In an alleyway in Tsakane in Johannesburg, in shallow ditch close to KwaThema Taxi Rank, just down the road from Bar Lounge.  9am on a Sunday morning and we are in our two-piece outfits and floral dresses. And we’re in sharp-toed heels and we’ve combed our hair and pulled it into gelled buns. We tuck bibles under our arms, lodge them safe in the crook of our armpits and the air is stewed meat and pumpkin with cinnamon and perfumes that smell like all the seasons. Sunday morning Noxolo, and your head knocked out of shape, and your eye sockets empty, and your brain puzzle pieces. A bottle of beer, brown forced into your… and a used condom found in your… and a brick on the pavement, used to break you down.