We used to book a banda every Saturday afternoon. It was always sunny. I don't know if the weather actually cooperated every weekend or if nostalgia has edited out the clouds.
There was always an air of bonhomie about this haunt in South C. Different groups held court in different bandas. The Asian community would be out in force, doing their usual koroga, music spilling from open car doors. The amiable manager dropped in frequently, asking if all was kosher. The waiters knew our order. Chicken poussin. Wet fry. Naan. Spinach. Ugali.
It started as an investment club. Once a month, we discussed matters. On the other Saturdays, we simply gathered to have a tipple and shoot the breeze. Sometimes we would invite other friends and gather around a bottle of whisky. Sometimes we paid corkage. Sometimes we didn't.
A road accident at 2am. Paralysed from the neck down and then gone less than 48 hours later.
It felt surreal. We thought we’d all grow old together. We were too young - or too foolish - to be touched by death. But death has chutzpah. His death scuttled us. It put the kibosh on our Saturdays. The meetings waned and stopped altogether.
Recently, a few of us went back.
Remarkably little had changed. The manager was still there. The crowd looked familiar. The food tasted exactly as we remembered it. Saturday afternoon was, of course, mostly sunny even if the weather wasn’t. We gathered around a bottle of whisky. OK, it was two bottles. We laughed and traded war stories. And yet it wasn't the same. Not because the place had changed, but because we had.
Death had touched us and touched the interaction. Still, there was comfort in being back. A reminder that life keeps moving, even after it has been interrupted. That change is the only certainty we are ever guaranteed. And that perhaps the task is not to outrun loss, but to keep choosing life after it arrives. Still, Motor Sport remains hallowed ground. A place to pour libation.
