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The Salvation Army
Port Elizabeth compared to Johannesburg was a strange and unwelcoming place.
The memory of the beauty of growing up in a city by the sea, the sun, the beach, the surf, where you can smell and almost taste the sea salt in the air. In Port Elizabeth the blue sky remains like a blue light that travels like a bird, it is cleansing like a ritual purification or a summer rain, it disappears like screen idols in Hollywood and spies. It’s a friendly legend and it’s as soothing as a warm glass of milk. In Johannesburg the air was like a sea-fog that enveloped your body and soothed you with its fiercest heat and cruelly struck you with a sickness in the dead of winter. In the early evening, when I walked home after getting off the minibus taxi at the corner of Simmonds Street, and Bree and I walked to the Salvation Army were the happiest moments of my life. I was free, alone, self-sufficient and independent. I didn’t have to answer anyone for ten minutes.
As a child I felt free and overprotected. As an adult I lacked common sense, but I was serious and intelligent. There were times when I felt positively small and insignificant. The beginning of my career (working at a TV company) was an invasion, the end was a cure for all my incurable madness and the deep feelings I felt of being deeply worthless and afraid and it made me recognize what the void in my life was – that I should talk to my mother more often. My confidence was misconstrued as arrogance. I had become the mean girl I hated in high school.
The overwhelming and unbearable summer heat in Johannesburg made me sick. In the winter, this was replaced by a numbing cold that ran all over my body. It was immovable.
In both cities cultures are in panic, people speak in languages: there are eleven official languages; everything is blue or black, as serious as a heart attack where the sky often transcends this experience: this black alienation. The world exists upside down. Here women and children of color are not just lost or a shell of a human being, tormented and abused by men, living in poverty without proper sanitation, drinking water or education (the many advantages that first world countries have ), are gone. His eyes are dead. They survive by any means necessary. They stay in a shelter for a while, but because it is temporary, they leave and often return to their homes where there is domestic violence.
Port Elizabeth and Johannesburg are cities of sacrifice and survival. In both cities the girls are radical and sublime: heavenly creatures who seem old before their time. In Johannesburg they consume too much alcohol, drugs, party hard, lines of cocaine, smoke weed, while girls in Port Elizabeth acquire puppy fat, eat pudding, eat more portions, snack more between meals, have babies and unhappy marriages. Smart girls often don’t make smart decisions. They have a degree, but then they take on a false life, a false identity: they make the ultimate sacrifice in time by stripping themselves, their intellect and their chutzpah in minute doses and with it any sense of completion.
In Johannesburg, tough, successful faces masked the frail hearts of the pale outsiders, the hunted “old souls” and the haunted. They were in the minority in terms of thinking; the cries of unbreakable triumphs ignited their minds trapped in Johannesburg nightlife and their lifestyles were sordid. All that was inherently beautiful and decent within them died and became utterly corrupt. It is only the dead whose neuroses are safely disguised without investigation and who are left untroubled to meet and save present and past ghosts.
The city streets are seductively mapped by color. Street vendors ply their trade outside popular retail stores. The malls are clean; its surfaces are sanitary, shiny and new. The window displays are bright which beautifully reveal the fresh elegance of the store’s bright alien interior.
Sometimes there are street children who sleep on the street. They are sullen, asleep, dreaming and calm: the fear is gone. At night, despite hunger, fire, spiteful episodes, deranged, mentally ill or emotionally unstable people stay on the streets because they have no home to go to. When I feel that midnight has lasted all day, I think that they are even worse off than I am. As I walk past them at night to get to the Salvation Army where I stay, I realize how painful it is to see the vulnerability of a human being. I’m glad they can’t see mine.
It’s addicting to believe that someone is in love with you for who you are even though deep down you know it’s a big lie. Without inviting me, he kisses my face. It’s cool, dangerous. He tells me I’m beautiful but I don’t believe him. I know he’s only saying that because he wants to sleep with me. Natasha, my friend says she only wants to sleep with me because I’m a virgin. I’m inclined to believe her. I am very inexperienced, shy, insecure and depressed. I think she looks like an angel with her blonde hair and brown eyes. This is just a phase, I tell myself, and I will grow out of it.
A very famous jazz musician and composer shot his wife and then killed himself in the building where I worked. I was editing some of my work and fell asleep. The hunted are always as serious as the urge to fly to get there. Did he feel that he had no face in this cold and unknown world? Was he sleep-sick from his rage? Could he have saved Moses Molelekwa?
The color of my skin distracts me: am I white, am I black? I’m colored It seems as if all my dreams are incomplete on this very basis alone.
How does a mother forget her own child’s birthday? How does a mother forget her own child? I’m the pale outsider with a fragile heart and butterflies in her stomach when she gets nervous. Am I not funny enough, happy enough, satisfied enough, is it my funny clothes or my hairstyle that needs re-evaluating? Is it because maybe I’ve become a younger, more efficient version of her, updated and understated?
I wait a whole afternoon for the phone to ring. For her to wish me “Happy Birthday” but that’s a totally soulless exercise and once again my world is intact but changed: I’ll never grow up. My mother – a mermaid – will always shadow me.
I don’t feel like drinking. I don’t feel like dancing. So I sit at the bar. People buy me drinks and I sometimes get up to dance because people also come up to me and ask or talk to me, I think because I’m sitting alone. But I’m freaking out because I feel so tired and sad and I wonder why everyone is being so nice to me. All I want to do is go to sleep and get some well-deserved rest. I didn’t want to be alone this afternoon. But you’re worse when you’re alone in a crowd of people having fun because it’s the weekend. They want to party and forget the stress they experienced that week. Nothing blurs and blurs the hard edges of your world and makes it disappear.
Africa, Africa, Africa drop me where you are.
There are wild roads in Africa. Above, the clouds move in mysterious ways. No electrical overload here to light up gifted kids doing their homework. The power of my dreams feeds on hunger. It is no different from their motivation. Animals lick their young but stripped of this substitute; of touch, we die.
This is the end of the world: wild, dangerous, hurtful and self-destructive. In its pure state of being Africa is wilder than the wind; he sighs in the African fields of dreams and as in the survival of the fittest there is pain behind his smile. For an uneducated woman, girl, daughter, can’t love be the only escape we’ve ever known?
Africa kills me, nourishes me, you make me forget, capable of more beauties, you are like a mushroom explosion that inspires disorder, you are not invited, you destroy me, your red flowers bloom, you are a vampire, stir shadows like a forest black in the night, a nightmare of the devil, Africa is as smart as the occupation of the sun and beyond the reach of oblivion.
Africa you saved a terrified and insecure child. I am the phoenix that finally rose from the ashes and found the way out.
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