LOLLY TRIBAL PRINCESS, MUIZENBERG SURF 2024
I met her on the train back from the Muizenberg surf—sunburned, salt-crusted, half-alive—when she appeared in front of me with eyes like caffeinated puppies and said, “Are you a genius? You’re shining.” Then she dropped into the seat beside me as if drafted by fate, a self-proclaimed princess of some ancient tribe tucked into the outskirts of Cape Town.
Within minutes she’d launched into her grand vision: carpets and furniture handcrafted by her people, exported to Europe, sold at high-end prices to restore her tribe’s dignity and prove that beauty still had a backbone. She assumed—instinctively, recklessly—that I could handle IT. Everyone down there assumes I can handle IT.
For a short spell, we dated. We never crossed the sexual borderline; committed to prayer—deep, rhythmic, filled with those sharp, clicking sounds unique to her tribe, echoing through the room like ceremonial Morse code. I still remember us on the floor of a Victorian house in Observatory—no furniture, no heat—wrapped around each other like two fugitives who’d finally found shelter.
But eventually, the mask slipped. She was a scammer—like almost everyone down there trying to outrun poverty, fate, and bad luck. Maybe it wasn’t even her fault. Maybe scamming was simply the local survival strategy—a cultural immune system gone feral.
