From Cape Town with Love Read Free Page A

thirteen years later. But there was one major difference: Now, instead of just the colorful South African liberation flag, street vendors sold American flags, too.
    â€œHey—Obama!” a man called from a passing bicycle that afternoon as April and I walked down Long Street, where black Africans, backpackers, and bohemians congregated. Even in the midst of soccer euphoria, I was a star in my black Barack Obama T-shirt.
    Grins flashed at me. Laughing children ran up to me. Women young and old gave me hugs. Strangers honked their horns as they drove past. A vacationing couple from Germany begged me to pose for a picture with them while April and I shared bemused smiles.
    It was 2008, only three days after the November election that changed American history. Our American accents triggered excited conversations about American politics. The phrase “president-elect Barack Obama” sounded odd, dreamlike. There was a world party going on, and I felt lucky to witness how important the election was outside America’s borders.
    Cape Town made us smile a lot, just as I had hoped. My swagger was back.
    I was such a good catch, it boggled my mind.
    Who else would fly from another
country
to try to win back his girlfriend after the way she’d cut things off? Shit, that girl would be crazy to walk away from me! Bruised or not, my face made most women lose their concentration.
    On top of that, I might have at least a quarter-million-dollar settlement waiting for me at home—since an amoral studio exec named Lynda Jewell wanted my sexual harassment suit against her to go away.
And
I could put a few sentences together, too? April had better claim me back while she could, before I was out running wild.
    To seal the deal, I chose the Nyoni’s Kraal on Long Street.
    Kraal
means a small rural village in southern Africa, but in Afrikaans, a kraal is a pen for livestock. That may be all we need to know to understand the history of race relations in the region. The South African brother who owns Nyoni’s grew up poor and built his business fromnothing. Now it’s one of Cape Town’s most popular eateries, with room for hundreds.
    Nyoni’s Kraal had a faux thatched ceiling, African-inspired brass lamps shaped like masks, and mock crocodiles hanging on warmly colored stone walls. A prominent South African flag bore the black-and-gold triangle and stripes of green, white, red, and blue. The employees wore traditional dashikis. Our round-faced waitress, Nobanzi, wore a thin beaded headband and a wide beaded bracelet with colors that entranced my eyes. Xhosa, I guessed.
    I ordered a 1999 Klein Constantia sauvignon blanc, and April couldn’t hide how impressed she was by my knowledge of wine. I had my mojo back!
    We joked about ordering mopane worms and chicken feet as appetizers, but we ended up with marinated snoek, a long, bony, saltwater fish I thought she would like. For my entrée, I ordered the kingklip, an eellike local fish with firm white meat. April ordered African roast chicken. Heaven. For the first five minutes after our food arrived, we forgot about talking and enjoyed the taste of Africa.
    â€œMrs. Kunene might have a job for you,” April said.
    â€œA job?” I said, sampling my bread. “She doesn’t know me.”
    April shrugged. “She asked about you last night, so I told her you’re an actor and bodyguard in Hollywood. When I said we were going to Cape Town, she told me her sister-in-law runs an orphanage near here, in a township called . . . Lango?”
    â€œLanga,” I corrected her.
    â€œLanga. An American actress is visiting, but they’re worried they might not have reliable security. Mrs. Kunene thought I should ask you, since we would be here.”
    I’d been to Cape Town’s townships before, including Langa and an even poorer township called Crossroads. Alice took me to see an amazing children’s orchestra playing in a shebeen