Holding the bag at the gate

The jack kicked and I took it in the palm. Bound it with the elastic from the Constantia adder's cash — felt right, using that man's money to close my own wound. I have not decided if that is justice or just theatre.

Then the app blocked me. My number, my card, suspended. I stood in the dust at Op die Berg with blood on my hand and a phone telling me I am no longer allowed to do the only thing I am good at. Whoever is rotating handlers is also turning off my permits. Same hand. I am sure of it now.

Pieter on the R364. Karel's radio catching a message that he alone holds a valid live-animal transport permit. As if the universe wanted me to hear it twice — first the app, then a stranger's voice on a tractor speaker confirming that the paperwork I have carried for years can be revoked by anyone with a stamp. I took the sheltered track. Gave Pieter the junction, kept the diff and the bag. Grumpy does not cover it. I am tired of yielding road to people who got their permits from a desk.

Karel's stoep. Rooibos. The bakkie and the red bag a few steps away and me watching the valley for headlights I cannot yet name. Pieter, the handlers, my father — they are all the same dot of light until they get closer.

Crashed on the narrow bed with the bag at my feet. Slept in fits, one eye on the door. The photograph of my father was in my jacket pocket. I did not look at it. I did not throw it away either.