murmur your questions, and watch the reluctant camel roll by. For in this sun-baked crucible, we discover resilience, unity and the delicate balance between reality and fantasy.
Stay thirsty, my friends. And may the cosmic plumber find us before the celestial tap runs dry.
