Hoist by my own petard (4 of 4)

I’m talking to a woman at work… doing a really terrible job trying to justify why I haven’t bothered to learn a local language (simple answer? Shuffles feet, looks anywhere but straight into your eyes… a colonized mind… currently going through acceptance stage and seeing hope in the distant future…) and explaining that there are many words in isiZulu that are similar to Kiswahili… e.g. inywele – nywele; nyama – nyama; the grammatical construction is similar: sebenza – work/use, sebenzisha (condom) – make use/work (condom), haisebenzi – it’s not working, mina – mimi, wena - wewe. In the course of the conversation she mentions her youngest daughter, 2^nd year in college, is so dark skinned that the older siblings have counseled her to keep her ID book on her at all times. Why? So that when the police catch up with her, she doesn’t get deported as an illegal immigrant…wealth of melanin is something that’s used to determine whether you’re from SA or from ‘the north’.

A philosopher friend says that we in Africa won’t develop economically this generation, because we are still obsessed with race. Look at any speech by Mbeki, he says, it concerns race, always emphasizing that we Africans are human too. Compare this to the Asian Tigers… they’re economically focused, they have moved beyond racism… [yes, but did they really ever deal with the issues this continent has dealt with? The level of racism, exploitation, division?] Perhaps our children… will not have to fight this war, perhaps they can focus on economic development, and not on establishing that they are human too? Not sure about that… a friend from Zim, moved here several years ago, had her tween kids in a private school in the northern suburbs of Johannesburg… they asked their mom to send them to boarding school in Zim… they need a break, they’re tired of constantly asserting that they’re human too… she obliges ‘cause “if the kids ask for it themselves, why would I deny them the opportunity to live in a more nurturing environment?” Following philosopher friend’s assertion, prospects for economic development and race-free thinking in the next generation have also been tainted.

Then I join a friend for dinner at his colleague’s house… a bunch of ngo-ers from the developed world… good times? The weather forecast has said it’ll rain, but the host is taking bets that it won’t. The sky is cloudy, we’re sitting outside in the garden. While dining we hear the distant rumble of thunder and see a few flashes of lightening, but we remain outside. After dinner we hear a distant roar and it is definitely getting closer… everyone’s relaxed and I’m the only one concerned about getting rained on (black women... our hair...). I ask if we have an ‘emergency action plan’ to hottail it indoors once the rain starts to pour (as promised by that roar). No one’s budging… it gets close enough that I pick up cushions from a couple of chairs and dash indoors, moments before the promised deluge sends everyone else scampering for cover… once indoors, one of the ladies says “that was great instinct… you felt it… just like an animal”… and she repeats that statement… for good measure, just in case we didn’t hear it the first time. I fall out laughing! Clearly I have succeeded in driving myself completely insane… I now suspect racism in everything.

But it’s not all doom and gloom… there are happy days. I discover the fresh produce market and make early morning visits during which I buy traditional fare for breakfast: matumbo, pap (ugali), magwinya (aka ‘fatcakes’ deep-fried kinda-mandazis that aren’t swollen, but the dough has been lovingly massaged by hands ... you have no idea what was being touched before the magwinya frying begun) [I onced asked for magwinya in the afternoon, and the lady I asked said you should never eat them after 11am… you’ll end up getting fat! ‘cause you won’t have enough time in the day to burn off those calories... I learnt the hard way], beetroot, chakalaka, and some gravy.

My go-to-guy at the market? A South African man of Lebanese origin who wants me as his 2^nd wife. I discover the joys of commercial agriculture: watermelon that is consistently sweet, from the first to the last one of the season... different varieties of mangoes (but none as "orgasmic" as ripe apple mangoes from back home), and all the grapes I can eat, for a very low price (when in season). Seedless everything (tangerines, pawpaws of the red-fleshed variety, grapes, watermelon) makes life (during the right season) a pleasure-filled wonderland. He doesn’t have grapes when I want them, so he sends me to another agent about 3 ‘stands’ away from his, says to look for “the short, fat gorgeous guy”. I find an Italian man who answers to that description and I get my grapes. There’s a time I accidentally tear up a receipt (for fruits I’ve just purchased) and get stopped at the exit. Leb comes over and explains that I was blinded by his proposition… a couple of years on, the receipt checkers still grin real big whenever I present myself and purchases to them at the exit. Here at the market, instead of psst, psst hisses from men carrying sacks on their backs, there is the toot toot of cranes moving pallets back and forth… and plenty of workers doing this work. The racial make up? Traders mostly Afrikaners and Indians, the laborers are black… I even catch some Kiswahili being spoke, turn back and greet the group before moving on.

There is a growing number of black traders though… and one of them challenges me about why I’m buying from my friend Leb and not from him… time to put my money where my mouth is… right? But Leb and I have a connection, banter, a relationship … [not to mention that Leb has silver temples]… hoist by my own petard, I fear… sometimes my rhetoric (economically support “your community”) catches up with me and bites me in the behind... showing me that it really isn’t all that cut and dried… sometimes. On days when Leb isn’t there, it’s a little less pleasant… I encounter a broad spectrum of traders… some who barely care that I want to buy their produce… I’ve walked away (after lecturing passionately) from an Afrikaner who said I shouldn’t touch his produce, buy as is! and me who likes to feel up my food before I buy it… it was more in the way he said it than in what he said.

Others aren’t concerned about things like petty pride, they focus on their goals: make a profit, therefore buy at a low price regardless of how the seller treats you. Ah what can I do… I want affordable food, I have to keep putting up with potential situations like those… if I was truly dedicated though, sure I’d find farmers who could use my support… things to ponder… then act upon.