Johannesburg - While stopped at the traffic lights at the intersection of Republic and Nicol, a glowering youth, who just moments before had performed a spectacular juggling routine, stood in front of my car.
If he didn't move when the lights changed, I would have to make a detour around him.
I waited.
Motionless, he glared malevolently at me. The lights changed. He never moved. I drove straight at him. At the very last moment he jumped out of the way.
As I disappeared up the Nicol Highway, in my rear-view mirror I saw him give me the finger.
Ironically, despite my attempt at grievous-bodily-harming the juggler, I'm a great fan of some street people.
I often tip them. Chat to them. Buy from them. Fist-pump them. Applaud the astonishing precision of their dance moves and marvel at the dexterity of their juggling.
Sometimes I ignore them.
Once in a blue moon, I try and run them over. And there are millions of them.
If you put them into categories, the list just goes on and on. The cold-drink sellers; the electronic whizzes who in a nano-second can determine exactly which phone charger you need; the kneelers, limpers and other disabled wretches; the sad, blind souls with their bored looking guides; the generally cheerful newspaper sellers; the intense avocado and fruit men; the absurdly talented dance troupes; the world-class jugglers; the animated rubbish bag men; the sycophantic car guards; the ghastly, aggressive windscreen washers; the beggars and the pushy homeless talk salespeople.
The list goes on and on.
Oh, and of course, what about the rubbish recyclers that infest our roads?
I often marvel at them insouciantly hurtling down hills at break-neck speeds, precariously balanced on the ricketiest of trolleys with miniature wheels and no brakes, casually steering via plastic strings tied to a metal handle; completely indifferent as to what the consequences to life and limb might be, should they crash (there is currently a video circulating on Facebook of one of them doing 60km/h, which was viewed 46 000 times at last count).
However, my fascination for some street people aside, I mostly find them bloody irritating. As does virtually everyone I mention them to.
But they are an intriguing and, in a way, necessary component of our multilayered, polyglot society.
So why did I try and wipe out the juggler? Why didn't I just drive around him? Undeniably the street people are a manifestation of how the government and society (us), have failed them.
That they have to spend long days in such generally unedifying pursuits, in Spartan surroundings, simply to scratch a living to survive, is wrong.
But when the surly juggler gave me the menacing accuse, I suppose, somewhere in the deep, dark, recesses of my mind, running him over seemed like a good way of obliterating his censure of my complicity in his circumstances. In plain English: I hate being made to feel guilty.
However, after some reflection, I decided, rather than annihilate some poor street person to alleviate my subliminal guilt - maybe I should learn something about them.
Perhaps, in some tiny way, through learning about their lives and disseminating their stories, people might be more tolerant of street people and I could subtly improve their lot in life. And maybe, just maybe, I'd find them less annoying. So where is my surly juggler from? What point is he making when he stands insolently in front of cars, essentially antagonising the very people he seeks succour from? What prompted him to learn to juggle? Where does he live? What does he do when not plying his craft? How long has he been a juggler? Does he rent his corner? What happens when someone else wants to work his spot and lots else?
The more I thought about it, the more I realised despite their ubiquity, I know virtually nothing about the street people.
What are their hopes and dreams? Do they have any? Are they ever happy? How much do they earn? What interests them?
The next time I was at the finger-giving-hostile juggler's intersection, I pulled over and hailed him. After a moment, he reluctantly acknowledged me and slunk over to where I was standing. He stared at me enquiringly.
Fortunately, he didn't recognise me as his failed assassin. After a few minutes of explaining I wanted to interview him and why, he seemed to get the gist - especially when I said I would pay him.
So we made an appointment to meet at one of his less busy moments.
After him, I would like to interview a street person from a different "category" (discipline) on a weekly basis and see if it improves my tolerance levels and understanding of their plight.