A second glance
Created | Updated Nov 18, 2005
There once was a road, an old road to be exact. It was not a glamorous road with dreams of becoming a highway, nor was it merely a meandering path that had become forgotten and unused over the years. It was simply a road. Old and dusty perhaps, rutted with the grace of time, but a road nonetheless.
This road had seen a few things throughout the years, children skipping ahead; wanting to see what was around the corner, an old woman, slowed down by age and wisdom, simply enjoying the day. It had heard the screams and the whispers of the people, the secrets and the gossip. The road had seen it all, the good times and the bad. However, if the road had a memory, one event would stick out in its mind. If the road had a voice it would have one story to tell… and this is it.
Over the years one learns to see what is out of the ordinary. After watching thousands of people, and listening to their stories, I knew the moment I saw her that she was different. She was no older than 17, still possessing the radiance of youth about her. However she did not hold the feeling of invincibility that disappears only with time. This was a girl who knew what was out there, the dangers the real world could bring. But to the ordinary eye she was just another girl, beautiful in many respects yet average in a lot of others. She had the ability to blend into any crowd, she did not stick out and she was nothing special… at least at first glance, and that was all that anyone ever gave her.
The first time we met was a hot dusty day just like any other. Her feet pounded into the earth, stirring up the red dirt under the hot African sun. I had learned from the gossip of the weathered old women who would walk my path to the well that she was the daughter of an old white man who had come to this poverty stricken village. He used to be a seaman, serving in the navy. But something had happened in the course of his career and he had dropped everything of his life back home, packed up his teenage daughter, and came to live in the wild plains of Africa. That was all I ever learned about the old man. He had a mysterious aura about him. The people came to respect him as just another person in the landscapes of their lives, and he came to respect the people by staying out of their way, and asking for nothing, seemingly an invisible background figure. His daughter however was a different story. She did not cause trouble, and she like her father preferred to stay out of the way. However the gentleness that she gave off drew the people to her, and soon they were all quite comfortable in their new friendships. Often she would run down my path, wanting for nothing but solitude. She would follow me all the way to the old acacia tree, where she would sit for hours, watching the blood red sun set, and the stars come out one by one, starting in the timeless ritual of the night sky dance.
Most days, she would just sit in silence. Her adidas sneakers out of place intertwined in the roots of the tree. Every once in a while, a young child from the village would work up enough courage to follow her out to the tree, and they would just sit in silence, a contrast of black and white. Some days she would cry, and others she would bring her notebook and write. But my favorite days were when she would come and sing. Her favorite song was an old poem that she had set her own tune to:
“ Singing I was at peace
Above the clouds, outside the ring
For sorrow finds a swift release in song
And pride its poise.”
It was a sad song with a haunting melody. A tune that one might expect to hear on the moors of Scotland… It was out of place, it did not mesh with the drums that are the heartbeat of Africa. It told a tale of sadness and conflict, not a story of bravery or victory. It seemed to be the story of her life, and she was sticking to it.
And so the rhythm of life continued. The girl never becoming too involved, yet if she left the people would be at a loss. To them she was a symbol of hope – she treated them well, ignoring the color of their skin completely. With the battles going on between the tribes, and the oppression of the black man by the white man in Africa many people had become discouraged. They had forgotten their voice, and had succumbed to a life where they were the inferior ones. They were treated like dirt, and they did not fight it.
This was proven one day when a group of tourists had come rumbling down my path. Their 4 x 4 jeep seemed out of place in the rustic landscape, and when they alighted from the vehicle it was a comical sight. A classic tacky tourist picture -their shorts below their knees, their cameras dangling around their necks and their faces shadowed by their oversized hats. They brought with them a sense of intrusion, the glamour of America that did not belong. Their accents were harsh to the ears and they dripped arrogance. The girl just wanted to disappear when they came, knowing that this encounter would bring nothing good. However her white skin stuck out in the crowd, and seeing this she was of course the immediate attraction.
“Hey Harry! Look! A white girl! I wonder if she speaks English.” One of the Americans said to the other.
“Well ask her then. I doubt it, she probably grew up here. Poor thing.”
“Hello sweetheart.” The first one said turning to the girl, “Hey now, don’t give me that look. CAN YOU UNDERSTAND ME? DO YOU SPEAK ENGLISH?” She said, over enunciating the words saying them loudly and gesturing her arms wildly, her fat wobbling all over the place.
“Yes, I can. What do you want here?” The girl responded. She was not offended by these rude people; she just wished they would leave. She did not like the attitude they brought with them.
