It was around five o’ clock on Friday afternoon when I managed to work my way beyond the Jo’burg traffic gridlock. I found a BMW X5 parked in the breakdown lane, the two front doors open, the keys still in the ignition. I tried it and was surprised that it started immediately.
  The road looked clear all the way to the horizon and the gauge was of the opinion that the fuel tank was full. The sunset burned red streaks through the clouds away to my right. But I decided to chance it; drive a steady 100 kph, accelerate if anything happened to trundle across the N1.
  I pulled away slowly, half-expecting one of the tyres to be flat, an axle to be bent, something to be wrong. But the car felt fine, so after a bit I started speeding up. I leaned over to the radio, clicked the SEARCH button and held my breath. It ran through the dial a few times, betraying no more than a thick blanket of static. I searched the AM dial as well, got the same. I allowed the numbers to continue their imitation of the infinite slot machine for a couple of hours, but when the last daylight leaked from the sky the need for a human voice became unbearable; just a little of that English language.
  I rummaged through the cubbyhole, keeping one hand on the wheel, one eye on the road and came up with a CD. I popped it in and pressed PLAY. It turned out to be Bruce Springsteen. He was singing Radio Nowhere. “Is there anybody alive out there?”
  I tried to smile, but it felt like a tired scowl, a crack in my face. I hoped against hope, tried to ignore the lead weight in the pit of my stomach, told myself I wasn’t thirsty and continued to drive.

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