A good Sunday in my neighbourhood is never rushed. It starts with the familiar sounds of buckets filling with water, the hum of washing machines, radios fighting for dominance across fences and the smell of washing powder hanging in the air.
There is laundry, lots of cleaning and cooking. Someone is washing a car. Someone else is in the garden. Music is always playing, not too loud, just enough to let you know the day has its own rhythm.
Once the Sunday meal is cooked and the elders have eaten, the house settles into a quiet pause. That is when we get dressed for the final ritual of the day: going to the local establishment to enjoy the last few hours of Sunday.
