Stories of the Everyday

“Hello. Is this Kristin Palitza?’ I think I have found your wallet. In a garbage bag in Summer Greens,” says a stranger’s voice on the other side of the phone line.

“Yes. Who is this?” I ask, slightly confused. Our car had been broken into the day before and my wallet, cell phone and camera had been stolen. At first, I think I am speaking to the police, but it soon turns out that the man on the phone is a private person who somehow came across my wallet. From his story told in broken English, I can’t quite make out how. “My name is Christopher Williams,” he says and gives me directions to his house, stressing that he wouldn’t mind if I bring along the police.

Thirty minutes later, I sit in my car on the way to Kensington. C. is in the passenger seat, studying the map on his lap. He has turned on the small reading light to read the street names. None of us has been to Kensington before and it is already 19h45 and dark. We veer off the N1, direction Muizenberg. Damn, that was the wrong turn. We are lost. Since wherever we are clearly isn’t a safe place to stop and ask for directions, I slow down the car so we can read the street signs, while making sure we don’t become a hassle for cars coming up behind us. C. frantically tries to locate our position on the map. I really wish we had a GPS. Eventually, we are back on track. We hit Voortrekker Road, a major artery. A few more right turns and we come to a halt in front of Christopher Williams’ house.

It is a poor area. The houses are tiny and simple, typical two-roomed township houses, with peeling paint, lawns that have turned brown and rickety gates. As we walk up to the front door, a young woman comes towards us. A one-year-old sits on her hip. When I introduce myself, she nods. She has been expecting us. Christopher had to go to the shop, she says. She goes inside to fetch my wallet, leaving the door ajar.  I can see into what must be the lounge, a tiny room in which are squashed an armchair and an old, grubby couch with worn-down patches on the seats. And then she is back, with my wallet in her hand.  She opens it to show me that everything is still inside – my credit card, banking card, drivers license, health insurance card… everything but the cash, of course. There is also a small batch of my business cards. That’s how Christopher William knew where to call.

And she holds something else in her hand. “Here”, she says, “Christopher said I must give this to you as well.” She hands me a flyer from Debonair’s Pizza with a receipt stapled to it. It’s an order placed by someone named John, followed by a street address in Summer Greens and a cell phone number. I am not entirely sure what to make of this. How does someone ordering Pizza relate to the theft of my wallet? The woman doesn’t know.

As we walk back onto the street, we see a figure walking towards us down the road. “There he is,” the woman says, pointing. Christopher William is a skinny fellow of medium height. He wears blue workman’s overalls much too big for his slim frame. He looks like he just came home from work. But as we chat, it turns out that Christopher William doesn’t have a job. He has been unemployed for quite a few years, in fact, and survived by searching other people’s garbage bags for scraps of food and other things that he might be able to use or sell. That’s how he came across my wallet. It’s the third time he found someone’s purse, he tells us proudly, and every time he has managed to track down the owner.

I hand him a small, white envelope on which I have written ‘Thank You” in capital letters. Now that I know a little more about who the person is who found my wallet, I am really glad I decided on a generous finder’s fee. But Christopher William pays the envelope little heed. He is far too focused on the story he wants to tell. In his excitement, he mindlessly crumples up the envelope.  “This,” he says, pointing to the Debonair’s flyer, “is an important piece of evidence.” He found it in the garbage bin, together with my wallet, and the attached receipt contains the address of the thief, he proudly explains. He knows this, because he often checks the garbage at this house. It’s rented by a number of guys, and whatever Christopher William finds in their garbage bags tells him that they are up to no good.

I look at the receipt more closely. John ordered pizza at 18h30 on Sunday evening, three hours after our car was broken into on a wine farm in Stellenbosch. I had just drawn money from the ATM, so John and his friends had a feast. We have a lead. Again, we thank Christopher William for his trouble, and especially for his honest. “Honesty is my middle name,” he replies with pride. When we drive off, I see his slim figure in the rearview mirror, waving.

On the drive home, C. and I are silent. My thoughts go back to Christopher William, his ramshackle, little house, his years of unemployment and his resolve to live an honest life. I try to figure out why one poor person decides to resort to crime, while another person in the same situation takes pride in morality. What went wrong in John’s life and how did Christopher become to be so dignified? I don’t find an answer.