“Sometimes the place we are most desperate to leave is quietly changing us.”
By the time Tebogo got to Home Affairs, the queue was already stretching around the building. People had clearly been there since early morning.
He checked his watch.
5:43 a.m.
He looked at the queue.
Then at the building.
Then back at the queue.
“Eish.”
The man beside him smiled.
“First time?”
Tebogo laughed.
“Is it that obvious?”
“You’ve still got hope.”
They laughed.
A few places ahead, someone turned around.
“Don’t worry, mfowethu. Hope usually disappears around nine.”
Even the security guard smiled.
The morning still carried winter in it. People stamped their feet against the cold. Someone yawned. Someone pulled a scarf tighter around their neck.
Then came the question that seemed to belong to every South African queue.
“Who’s last?”
A woman near the back lifted her hand.
“Me.”
Another voice answered.
“Now it’s you.”
The line made room.
Nobody argued.
The queue simply adjusted itself.
Tebogo put his hands into his pockets.
He had taken leave for this. His manager had told him to get there early.
Apparently, everyone else had received the same advice.
By seven, Johannesburg was beginning to wake around them.
Minibus taxis rattled past. Street vendors unpacked flasks of coffee. The smell of frying vetkoek drifted through the cold morning air.
Pigeons moved between people’s feet, picking at whatever they found on the ground.
They usually did.
A young man appeared carrying a cooler box.
“Water.”
“Juice.”
“Cold drinks.”
The elderly woman near Tebogo looked up.
“Tea?”
He laughed.
“Gogo, it’s too early.”
She frowned at him.
“It is never too early for tea.”
Someone behind her nodded.
“I trust people who carry tea.”
The queue laughed.
It was strange how quickly strangers became familiar when they were waiting for the same thing.
They learned little pieces of one another.
Where are you from?
Is this your first passport?
How long have you been here?
Who are you travelling with?
A young mother tried to keep her daughter from stepping out of the line. The little girl had discovered a pigeon and was following it with great seriousness.
An older man spoke about a brother who had moved overseas years ago.
Someone complained about traffic.
Someone else defended Johannesburg.
Someone had been awake since three.
Someone had brought food.
Someone had forgotten a pen.
The line moved.
Three steps.
Stopped.
Five steps.
Stopped again.
A man stretched his arms dramatically.
“I’ve been in this queue so long…”
He looked towards the building.
“…I qualify for permanent residence.”
Laughter rolled through the line.
Even the security guard bent over laughing.
When things settled, he called out,
“Don’t worry, everyone.
Today we’re processing passports…”
He paused.
“…and patience.”
A chorus of groans answered him.
Someone clapped.
By late morning, the sun had found its confidence.
Jackets came off. People loosened up.
Someone opened a packet of biscuits and passed it left.
Then right.
Nobody counted.
The packet came back empty.
Its owner looked at it and smiled.
“That was quick.”
No one apologised.
There was nothing to apologise for.
Tebogo checked his phone.
Two percent.
He frowned and searched his backpack.
No power bank.
He remembered leaving it at home.
A few minutes later, the screen went black.
He stared at it.
For months, his phone had been the place he went whenever he didn’t want to think.
Messages.
News.
Work.
Notifications.
Things to answer.
Things to read.
Things to worry about.
Now there was nothing.
He put it back into his pocket.
For a while, he simply stood there.
The woman with the biscuits was telling a story. The young mother had finally caught her daughter, who was now leaning against her leg. The two men behind Tebogo were arguing about football as though the outcome of a match years ago might still be settled between them.
The security guard greeted each person who came through the gate.
“Morning, sisi.”
“Morning, bhuti.”
The same words, over and over.
Never hurried.
Never quite mechanical.
Just present.
The queue moved again.
A little further this time.
People cheered.
Someone shouted,
“Progress!”
Another voice answered,
“Don’t celebrate too early.”
More laughter.
And then, somewhere between one conversation and another, Tebogo noticed that nobody seemed to be asking how much longer anymore.
They had stopped measuring the morning.
They were simply in it.
By the time he reached the counter, he had almost forgotten why the whole thing had seemed so unbearable at five in the morning.
The woman behind the glass looked up.
“How can I help you?”
Tebogo handed over his documents.
She checked them.
Typed something.
Asked him to sign.
A few minutes later, it was done.
He stepped outside into the afternoon sun with the document safely inside his backpack.
He stood there for a moment.
Behind him, the queue was still there.
Longer now.
Someone new had arrived.
“Who’s last?”
A dozen fingers pointed in the same direction.
A woman lifted a warm vetkoek above her head.
“Anybody still hungry?”
Three hands shot up.
A child laughed.
The security guard shook his head.
Another taxi pulled up across the road.
Johannesburg carried on.
Tebogo climbed into the taxi and found a seat by the window.
His phone had come back to life while he was inside.
Messages arrived all at once.
Emails.
Missed calls.
Notifications.
The familiar rush returned.
His thumb hovered over the screen.
Then he looked out of the window.
For a moment, he could still see the queue beneath the jacaranda trees.
People waiting.
Talking.
Laughing.
Making room.
The taxi began to move.
Tebogo slipped the phone back into his pocket.
The queue disappeared behind the trees.
He watched Johannesburg pass by the window.
There was still plenty he needed to figure out.
But for now, there was nowhere else he needed to be.
Waiting often feels like wasted time.
But think about the last time life made you slow down.
What did you notice that you might otherwise have missed?
You don't have to answer immediately.
Sometimes the question does its work long before the answer arrives.
Some of the people who briefly enter our lives never become part of our story.
A stranger beside us in a queue.
Someone we share a taxi with.
A person who makes us laugh on an ordinary morning.
And yet, for a little while, our lives overlap.
Have you ever had a brief encounter with a stranger that stayed with you long after you parted?
What made it memorable?
“After my divorce, I kept asking when life would feel normal again. Looking back, I realise I wasn’t lost – I was simply learning to travel a different road.”
Zanele
Gqeberha
Sometimes the moments we most want to get through are the moments in which life is quietly happening.
Have you ever found yourself somewhere you didn’t want to be, only to discover something you might otherwise have missed?
