Today marks one year since the beginning of the worst/ week of/ my life. July 30th – August 6th 2006, all the gods and shetanis really conspired against me. If you’re too lazy to follow the links above, what happened that week was that I broke up with my (then) girlfriend, then I got assaulted in a white pub in South Africa.
Why is it still bothering me, especially now that it’s a whole year later? Especially for something as “simple” as a break-up? Those things happen and life goes on, right? What was meant to be was meant to be, right?
So what has changed since then? What kind of person have I become since?
1. South Africa/Afrikaners
Given the circumstances under which I left South Africa, I hope never to set foot in that country ever again in my life. At least not if I can help it. It’s a beautiful country and I have a lot of pleasant memories from my three years there and all the wonderful people that I met, but these memories were all messed up by a select few Afrikaners who tainted my opinion of the country as a whole. I hate Afrikaners, I’m not ashamed to admit that. As in I really, really do not like Afrikaners one bit. I have an extremely low opinion of them, not in the sense that I’d kill the first one that I came across, but in the sense that if I met a white person, you best hide the fact that you’re Afrikaner coz I’d probably not want anything to do with you after that.
And I think my reasons are justified. In three years, my fellow Kenyans and other blacks in general were constantly reminded of our place in the pecking order and subjected to substandard service at several places especially restaurants, as well as other types of mistreatment. That kind of foolishness one can probably tolerate, but when it comes to the point where your life is in danger, that’s a totally different pot of fish altogether.
Few people know that I received death threats after I tried to follow up the issue of the assault using a few unorthodox tactics since all the straight forward avenues had failed. As a result, I had to move house twice in 1.5 months for my own safety lest my face became the newest addition into St Peter’s photo album (aka the obituaries).
And when my plane ticket finally arrived, let’s just say that I’ve never had so much love for the red and green livery on a Kenya Airways aircraft. The flight crew literally had to peel me off the side of the plane and toss me into the cabin! I even sat in front so that I see Nairobi before the guys at the back! And I was the happiest man once the Boeing 737-800 left the tarmac at O.R. Tambo International. I think I might have shed a tear or two.
The amount of shit that I either saw or went through in 3 years can probably fill a book. I’ve never seen people who feel absolutely nothing for anyone else, a people so pretentious and hateful…I lack words. Then you come across such Afrikaner supremacist websites (Ok Alexcia seems to have deleted her blog, she had the links) and you lose words completely.
One thing that really used to piss me off is how the white students used to feel sweet for everyone else. Not that there was any racial tension quietly brewing, but you could sense the fact that they thought they were better then everyone else. I had only 2 white friends in 3 years! Imagine that! One was a chic who grew up on a farm with many black workers, so as she grew up she learnt isiXhosa and Zulu, so she can relate very well with blacks. The other one is a dude who I’d always find myself seated next to in one particularly boring economics lecture every week, so whenever one of us dozed off, the other would always keep an eye out for him in case the lecturer threw a glance in our direction. But we’d both end up dozing off anyway.
Surprisingly, if you had a white friend of the opposite sex, when you met somewhere, he/she’s probably give you a hug, just like you’d say hi to anyone else. But if it was out in the open, on campus, he/she’s probably only give you a poilte “Hi” and leave you pending, for fear of what his/her white friends would think if they saw them hug a black student. What does that tell you?
There were some dudes who lived in the same complex as I did, and they had cars. In winter (which caught us equatorial creatures off-guard) it’d rain cats and dogs but they’d never give anyone a lift to or from school, but when they needed to borrow something they’d run to my cottage. The white students would rarely take public transport, but in all that feeling sweet, I once came across some classified information that showed that a very healthy percentage of white students were on financial aid. Just like other students! So now who are you feeling sweet for? Just coz you’re sharing someone’s car and I’m riding the J-Class? (mathree) At least my fees were fully paid up!
Once, during an accounting tutorial session which was being led by a white 4th year student, my pal and I were part of the only 6 blacks out of about 20 students in class. One student asked a question in Afrikaans, which was explained in detail by the tutorial leader in Afrikaans. My pal asked for the leader to explain that in English since whatever question it is that was asked was probably relevant to all the students. The dude gave us a blank look like “WTF is your problem?” and continued explaining it in Afrikaans. So we walked out in protest, but we’d already signed the attendance register and handed in our assignments. The next week, the 6 of us were in shit for skiving the session, and we were all marked as absent. You think any of our 14 fellow students stood up for us and told the lecturer that we were actually there? Not one! Not a single one.
My only other three white pals were my regular cab driver who knew all the freshest gossip from the weekend’s activities (si he’s the one who used to drop guys home accompanied by their clandes), the barman/manager at my local pub who made quite a tidy sum from me over 3 years, as well as from the pool tournaments that I organized, and a little old lady who owned the mini supermarket near my apartment. She’d always make sure that I got fresh samosas and coconut cookies whenever I passed by after school. And she’d also have a copy of the Sunday Times delivered to my doorstep coz she knew I’d be too plastered on Sunday morning to go buy it myself, and they’d be sold out by 12pm.
If you haven’t noticed the link, there’s always money flowing from my pocket into theirs!! But none of them ever helped me out with anything if there was no money involved. Unless there’s money involved, Afrikaners are generally bila your time. Flash a note and there you’ve got yourself a bosom buddy!
But I think I can understand why some Afrikaners behave as they do, you have to remember the fact that they came to Africa in the dark ages, which is where most of them remained until little over 10 years ago, and a good number are still there trapped there now.
A year is a lot of time to forget someone and move on, which I thought I had, well at least until last weekend. See, I ran into my ex’s best friend as well as her bro on the hanye. Of course conversation somehow drifted into the topic of us, what went wrong, what could have been and all that.
They say that alcohol gives you the courage to reveal the truth that lies deep within. It lowers your inhibitions. Let’s just say that I wish I hadn’t opened my mouth. Y’all have no idea how many times I’ve pinched myself since Friday.
“Did I say that? Oh shit I think I did. Who did I say that to? Why the fuck did I say that?!” *pinches self!*
You see, you know in your rational mind that it’s over and you can never get your ex back, but your stupid side always carries that little thread of hope that miracles can happen. I ended up saying a lot of stuff that should probably have been reserved for a private journal, which would then be burnt before another human being came across it. I just hope that they were as plastered as I was on Friday night and that they won’t remember jack shit about what I said!
It took a very long time to get over my ex, during which time I sought solace in all the wrong places, slept with more women then I care to count or remember. I call that my malaya phase. I’m a lot more cautious now where matters of affection are involved. I’ve told myself that the next woman who’ll own my roho, that’s the one to whose father’s shamba I’ll be taking some cows and goats. And that’s not any time in the near future!
1. Some people have complained about the very irritating comment moderation on this blog that apparently only allows specific individuals to comment. There is no comment moderation on this blog. La hasha. Anyone can post a comment here. What happens with WordPress blogs is that they come with Akismet spam catcher as standard. So the first time that you post a comment here, it’ll be sent to moderation. As soon as I check my email and find comments waiting to be approved, I’ll do that, (which I do for all comments) From then onwards, whenever you post a comment using the same name that you did the first time, it’ll automatically be approved. Kwa hivyo sio ati kuna favouritism kati ya ma regulars na ma non-regulars or anything like that. Feelanga free to post a comment.
It makes absolutely no sense to me why a person would waste time reading a blog that doesn’t interest him/her, and then leave very ugly abyooosive comments on the blog. If you don’t like what you read, no one forced you to read it! Just don’t read it!! Read something else!!
2. I’m converting my old blog into a photo blog. Stay tuned.
What’s on my Playlist?
Kelis – Get along with you