I walked through my Jozi suburb with a heavy heart last week, seeing the many shop fronts – mostly bars and restaurants – that have fallen victim to the stringent lockdown measures imposed on them by the South African government. Like all businesses, they were closed during the initial stages, but even as they were allowed to open again, they were not permitted to serve alcohol, and our evening curfew, recently extended from 21h00 to 22h00 means service has to be over over quickly and early. We hope that our favourites will return after all this madness is over, but too many are faced with insurmountable financial obstacles and may never open again. This piece of flash fiction responded to the prompt ‘Canopy’ in 200 words, but it speaks to the sadness of any businesses closing down.
She inserted the metal crank into the slot and began winding in the canopy. The fading late afternoon sun washed out the pinks and yellows, the bold black scrolling font a shadow of its former self. It used to stand out along the row of neighbourhood shops, now mostly shuttered and closed.
Carol’s Cakes and Confectionary, the sign read. She loved the uncontrived alliteration, after all, Carol was her given name. She regularly treated friends and family when she was perfecting her art, happily fulfilling any requests at no charge. When the shop premises became available, she took a leap of faith and opened her business, which was rewarded handsomely with the support of the local people.
In the past thirty or so years, she had hand crafted and decorated a cake for just about every family in the community. Her order book was like a social history of the town, every birth, christening, engagement and wedding recorded, names meticulously spelled out in her neat handwriting in the margin next to where the customers had penned their chosen greetings.
Now the high street is dead and she is going through her daily ritual of closing up for the final time.
