Today I am Mostly Dressed in Black.

Today I have the most tremendous rage.  I am off the charts cranky.

The poor bastards at the end of my rage-blast are the poorest of the poor, the unemployed and destitute scavenging through my rubbish bins.

Usually I handle rubbish day in a calm and resigned manner.  Today it is raising my blood pressured to dangerous levels.  The scene is the same throughout suburban South Africa, rubbish is put out for collection in black bin bags, it will be uplifted any time between 6.30am and 5pm, which leaves a large window for the poor who roam the streets on bin day to wade through your trash to find anything of use.

The entire thing upsets me.

It upsets me that men, women and children are reduced to this level of desperation in a country where Fat Cats ride the gravy train or cavalcade about in grotesquely expensive Audis and Mercedes Benz’s.

It upsets me to come home and find bin bags ripped open spewing their contents across the street and across the sidewalk. 

It upsets me that small children have waded through my used tampons, clumps of shower-drain hair and snotty tissues in an attempt to find food. 

It upsets me that I run out like a madwoman chastising some poor sod who is raking through my mess for a little hope:

Me: [Voice harsh with implosive barely controlled anger] Please don’t go through my rubbish, if there was food I put it aside in a bag. It is gone.

Man: [Looking up at me with bloodshot eyes] Hawu ma’am I just want some bread.

Me:  I’m sorry it is gone.  Someone was here earlier.  Please don’t go through my rubbish.

Man: Hawu. [Shakes his head at my heartlessness and moves on down the road.]

It upsets me that I will repeat this conversation five times in one morning. 

Even Zippi, our domestic worker is avoiding my rage.  I hear her trying to warn off would-be rubbish rustlers in Zulu.  No doubt she is saying, ‘the Madam is crazy, run for your lives.’

Today I am angry.  Today I feel a little too fragile for Africa.