There is a girl. A real girl. Not an inconspicuous girl. When you lay your eyes apon her you will realize that she is not figment of your imagination. She will however metamorphosize – right in front of your eyes into whatever you imagine her to be. She sculpts the boundless universe with her thoughts; she paints the road in Technicolor as she walks.
She carries a yellow umbrella, which doesn’t close – so she says. She is not a superstitious girl. She’ll twirl her yellow umbrella as she struts, inside and out. You will know that she’s left the building; entire fields will open up, avenues of luminous sunflowers will blossom in the rain.
One wet, wintery Cape Town day Little Dynamite walked down Long Street and her yellow umbrella became the sun.
First the nylon canopy melts, forming a trail of yellow umbrella behind her. Hipsters and Nigerians collide as they slide like slapstick actors skating on abandoned banana peels. If it were any other day she would’ve turned around to investigate, but not today. Today she bounds on, drawn by a guiding light in the yonder. Her hazel eyes locked in gaze. Her wet, pitch-black hair swoops in appreciation.
She passes a blind man playing a ukulele. He is playing Wolf Like Me by one of her favourite bands – TV on the Radio and she knows it by heart. It’s her lucky day – she has her brown leather tap dancing shoes on. As the rain falls like shattered pieces of glass, she taps her feet to the beat and then the music takes her by the hook of her soul.
Little Dynamite claps her heels twice and rises above the ground; she seems to be levitating like that guy who does street magic. She hovers a few feet above and then out of some rhythmic vortex she spins seventeen feet into the air.
She repels the rain with an invisible layer of potion that has wrapped itself around her. She hangs, suspended in mid air twirling to the beat of Wolf Like Me – (By this point she has attracted a substantial crowd and causes a back up of cars all the way down to Strand Street).
The layer that holds her suspended above Mr Pickwicks is no longer invisible. It releases a myriad of pixelated colours; and these tiny fragments fall to the pavement like glitter. Her body spins like an Olympic diver performing a rotating-flying-somersault. She has the handle of the umbrella clasped in her right hand like Charlie Chapman with the remaining wire skeleton still intact.
The ukulele player teleports the song into overdrive, the crescendo leaps out and grabs Little Dynamite as she waves the umbrella carcass to the melody. She twirls the aluminum frame in a circle of eight as she ducks and dives to the sound of music.
The handle of the umbrella fuses with her white-knuckled grip as she gestures for the pending transformation. A streak of orange light pierces through a veil in the grey clouds.
Her black hair spins around her face and any remaining water droplets glide off her olive skin and are trapped in a cocoon of heat, forming a cloud of condensation. She points the remains of her umbrella straight at the hole in the sky; it connects via some magnetic force to the mystical orange light from beyond. The innocent bystanders are frozen in time. Hypnotized. Their mouths are wide open allowing the rain to fill their beaks like thirsty pelicans.
The steel tip mingles with the orange light and ignites an explosion of rainbow light that engulfs the city. The energy reverberates through the high-rise buildings causing them to wobble like jumping castles.
This was the day her umbrella became the sun.
The eyes of the ukulele player that until now lay dormant leaped out of their sockets. His optic nerve merges with his brain circuitry. His pupils become dilated. His eyeballs hinge themselves back into place. He looks, he stares, he sees. He drops his ukulele and raises his arms up to touch the sky. Tears roll down his face.
Little Dynamite floats back down. She flicks her black hair around her neck and struts back down Long Street as she holds the sun.