Have you ever felt like you’re inconveniencing the world with your ‘black things?’ Of course we all agree that Zuma has set a new record on being the worst president in our new democracy, but have you ever (because you’re black) found yourself even defending the fact that it’s all because he’s uneducated. I don’t do much of that these days, the man is on his own (well, with his Guptaz and ANC loyalists, but not me).
But for me, even on days when I used to defend Zuma, it really was because I was hurt that people equate lack of education with stupidity. My grandmother never went to high-school, making fun of her wouldn’t have been cool in my eyes. So, when people make fun of his poor grasp of the English language, the size of the fonts on his speeches and how he just can never pronounce numbers properly, a part of me does attribute that to the “A” legacy. You know “A”. Those 46 unfortunate years where things were a little rough on some of our grandparents and parents. But yeah, we’re not about my grandma’s lack of high school education these days. In revolutionary times where Tuks (where I got my first degree) has scrapped Afrikaaans, this revolution has progressed waaaay beyond the little things.
I was sharing with my stokvel ladies that this year my resolution was to be at peace, let no external forces disturb my peaceful core. But it wasn’t even a week into the year when Penny Sparrow happened. There we were, guns blazing, defending blackness and our cause and our struggle and our pain and our poverty and our reasons for speaking too loudly and being just a little too excited to see waves at the beach whilst not observing proper protocol of owning swimming costumes which we often can’t afford.
But that’s not the reason for this note. That’s not the reason I’m feeling Oh So Black (again) today. I had a funny (funny ironic, not funny haha, or maybe just a little funny haha) moment with a colleague this week. She said that she envied people in squatter camps because they didn’t have to pay rent or car payments or even their own electricity. Life was simple for them. Just as I was getting to defend blackness and the reality of inhumane existence in squatter camps (poverty, prevalence of crime, rape, lack of basic necessities, degradation), I looked at her and I was like: “It’s not all sunshine and roses in our squatter camps, trust me.” Inside my head I was mentally seeking my “Zen” and remembering my 2016 resolutions.
Once again, I digress. Where was I? Oh, feeling black. So last night my son’s nanny got devastating news. (THIS NEXT PART IS RATHER GRAPHIC AND NOT FOR SENSITIVE VIEWERS) Her 16 year old daughter who attends umhlanga (virginity testing) had been raped. She was literally falling apart with devastation. The daughter had been coming back from church and a a group of guys attacked her, they all planned to rape her but during the course of the evening an old man came and scared them off. No, this is not a movie, this happened just last night. And when she got the call we had to scramble to find the first bus for her to get to KZN. Luckily there was still space on the 11pm bus and we drove to Park Station to drop her off so she could be with the family. As if that wasn’t enough, my son has a boil on his bum. It started on Sunday but by yesterday afternoon, it had been bleeding and oozing red and white puss. Not pretty at all. He hasn’t been able to sit down because of the pain, even when we change his diaper we need to lie him down on his side. And it’s itchy, and it hurts. My plan was to excuse myself from work this morning, take him to the doctor and then go to work. But then last night’s drama happened. I asked my boss if I could work from home and he agreed. Then we went to the hospital, took forever to see the doctor, oh and then just because life is a comedy, he fell of the bed and the doctor was worried he might have a concussion so he kept us there for even longer (guess they didn’t wanna get sued or something). Then we drove to Spar and whilst shopping the heavy rains started. Meaning we were stuck in the centre or I’d have to subject my sick little boy to pouring rain, possible flu and a definite: Worst Mother Ever Award. But we waited for the rain to die down, I bought an umbrella at Clicks (R99 mind you!) and had to balance a toddler, groceries and and umbrella as we navigated our way to the car in the rain. But after all of that, we got home, I gave him his meds and started making supper. Ummm, can you recall any part of this where I actually did any of the “working from home?” Finally I’m getting to the point: Why am I feeling Oh So Black (again).
With work deadlines, how do I even begin to explain to my (male) boss what’s going on. This story sounds like a lie, not even a good lie. I can already see myself reciting it to colleagues and getting that: “Yeah right, if it’s not dead uncles it’s some other drama. Black people are just so lazy, and they expect us to always feel sorry for their latest *tragedy*.”
Sidenote: I am black. I happen to love being black on most days. And I happen to be proud of my black heritage. BUT. Yes, you must have guessed. There’s a BUT. For most of my career I’ve always tried to not bring my “inconvenient black things” to work. Telling the story of my nanny’s daughter is not meant as a means of providing comic relief or making light of a tragic situation I know well. But this is exactly the point. In the “black world” this isn’t unfamiliar. When my sister died, I remember looking at my boss, explaining that in Western culture we are considered half sisters, but in African culture there’s no such definition. A member of my core nuclear family had died and I needed to go home. The look of “There they go again” really hurt. My sister and I were closer than any of our other siblings, it took me months to get to a place where I didn’t break down just by thinking of her. But at that point in time: I felt like I was “being black, pulling black stunts, and wanting the world to go easy on me”. Interesting (and somewhat strange) thing is that, growing up, my mom has always enforced a great sense of discipline in us. Despite being black, and having “black things”, there were just certain behaviours that, even though they were normal in our surroundings, were not allowed. The first one being: Free Food / Free Things. My mom hated having us salivating and waiting for free food at funerals / weddings / church functions. We would attend the festivities, but not stick around for the free food. That got me into this habit of not getting excited about free things. I don’t know if anyone else has been to festivals or event where a free t-shirt or cap is thrown into the crowd. If ever that happens around me, I run the other way. If I’m at a meeting and there’s lots of food afterwards, I’m often ashamed of how people pile up side plates and cold drinks because I can see my mom’s judging eyes: I did not raise you to get excited about free things!
Back to today. I spent half the day with my boy in hospital, doctors and nurses prodding away at my baby, he can’t sit so we either had to lie on the hospital bed or he had to kneel. Both uncomfortable for his little body. But I had a teleconference with my team in Nairobi and deliverables were outlined, due tomorrow. How do I even begin to explain the 2 days I’ve had? The only thing I told my boss is that my nanny (who’s from KZN) had a family emergency so I’m working from home. The rape, the boil, the hospital... that’s all just a little too black for me to carry along with me as an excuse for not delivering.
In a normal world, I could share this, and probably get some sympathy, or laughs or both. But with how tense and paranoid and downright weird we all are with each other lately... That’s not even possible. I’ve actually felt this in the weeks I’ve been in Kenya this year. The air is lighter there, people are friendlier and we’re not constantly on edge like SA is these days. #BlackvsWhiteMustFall but while you’re at it, it would be nice to get our land back (even Zuma’s now paying back the money) #HashTagJustSaying
So now I’m working the midnight shift, un-blackening my image and making sure I deliver. Life really is just nothing more than a comedy... #TrueStory!
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