I wish I could start this article with a line like “twas a dark and stormy night” for dramatic effect, but I can’t, because, truthfully, it was a mild November night, one of those comfortable evenings before the harsh summer heat hits in December.
It was in the early hours of the morning. We had just closed the doors of the restaurant where I was working, and the majority of the staff were climbing into the staff van for the journey to their respective homes.
By contrast, I climbed into my (old) BMW, as I had, for the first time in my life, nowhere else to go. I was “technically” homeless. I slept a few hours, woke up, grabbed a breakfast special, went to the gym to wash, and then bided my time until the next shift started.
On some nights I would sleep with the families of two black friends, one in a location and the other in a predominantly coloured area.
This routine continued for a few weeks, some nights in the car, other nights with these families, until both families, independently of each another, said I could stay with them indefinitely, no terms and conditions attached.
So while my long established friends, who, for whatever reasons, were unaware of my situation, two black families, whose elders bore the brunt of apartheid, took me in. Such is the spirit of Ubuntu. I am because you are.
There is a concept in black families called the collective. As the name suggests, it concerns the fact that the well-being of any one individual is the concern of all in the community. No matter how little I have, I must share it with my fellow man if he is in need of some assistance. It is an extension of the concept of Ubuntu. It predates the apartheid years, but was certainly put to the test during those years, with the way apartheid tore black families apart. I was the beneficiary of this concept. In the one house there were already six people residing, in the other two bedroomed house there were three adults and two children. That was irrelevant to them. I needed help, and, in fact, I wasn’t even offered accommodation, I was instructed to stay.
Back in the nasty days of apartheid there was a saying – black is beautiful but white is right. It is very sad, that to a large extent, this saying still holds true today. Our society is still structured so that white and straight is viewed as the norm, the benchmark. Any deviation from that – black, or gay – is just that, a deviation. So if one looks at dating websites, for example, the main section – the “norm” – is dedicated to white people. Black people – the “deviation”- is housed in a separate category. It is unfortunate that this mind-set, which implies a certain degree of superiority, still pervades in white peoples’ minds. Who can blame them though? It has been “their norm” since before any of them were born.
It was, despite the sentiment existing in this country as I describe above, two black families that extended the hand of friendship to me. In fact, in my seventeen years of frequenting our townships, I have always been met with a welcoming hand. If any whitie wants to know what it feels like to be a Kardashian – a celebrity for no reason at all – visit a township tavern. Often the tavern owner himself would make a point of greeting me, telling me to enjoy myself and “be free”.
Since the dawn of our democracy 20 years ago a lot has been spoken about the hand of forgiveness extended by the black population to the white population. If one considers the brutality that was committed in the name of apartheid, if one acknowledges the virtual lack of retribution post 1994, then this hand of forgiveness should be grabbed with immense gratitude by the white population. It is my fervent belief that, twenty years later, this hand of forgiveness is still extended. If only the white population would grab it, shake it, and ask what can we do to make this beautiful country better?