“Just checkin’ out the local scenery. Got a little lost on our way to Pretoria. That’s pretty hard to do considering there are very few roads hey? What are these rascals like… awfully dirty around here isn’t it. You think they could take the time to wash now and then. No wonder they were our slaves! They’re too stupid to take care of themselves.” Both the Americans laughed, obviously pleased with the joke, ignorant to the fact that the crowd around them were squirming uncomfortably.
“Please don’t” the girl said softly. “I’ve been teaching them English a bit, they can understand you. They are not stupid, you are insulting them. Don’t take away their dignity.”
“They don’t got none left!” The man said, as he spat on the ground. “Wotcher lookin at boy?” He said to a young boy who had wandered up to stand beside the girl and was staring at him. “Whaddyer want? Keep your stinking kaffir hands away from my pockets you hear? Nothing but a waste of skin. Come on dear, let’s go. This place is giving me the creeps. Don’t even got the manners to offer starving travelers a decent meal.” And without a backward glance they clambered in their jeep and sped away, the tires stirring up the dust behind them.
It was a short and brief incident, but it had an immediate effect on the village. The small boy standing beside the girl looked down at his tattered shorts. He did not own a shirt, and his feet were caked with dirt. A single tear slid down his cheek, and splashed onto the ground, mixing with the saliva of the American.
“Don’t cry. They are wrong, they know nothing. They are the stupid ones. Look your tears mix with the ground just the same as his spit. We are all the same, don’t think otherwise okay? You know it in your heart. Listen to what it says… Mayibuye Afrika! Come back Africa! They are gone now… everything can go back to… normal.” The last word she stumbled on. For she knew in her heart nothing would ever go back to normal.
The American incident might be forgotten in the mind of the young boy, but there will always be the taint of racism in the world. It is a struggling conflict, one that reaches out and can affect the heart of every one.
That night the girl went for a run, she ran until her lungs felt like they would burst. She was fueled with anger, and with sadness. She wanted to keep running, and go away from it all, but she knew that in the end, it would catch up with her. For she was merely human and had her limits… When finally she could run no longer, the pounding of her feet subsided, and the dust settled. She sat down at the side of the road and began to weep. She wept for the injustice of it all, and just when she felt she could bear it no longer, she felt a small hand on her shoulder. It was the small boy from earlier.
“Don’t cry” he said. “We are all the same. Just like you said. And if we are all the same, then everyone must have some good. Just like you. Don’t cry. Everything is back to normal. We are going to be okay”
And with that, she felt the knots in her stomach disappear. She knew he was right. There will always be injustice and racism in the world. But where there is darkness there is always light, “above the clouds, outside the ring.” And that light is what she had brought with her.
This road had seen a few things throughout the years, children skipping ahead; wanting to see what was around the corner, an old woman, slowed down by age and wisdom, simply enjoying the day. It had heard the screams and the whispers of the people, the secrets and the gossip. The road had seen it all, the good times and the bad. However, if the road had a memory, one event would stick out in its mind. If the road had a voice it would have one story to tell… and this is it.
Over the years one learns to see what is out of the ordinary. After watching thousands of people, and listening to their stories, I knew the moment I saw her that she was different. She was no older than 17, still possessing the radiance of youth about her. However she did not hold the feeling of invincibility that disappears only with time. This was a girl who knew what was out there, the dangers the real world could bring. But to the ordinary eye she was just another girl, beautiful in many respects yet average in a lot of others. She had the ability to blend into any crowd, she did not stick out and she was nothing special… at least at first glance, and that was all that anyone ever gave her.
The first time we met was a hot dusty day just like any other. Her feet pounded into the earth, stirring up the red dirt under the hot African sun. I had learned from the gossip of the weathered old women who would walk my path to the well that she was the daughter of an old white man who had come to this poverty stricken village. He used to be a seaman, serving in the navy. But something had happened in the course of his career and he had dropped everything of his life back home, packed up his teenage daughter, and came to live in the wild plains of Africa. That was all I ever learned about the old man. He had a mysterious aura about him. The people came to respect him as just another person in the landscapes of their lives, and he came to respect the people by staying out of their way, and asking for nothing, seemingly an invisible background figure. His daughter however was a different story. She did not cause trouble, and she like her father preferred to stay out of the way. However the gentleness that she gave off drew the people to her, and soon they were all quite comfortable in their new friendships. Often she would run down my path, wanting for nothing but solitude. She would follow me all the way to the old acacia tree, where she would sit for hours, watching the blood red sun set, and the stars come out one by one, starting in the timeless ritual of the night sky dance.
Most days, she would just sit in silence. Her adidas sneakers out of place intertwined in the roots of the tree. Every once in a while, a young child from the village would work up enough courage to follow her out to the tree, and they would just sit in silence, a contrast of black and white. Some days she would cry, and others she would bring her notebook and write. But my favorite days were when she would come and sing. Her favorite song was an old poem that she had set her own tune to:
“ Singing I was at peace
Above the clouds, outside the ring
For sorrow finds a swift release in song
And pride its poise.”
