She was going to her hometown for the weekend; and seeing some of her childhood friends; both of which were not unusual occurrences. There was, however, an odd feeling of hesitation in the air. Perhaps it was the long week at work; perhaps it was her customary reluctance to spend a precious 48 hours somewhere she no longer had any real connection with. Either way, when the plane touched down at 10pm on Friday, she walked into and out of the airport with hunched shoulders and a heavy heart.

The next day, and the day after, dawned sunny and warm. It was always sunny and warm in Durban, and even if it wasn’t, you didn’t really notice because the weather rarely stayed anything other than sunny and warm for too long. She had very few plans, and the rental car had a full tank; and so she spent most of her weekend exploring the city that she’d never seen as anything other than a passenger. Two things surprised her: One, her ability to get around without a map or GPS despite over a decade’s absence, as if the streets had been burned into her subconscious; and two, how little had changed.

Except for one thing.
Taken by a fit of nostalgia, she drove around the suburb she grew up in. Past her primary school, past the park she learned to ride a bike in, and finally, past her childhood home. If not for the fact that it was easy to place — bang in the middle of a T-junction of roads, where a bus driver had once famously confused his brake and accelerator pedals, and driven up the vertical line of the T and into her erstwhile garden — she would have driven right past it. Gone was the thick green bush that served as a perimeter wall. Gone was the wrought-iron gate into the once lush garden. Peering through the stern stainless steel bars that were there now, she could see that most of what she’d cherished was no longer there. The jasmine plant right next to her bedroom window, that filled summer nights with its heady perfume. The patio, where she’d had her picture taken on her first day of school (and thrown up from nerves moments later). The picture window in the kitchen, where she’d curl up in a corner while her parents cooked. The massive orange trumpet flower vine lining the driveway.
All of those were gone, replaced by sullen grass and dismal concrete.
She backed away, surprised, and more than a little put out, although she realised that she had no real right to be.

When she flew back, early on Monday morning, she slept fitfully on the plane, and picked at an obese muffin. Something was wrong. There was no real way to verbalise or qualify it, though; so she never did.

But somewhere, in some small recess of her brain, she would always remember the scent of jasmine.