The guy shouts, "Carol! Relax man! It’s perfectly safe. I’ve done this a thousand times before. I’m following the directions to the letter."
We were alerted to the goings on next door by a low-level firework rocket flying across the lounge window. We came out on the balcony to investigate, and there was the next one, at about telephone-pole height, fizzing and wobbling about fifty metres into the air, before expiring above our thatched lapa.
We could just about make out the sound of some oke arguing with his wife in between launches.
“I’ve gotta teach the lightie about fireworks. Otherwise he’s going to be a sissie for the rest of his life! Come, Jakkie, you can light this one…”
The next one barely makes it over their conifer. It clips the electric fence and zigzags into the middle of the road with a limp squeal, scattering sparks in its wake. From the balcony I can see the security guard from the next-door complex running out into their courtyard, eyes to the sky, trying to work out which unit the rockets are coming from. Looks like number two.
“Gary, it’s illegal! Stop it, man! You ganna hurt yourself. Please, I’m asking you nicely! If you don’t stop now, the police are gonna come. Jakkie! Jakkie! Don’t go near that thing. Come stand here by Mommy!”
“Ag, for god’s sake, Carol, don’t be ridiculous! Look here, man. Just watch…”
This is a good one. It gets up beyond roof height, before exploding into a pleasant shower of green sparks that soon rains down upon us as a drizzle of black cinders.
“You see that, boy? You check the lekker sparks? Nice, hey?”
“Gary, please man! Please stop! Make this one the last one…”
“No man, we still got lots left… We still got the Multi-break and this one… We gotta try the Kamuro Bomb!”
“Jakkie, come hold Daddy’s drink…”
At this point there is a few seconds of silence followed by an urgent hissing sound and than an almighty explosion. BAH! A flash of white pyrotechnics illuminates the yard of number 2! Nothing comes over the wall. There’s more silences and then smoke begins rising from the garden, sifting gently upwards like a UFO has just crash-landed in their yard.
Their outdoor lights are sheepishly switched on, and there is a sense of a scurry. Straining to hear now, from my balcony, I can make out the scrape of patio chairs being hurriedly rearranged. Gary can be heard insisting, “I’m okay. I’m okay. Leave me!”
Neighbours pour into the communal courtyard and the security guard comes out again. He’s on his walkie talkie. He goes to number 1 and knocks on the door.
At number 2, I hear them pull the sliding door closed and all the lights are suddenly turned off. The okes are having an early night. Off to bed at half past eight.
Bladdy wallies. And what are they celebrating anyway? It’s the end of March!
That’s the end of the evening’s entertainment. As I close the balcony door and go back to the IPL, I can smell burnt hair…
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