NOW AVAILABLE: Could “The Republic” be for me?

ED'S NOTE:

On a clear day in February, during a month of gorgeous multiple entries into “The Republic” — what Cape Town continues to be known as in some circles on the highveld — I found myself standing upright at the back of a speeding golf cart. Damian Willemse, the Springbok hot stepper, sat exuberantly in the solitary passenger seat, singing awful Chelsea Football Club songs, trolling me, the Liverpool FC man. Behind us, Alan Winde, premier of the Western Cape, was at the wheel of another cart, with personalities Boity Thulo and Shudufhadzo Musida in another. Minutes later I was on foot, en route to the podium of the first-ever Formula E race on African soil, with Winde and Cape Town mayor Geordin Hill-Lewis — the company by no means an indication of my importance or political affiliation, rather a mere coincidence triggered by a pink sticker on my lanyard. Ahead of us, Grammy Award-winning DJ/producer Black Coffee. As the name of the inaugural winner of the Cape Town leg, António Félix da Costa, lit up the screen, the champagne popped, the pyrotechnics went off and, in the packed “golden circle” area in front of the stage, every phone was in the air. Surreal.

The previous night, our host, Moët & Chandon, a longstanding partner of Formula E, had treated us to a three-course delight at the Mount Nelson to celebrate its long-term partnership with Formula E that puts the spotlight on Natura Nostra, its biodiversity programme in the Champagne region. When I wasn’t hobnobbing with the hallowed set, I enjoyed gentle solo burger dates at Clarke’s and multiple double espressos at the handsome, monochrome Rosetta Roastery. I even found time to get in some pull-ups at the outdoor gym on the promenade and pick up CBD oil at one of now-multiple dispensaries in the Mother City.

“The Republic” felt different — strangers would greet on the street, and even at night there was no sense that my bubble would be burst by any aggression: passive in the case of some fine-dining establishments of old or in-your-face on the street. Was this a sign that I needed a change? Not a move to faraway Toronto, where Meta’s algorithms seem to think my future lies, but, just maybe, a semigration.

It seems that it’s always fashion season. In January, the Global North shows kicked off and we quickly followed those well-crafted heels. African Fashion International held Cape Town Fashion Week in late March and, at the end of this month, South African Fashion Week comes to the Jozi North. Naturally, then, we are also in a fashion mood, with news, trends, and a showcase fashion spread that could never be accused of the kind of austerity facing a world of rising inflation and interest rates. As our fashion director Sharon Armstrong, in her enviably husky tones, says: “We are going 1980s-inspired work gear. It’s been so bleak; I wanted a burst of colour and optimism.” 

That optimism is infectious, as I consider a semigration dry run: convincing my bosses to put me up for the first quarter of 2024 in a city with the most expensive food and real estate in the country. Should be a breeze.

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