It was a sad song with a haunting melody. A tune that one might expect to hear on the moors of Scotland… It was out of place, it did not mesh with the drums that are the heartbeat of Africa. It told a tale of sadness and conflict, not a story of bravery or victory. It seemed to be the story of her life, and she was sticking to it.
And so the rhythm of life continued. The girl never becoming too involved, yet if she left the people would be at a loss. To them she was a symbol of hope – she treated them well, ignoring the color of their skin completely. With the battles going on between the tribes, and the oppression of the black man by the white man in Africa many people had become discouraged. They had forgotten their voice, and had succumbed to a life where they were the inferior ones. They were treated like dirt, and they did not fight it.
This was proven one day when a group of tourists had come rumbling down my path. Their 4 x 4 jeep seemed out of place in the rustic landscape, and when they alighted from the vehicle it was a comical sight. A classic tacky tourist picture -their shorts below their knees, their cameras dangling around their necks and their faces shadowed by their oversized hats. They brought with them a sense of intrusion, the glamour of America that did not belong. Their accents were harsh to the ears and they dripped arrogance. The girl just wanted to disappear when they came, knowing that this encounter would bring nothing good. However her white skin stuck out in the crowd, and seeing this she was of course the immediate attraction.
“Hey Harry! Look! A white girl! I wonder if she speaks English.” One of the Americans said to the other.
“Well ask her then. I doubt it, she probably grew up here. Poor thing.”
“Hello sweetheart.” The first one said turning to the girl, “Hey now, don’t give me that look. CAN YOU UNDERSTAND ME? DO YOU SPEAK ENGLISH?” She said, over enunciating the words saying them loudly and gesturing her arms wildly, her fat wobbling all over the place.
“Yes, I can. What do you want here?” The girl responded. She was not offended by these rude people; she just wished they would leave. She did not like the attitude they brought with them.
“Just checkin’ out the local scenery. Got a little lost on our way to Pretoria. That’s pretty hard to do considering there are very few roads hey? What are these rascals like… awfully dirty around here isn’t it. You think they could take the time to wash now and then. No wonder they were our slaves! They’re too stupid to take care of themselves.” Both the Americans laughed, obviously pleased with the joke, ignorant to the fact that the crowd around them were squirming uncomfortably.
“Please don’t” the girl said softly. “I’ve been teaching them English a bit, they can understand you. They are not stupid, you are insulting them. Don’t take away their dignity.”
“They don’t got none left!” The man said, as he spat on the ground. “Wotcher lookin at boy?” He said to a young boy who had wandered up to stand beside the girl and was staring at him. “Whaddyer want? Keep your stinking kaffir hands away from my pockets you hear? Nothing but a waste of skin. Come on dear, let’s go. This place is giving me the creeps. Don’t even got the manners to offer starving travelers a decent meal.” And without a backward glance they clambered in their jeep and sped away, the tires stirring up the dust behind them.
It was a short and brief incident, but it had an immediate effect on the village. The small boy standing beside the girl looked down at his tattered shorts. He did not own a shirt, and his feet were caked with dirt. A single tear slid down his cheek, and splashed onto the ground, mixing with the saliva of the American.
“Don’t cry. They are wrong, they know nothing. They are the stupid ones. Look your tears mix with the ground just the same as his spit. We are all the same, don’t think otherwise okay? You know it in your heart. Listen to what it says… Mayibuye Afrika! Come back Africa! They are gone now… everything can go back to… normal.” The last word she stumbled on. For she knew in her heart nothing would ever go back to normal.
The American incident might be forgotten in the mind of the young boy, but there will always be the taint of racism in the world. It is a struggling conflict, one that reaches out and can affect the heart of every one.
That night the girl went for a run, she ran until her lungs felt like they would burst. She was fueled with anger, and with sadness. She wanted to keep running, and go away from it all, but she knew that in the end, it would catch up with her. For she was merely human and had her limits… When finally she could run no longer, the pounding of her feet subsided, and the dust settled. She sat down at the side of the road and began to weep. She wept for the injustice of it all, and just when she felt she could bear it no longer, she felt a small hand on her shoulder. It was the small boy from earlier.
“Don’t cry” he said. “We are all the same. Just like you said. And if we are all the same, then everyone must have some good. Just like you. Don’t cry. Everything is back to normal. We are going to be okay”
And with that, she felt the knots in her stomach disappear. She knew he was right. There will always be injustice and racism in the world. But where there is darkness there is always light, “above the clouds, outside the ring.” And that light is what she had brought with her.
