The plane banked to the left, providing a clear view of Cape Town’s city bowl nestled under Table Mountain. Robben Island, sitting just offshore, stood as a sobering reminder of South Africa’s troubled past and continuing disparities. Cape Town: the city of contrast and juxtaposition; a playground for the rich and beautiful, sparkling with sequins, sundowners and skinny cappuccinos. But underneath the veneer of hats and sunglasses lies the real Cape Town - Kaapstad and iKapa - drowning in poverty, violence, drug abuse and teenage pregnancies. Built by white men whose relentless pursuit for land and subjugation is celebrated in the names of its tree-lined avenues; whose every corner reeks of historical injustice and latent racism like the stench of death after a massacre. And every day, Cape Town’s incredible wealth mixes with unimaginable poverty; people rich beyond the wildest dreams of avarice walk past others deemed worth less than their shadows.
The plane levelled and I gazed across the Cape Flats, an area that was traditionally designated for black and colored communities - the legacy of apartheid’s Nazi-like capacity to integrate unfettered depravity with meticulous planning. Mulling it over, it seemed like Cape Town was a heartless blend of the world’s richest city, Monte Carlo, and one of its poorest and most lawless, Mogadishu.
The Capetonian: Mix a shot each of Monte Carlo and Mogadishu, add a few dashes of entitlement and ingrained poverty and serve over ice-cold social and economic mobility with a twist of drug-fuelled violence. For the flaming variation, add xenophobia.