Cultural preservation: The black tax that enriches
It's New Year's Day, 2020. My father phones for the fifth time in 24 hours. He wants to know what my brother and I did the night before - nothing; how we're getting on - fine; and whether we need any food - no, thank you.
Then he cuts to the chase. He needs his passport. I rummage through his drawers while he directs me over the phone, and pull out the little green book that is his safe passage out of SA...