I’ve never been a typical tourist in Africa. I’ve never been on safari. Never travelled through the bush on the back of a landy. Never visited multiple African countries. I’ve never spent time observing different African cultures. I’ve been a city slicker virtually my entire life – apart from a few early years on farms when I was too young to remember. I avoid sand and mud if I can help it. Snakes are the devil. Frogs aren’t far behind. Spiders I can handle. Walking is good, but not too far and don’t call it hiking. Hiking I don’t do. The shoes are ugly and to me unless there’s a destination, what’s the point? I don’t watch nature programs because it’s too traumatic for me to see a defenseless buck being mauled by a lion. I keep thinking that the buck was another buck’s baby and could be a mother to her own baby buck. I’m not brave in the wild. I scream. I cry. Most traditional African food makes me gag unless its phutu or samp. Mopani worms, no thanks. Boiled goat, Kapenta – pass. I need a clean flushing toilet. Running water. And electricity. And a bed raised off the floor. At all times. I would rather stay at home than sleep in a tent. In a word, I am a wuss. I am the biggest nature wuss you’ve ever come across. I am Africa’s bastard child.
But something about the quote above really moves me. It may be because I’m trying to build a life in a foreign country. It may be because I miss my home, my family, the familiar. Either way – the quote and image above makes me proud to hail from Africa. Proud to be an African. Even though I’m her bastard child. Even though I’m terrified of most of her nature and pretty much all of her wildlife.
This got me thinking about what it actually means to be African? How do we make this connection to the continent of our birth and what nurtures it? It is family for sure. It is shared experience in a place one calls home. The traditions and cultures one shares – whatever these may be. Whether it’s a Sunday roast every week, a trip to a restaurant to celebrate happy news or a cultural ceremony in one’s backyard. Being a part of a family unit and a broader community helps to define one, shape identity, root one in a world where the boundaries don’t exist except as governments have created them.
As a child, I spent many happy family holidays along the Kwa-Zulu Natal south coast. Net fishing with my cousins in rock pools, body surfing with my sister in the shorebreak, picking mussels with my uncle, scouring the beach in search of a prized cowry. Sunbathing with my mom. Inevitably nursing sunburn that evening. Honing my skill at making Irish coffees for my aunt. Walking alongside cornfields whilst visiting my grandparents in the KZN interior, eating oranges or sneaking Wilson toffees from the stash in my grandfather’s pocket. Sitting in a warm cosy kitchen watching while my Gran made crumpets. Weekend day trips to the local dam, waterskiing and enjoying braais in the sun. The smell of charcoal and Tabard. Christmas Days spent lolling in a swimming pool, eating too much food and the nervous anticipation of Father Christmas. Chlorine and sun cream, gammon and mince pies, Quality Street chocolates. Learning to drive with my Dad along dusty Eastern Cape backroads or sitting on the back of his motorbike with the wind in my hair. Unbearably hot and humid afternoons in Pietermaritzburg where the air sits in a haze until there’s a release and the heavens finally open. The smell after a storm; organic but with a lingering trace of the city…tarmac, car fumes, smog.
As an adult, I think of carefree picnics at Barley Beach or Signal Hill in Cape Town. Beautiful scenes of sea and land and the point at which they meet. Mountains and valleys in the Winelands. The Helderberg. Greens and browns in perfect harmony. The golden Highveld in Johannesburg. Vibrant purple Jacarandas in Pretoria. The quaint KZN Midlands. The whooshing sound of Howick Falls. The Umgeni River’s slow journey to the sea. The spectacular Kloof Gorge, the panoramic outlook across the Krantzkloof Nature Reserve. The Berea’s palm trees and harbour views. The majestic ranges in the Drakensberg, the quiet Underberg and picturesque rolling hills of Ixopo. The yellow beaches of the South Coast. The enticing blue waters of the Dolphin Coast. The arid Karoo and her striking lonely beauty. The views of pancake flat land as one drives the back route through the Free State to the Cape. The peaks and valleys of the Transkei. The distinctive flora of the Eastern Cape, the aloes that dot the landscape in an orange flash of colour. Electric thunderstorms and multi-coloured rainbows. Sunrises with promise and sunsets rich with the blessing of a full day.
This is my Africa. These memories and the experiences I hold in my heart. They are a living record of the places I’ve been, the people I’ve met. These memories reflect laughter, joy, family, friendship and a life lived. These memories are all that make me African. Offer me a valid passport to land of my birth. I may not have seen the Big Five. I may not have ridden an elephant, watched a wildebeest migration in the Maasai Mara or spotted a leopard in the Serengeti. I may not have camped alongside the Okavango Delta or rafted down the Zambezi. But My Africa is just as magical. It belongs to me. And I carry it with me always.
