On the streets of Cape Town narrative fiction and real life collide in beautiful spectacles of musical expression with the seemingly endless range of the unassuming penny whistle making a king out of a boy named Felix who has mastered the ability to exude pure joy through the simple instrument without formal training. Some play percussion on refuse washed ashore on the crowded beach, surrounded by the vibrant colors of the discarded and forgotten, creating spontaneous jazz for the sheer joy of expression. Felix’s mother lovingly peels potatoes at their humble home, smiling to herself with the knowledge that Felix has been accepted into a private school that will give him opportunities that his deceased father never had, but priggish snobbery has survived the death of apartheid even amongst black Africans who have found affluence in their newfound opportunities but look down upon Felix for his lack of wealth and bright green backpack.