With a jerk of the steering wheel and feet on the clutch and brake, Titus suddenly lurched to a halt, halfway up on the sidewalk, effectively blocking both car and pedestrian traffic.  In the South African township, erratic driving and frequent stops were the norm, but as a wide-eyed 22 year-old I questioned if my friend (and self-declared tour guide) had ever taken driving lessons.  A woman across the street with a turquoise plastic basin on her head recognized the sound of an impulse stop and knew what to do.  She turned around, eyes locked on us, lowering the basin to waist level as she approached the car’s window. 

“I want to buy some peanuts from her,” Titus said.  With a brief exchange of words and coins we were on our way again, this time with a small bag of boiled peanuts.  It was the first time I had seen fresh peanuts.  They were still inside their wet shells which split like a rain-soaked twig instead of crackling apart like the dried peanut shells I was used to.  As we ate the small snack, I finally understood why they are legumes. They tasted like a genuine bean when boiled.

 “How did you know she was selling something?” I asked.

“If it’s on the head, then it is for sale,” Titus responded.  Now it made more sense when I saw women with stacks of reed baskets or several long brooms balanced high on their heads.

 I saw the peanut woman with the turquoise basin frequently over the next two years that I worked in the children’s home in South Africa.  She would pass by slowly enough to make her presence known, balancing her goods on her head and also giving salivating watchers a chance to give in to their impulse to buy.  Sometimes she was on Mahlangu Avenue out in the front of the children’s home, a busy place for cars and pedestrians.  But sometimes she took the quieter, smaller road past the field behind the home, slowly making her way on Mabena Street. I was told she was from Mozambique, and because she did not have a visa she could not find formal work.

 One peaceful, sunny afternoon as she made her trek along the field along the back of the orphanage I was hanging laundry on the line with a Zimbabwean friend, Bridget.  Given the serenity of the moment, it was startling to see the police van careening down the tiny road.  At the sound of the skidding vehicle the woman turned to see who had pulled over to buy from her.

Every foreigner recognizes that police van. As large as a delivery truck, the back remains empty except for the steel benches ready for illegal immigrants.  Those without proper documents are rounded up like cattle, sent to court, and shipped back to their country of origin.  The peanut woman recognized the van, too.

The police officer jumped down from his high perch in the van’s cab and walked over to her.  Bridget and I paused, skirts and clothespins in midair, to watch the scene unfold before our eyes.  As the police officer approached the peanut lady, her whole body quivered as though the boiled peanut basin grew heavier along with her fate.  She slowly kneeled to the ground, bowing her head, but holding that turquoise basin to steady it in it place.

 We stood silently in anticipation, listening, but we could not hear anything, and instead could only guess as the interaction played out between the South African authority and Mozambican minority.  As the officer stood towering above the peanut lady, she suddenly rose to her feet. To our surprise, we did not see a check of documents followed by a quick arrest. Instead, coins were handed over, peanuts received, and a moment later the officer and the woman were back to their respective duties. As the police van careened away, the peanut woman swiveled in multiple directions, bewildered at the smooth encounter with the police officer, then decided to follow the same path the police van had just taken.  She must have figured they wouldn’t come by again soon.

Bridget and I turned to each other and with an exhale of relief, started laughing. All three of us—Zimbabwean Bridget, myself, and the Mozambican peanut woman—were foreigners, waiting in anticipation to see the South African police officer send yet another one home. But today he was not concerned with her papers—he wanted her peanuts!

I never did see her walk along the field after that.  I can only guess that her encounter with the officer was closer than she preferred.  Instead, she chose to stick to busy Mahlangu Avenue, where she could blend into the mural of busy street life in the township, gaining her preferred anonymity.