5/7/2016

Today is my birthday, I am 23 years old.  I’ve lived in South Africa for over five months, and everyday I’ve been taught that bizarre is normal.  Normality has no limits.

One day I sat on a taxi from Lebowakgomo back to Jane Furse.  The suspension was made out of rubber bands, or at least lacking a sway bar.  In front of me was a happily toothless gogo carrying two chickens stuffed into a plastic grocery bag.  One ancient fossil of a grandpa, whose skin was so wrinkled and dry it could have made rolling tobacco, sat to my right.  On my left sat a South African millennial with hot pink lip gloss, to my relief, she replaced the odorously drunk man eating a fried fish fillet who initially took the seat thinking he was on the taxi to Schonoord.  Every window was shut and the air was oppressive, like breathing through a coffee straw, as if it had been rotting the sticky vinyl benches since the doors shut in 1973 to never open again.

Another day I hit the gym at 4:30am and ended work at 5:00pm. Physically and mentally exhausted after the long day I jumped from streetlight to streetlight on the way home from work.  I visited Shoprite grocery store on the way to browse the hot dinners for an excuse to not cook.  The end of the month is when the government pays pensions and grants so the till lines were as  long as the work day with freshly paid people.  Before reaching the till, two people came specifically to me, and asked me for money.  Before scanning my ¼ chicken and salad the cashier asked me for,

10 rand, please.

But The food is 19.9 rand.

Please, just for lunch.

… I have 20 rand, just for dinner.

I handed over my 20 rand note and left without the receipt, bent by exhaustion, crossed with discomfort and stifled optimism.

Stuffy death traps called taxis and stereotypes of my shining, beacon-like whiteness were ridiculous.  Now they are as normal as they are inevitable yet one aspect of my current life is perpetually crazy.

My schedule book resembles a “Beautiful Mind” type fantasy realm; possessed by ideas, reasons for action, plans and meeting times.  I am deeply involved with multiple projects on the ground now and planning a couple more to hit the ground running.  Between projects, I deal with whatever gets dropped with untied shoelaces.  Phone calls of people I coordinate, friends who love speaking English or cats I herd celebritize me.  I might exchange an email with the mayor’s office to schedule a meeting or share ideas, next week I’ll have a meeting with the Kgoshi to explain a business plan and hopefully gain an endorsement.

…each project is extensive, if you want to know more.. email me…

Why am I able place myself into provincially appointed projects? How do I get personal meetings with one of the most influential persons in Limpopo? What true designation or authority do I have for anything?

Professional experience and a 4-year American undergraduate degree surely help.  But they never had me charge myself into power by proving my thoughts need attention or use community based reason to establish common sense.  I’ve never planned so far in advance to be living more than two steps ahead let alone twenty.  My capable colleagues who put together a royal wealth of experience trust my instincts and support my ventures.  They even laugh when I beg, “I’m a 22 year old kid, I hope you know I make everything up.”  Now I’m a 23 year old kid, but I still make everything up.  Maybe I’ll fake it ‘till I make it to 24 and flying the plane home.

I must be blind and deaf to some boisterous elephants parading in the room because being important is as strange as plastic bagged chickens and fair-skinned implications used to be.

-Riley