Pineapples, Port Alfred, and My Sweet Memories of uTata By Nobhongo Gxolo There’s a stretch of road that heads past Port Alfred as you drive from East London. I haven’t been on it in a while now. Back then that drive, only three hours long, was endless. The way big things seem bigger when you’re little. A forever road between being born and now, both stretching and collapsing time. My sister, brother and I, with blankets and pillows cushioning us in the back of Tata’s two-seater van. White. They were always white. uMama in the front with him, speaking things foreign to child ears, reminiscing about the secrets couples do when there’s no-one else to hear but them.