It’s been 5 years, and 6 months, to the day, since I left South Africa. I had 2 suitcases of dreams, the penny-pinching savings of a twenty-something, and a broken heart.
America may well be the land of dreams, but as an African, that bloody soil continues to marinate in my bones, churning up mixed emotions daily. With the coming of Fall, and the lights of the holiday season on the horizon, it’s easy to remember why I fell in love with America. I admire the hospitable and giving, innovative, demanding spirit of the people, covet their bountiful harvests of food, iPods and wooden homes, marvel at the unending landscapes of New York, Miami, San Diego, and Texas, and draw strength from their world power status. Full stop. As a people, they are so border-less, with a moral integrity and humanitarian character, I have never gotten around to prioritising or developing within myself. First on the scene in the red light district of Calcutta, the Asian tsunami, and sending their offspring to Africa to build schools during the summer. Where I come from there’s a “me first” approach to living that is so necessary in the constant unspoken battles of daily life. Looking after others is a luxury – an afterthought to just surviving. I relish raising my young ones somewhere as beautiful inside and out as this.
Having said that, and this is the hard part to get into, there’s always a part of me missing. Like someone died, and only a handful of people around me ever knew them. At first, I horded everything African. I hung masks from Nigeria on the walls (to the consternation of my roommate from Colorado), joined the expat clubs where we thickened up our accents and talked up our flights home in December, read the books on District Six, the Anglo-Boer War and everything in between, enbalmed my aching heart in traditional dishes, filled the corners of my apartment with drumbeats and tribal choruses…Then I married an American.
But the hard part is staying in touch with my previous life. If the 10 hour time difference doesn’t challenge you, Skype’s faulty connections, and the resistance of others to the digital revolution will get you. Perhaps in the end, this is the charm of distant shores, but still, it gets me every time!
