”Wake-up call. Where am I?” At the Infinity Restaurant, top floor of Hotel Sky, a skyscraper in Cape Town, central South Africa. Late at night, waiting for my steak tartare and asparagus–pea risotto, wondering about the strange James Bond-themed elevator, jazz-inspired cover music playing in the background. The Living Daylights. I count twenty-eight crystal chandeliers of different sizes, models, and colors; black marble floor; golden chairs with zebra-striped cloth; flamenco-inspired wallpaper with strange flamingo birds. The whole scene is like a mix between Inception and Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.
How long have I been here? More than a year now. How long have I survived? “Impossible,” said the motorcycle-clad lifeguard that searched me at the Swedish–Norwegian consulate a couple of days ago. Always the odd man out; no Tweed this time. That hadn’t been suiting — rather an orange Japanese Super-Dry hoodie, totally worn-out Vibram barefoot shoes, and some smelly green military shorts.
I have been practicing purifying the connection between my left and right brain hemisphere with my chinese carbon fibre Rubik’s Cube. I could now solve it in my sleep; click, click, click. For some reason, the Killing-gang sketch about Tant Råbiff voting for Nazis kept resurfacing in my mind — her articulation of the letter Z, particularly. A shaved black woman sitting across the room to my left, looking like Grace Jones, staring at me. Am I a secret agent?
The waitress approaches again. Enormous eyes. My crème brûlée just came. Big smile. Straight out of the movie poster for Get Out.
“You will never forget me,” she whispers.
Again, here I am, now shoveling down a three-course luxury dinner, rinsing it over with obscene amounts of the finest Western Cape wine, seated on the top floor of Sky Hotel — just above the Waterfront, where, only days earlier, I’d been roaming the streets like a ghost with no name. Homeless. Half-begging. Scavenging the pavement for cigarette butts — anything with a scrap of nicotine, anything that could calm my shaking nerves and keep my lungs working long enough to see another hour in this fever-dream of a city. Do what you must to stay alive — and to get a good story for your book.
But the question burned: Was I even welcome here anymore? I had no passport, no identity, no phone. Nothing but the slow glide toward hell, directly into the lowest basement levels of this planetary gutter — unless I got that crucial call at the Swedish Embassy. But the black guards — everywhere, in every shadow — had begun harassing me. Word spread like wildfire. They were following me, hunting me, this pale middle-aged tourist with nothing left but skin and a dangerous amount of dignity. A man they could peck at without guilt, without consequences. A man they could chase. A man they could finally punish for everything the so-called superior white man, with his bearded God and his “civilisation,” had done to their people since the dawn of time. Take the chance, boys. Give me your best shot.
But now — overnight, unexpectedly — the tables had turned. Suddenly they treated me like a king, because apparently, I had money again, and that changed everything in this twilight world. It’s late, deep into the night, and everything feels surreal. The speakers drip out a strange, slow, hypnotic remix of A-ha’s The Living Daylights — transformed into some grotesque 80s elevator lullaby. I remember being a child, watching that movie — the icy cello-player Bond girl, Maryam d’Abo, fragile and dead within, like a frozen violin string.
And now here I sit. The place is crawling with posh, elite, wealthy black people acting like the jetset of life. And I’m the lone white alien, bald head shining under the crystal lights — still got my hat — sitting here writing my book, solving the carbon cube on repeat just to stay sane, playing chess against myself like a lunatic intelligence operative.
A few weeks ago, I had nothing. They stole my phone, my ID card, bank cards, wallet, clothing, books, my tweed suit, and all those legendary Punch magazines from the 1920s I found in an antique shop — worth a small fortune. They even took my magical crystals.
But I crawled my way to the Swedish Embassy, hoping to place a call home. That’s where I met Julia — from Norway — who informed me, with bureaucratic calm, that I couldn’t use their phone. No, I’d have to go to the police station first and get an affidavit confirming that all the insanity I described had actually happened.
“And you can come back on Thursday,” she added.
It was Monday. Four days in the underworld still ahead of me.
Where was I supposed to sleep? How was I supposed to survive? Cape Town — the most dangerous city on earth — inhabited by the world champions of robbery, rape, and murder — here, the night is a predator and daylight is a 37-degree furnace. No food. No water. No safety. But to her, this was all perfectly logical.
“Not my problem,” she said. “And be here at 10:00 sharp. I have to pick up my daughter from kindergarten at three. That’s that.”
I am the Alien. I am the secret agent. And for some reason, I’m still alive.
