Author: Han NaGil

To change the world, we must change ourselves. This is a personal choice. We can’t be forced into it. To solicit a different reaction, we must shift our approach. To do so, we must know which gear we’re stuck on.

If we hold on to the title of “doer”, the other will default to the role of ‘avoider’. When people go on leave or are absent for unforseen life’s curveballs, the one left in charge stretches to grow into a doer.

When we always protect, the victim continues to claim helplessness. The victim has no need to take action.

Of course, life’s not binary and a silly wheel can’t give us all the answers. But isn’t it worthwhile to understand the other side of the coin? To celebrate diversity, we must first understand our fundamental differences.

This morning, Anele the DJ asked the city of Johannesburg whether they’ve ever spied on their significant others. One installed an app on her partner’s phone to track his location and listen in on his conversations. Another one shared her Apple ID with her boyfriend and he tracked her location. Another one installed an app on her partner’s phone to track his Whatsapp conversations. Another strung along her partner’s whereabouts based on his google search history. Another bought an old phone with a new sim card and put it in her boyfriend’s car to track his whereabouts.

Where do I even start? I am feeling a bit freaked out.

1. How disturbing is it that we can be tracked and monitored with our smart phones? Maybe it’s time to turn our phones off when not in use.
2. How sad is it that people have lost so much trust in their partner to resort to snooping their digital records?
3. How sad is it that people don’t engage each other face to face to deal with issues?
4. How sad is it that people stay in relationships that is so wrong for them?
5. How sad is it that people are in relationships when they can’t even believe where the other person is going?

What is it for? What is the purpose of our relationships? Isn’t it to get happier? Isn’t it to spend time with someone we like, trust, and respect? Do we not care about their set of values? Do we not care about the types of people we let into our lives?

Everyone will agree that lying is wrong. No ifs and buts. So why are we with people whose words carry no value? Worst yet, whatever the reason behind the snooping… spying is wrong. It’s an invasion of another human’s right to privacy. Snoops claim they did so with good intentions, but they’re no better than their partners suspected of lying and cheating.

Maybe we’re afraid. We run from fear. We don’t want to do the hard part. We procrastinate.
But isn’t it better to fix what’s broken now and fix it, let it be, or replace it? I hope more people decide to turn off their phones. I hope more people sum up the courage to face their fears. I hope more people run towards the truths.

Do the hard part first. Seek out emotional labor. Dance with fear.

Seth Godin’s blog is my go to place to catalyze my own thoughts.

Mistakes tend to happen. After all, it’s one of life’s best teachers. We often forget the importance of this lesson. How we recover from the struggle separate the best from the worst versions of ourselves. Seth’s thoughts on this concept can apply to any situation, any relationship.

After the hiccup

Most customer relationships don’t stumble because something went wrong. Your best customers know that mistakes happen.

It’s what happens next that can cripple the relationship.

How we recover from a miss is where the possibilities lie. If you’re open, engaged and focused on making things better, the door is open to build a resilient, ongoing partnership. Not just for customers, but for all the people we work with and count on.

Too often, we’re so focused on not hiccuping, or so filled with shame and blame when we do that we fail to allocate enough emotional labor to do the most important part–making things right. Not with a refund or a basket of fruit, but by truly seeing the other person, understanding what happened and doing the hard work to move forward.

Now, what?

Emotional labor means we must embrace discomfort, hold it close and deal with it before involving someone else.

With me, my cycle follows a familiar pattern after an argument.

I get angry. Then defensive. Then I offend. A momentary pause. Think about what just happened. Conduct Root Cause Analysis (how and why uncheked emotions took over the situation). Light bulb moment (epiphany). Panic. Regret. Plan next steps.

I wish I could get through it more quickly without negatively affecting others around me.

Everyday, I vow to do better today and improve upon past mistakes. I fail often but I always pick myself back up.

Does it help?

Okay, you know how you feel, what you need, what you want…

This next thing you’re going to do or say: Does it help you get closer to that?

I kneel down to look into her tearful eyes. The face, a permafrost of a scowl. Tense and tired from all the crying, her face is red. I relax and smile as gently as I know how. I hold her gaze until her face opens up like a tiny bud on the first day of spring. Her eyes soften. Her smile is sweet and pure. She is surprised at her own marvel. The look of a frightened animal is gone. I open my arms, and she crashes in like a tsunami. Her heartbeat slows and the indominable force of reckoning breaks into gentle waves before returning to welcome shore. I hold her tight and squeeze her small body. Her breath slows. She closes her eyes and falls asleep. In the morning, she rises with the early sun and floats away with the rolling clouds. Before disappearing into the horizon, she turns her small body and smiles. I stand up and wave a familiar goodbye .

I choose the right box to file things away. Let them rest. I will deal with the gremlins later. Recognizing and prioritizing the urgent and important. Filing away the important and not urgent. But the more we delay, all things will become urgent and unmanageable.

It goes in a small box. I must celebrate a friend’s special day and take interest in my fellow guests.

The effort pays off. After four years of knowing each other, we move from the usual cordial conversation to something of substance. I give her a ride home. She lives a stone’s throw away from a special red cafe, a place I had wanted to visit later tonight to nurse the heartache with sweet chocolate.

I glance to my left, hoping to catch a serendipitous dynamite, but the fire isn’t there. I drive away. At the intersection, I turn right, away from the direction where I would be spending my evenings.

And just like that, another resignation follows. It doesn’t matter that they rehabilitated a sinking ship and evacuated over 4000 people. Setting up and developing new revenue streams no longer count. They are only as good as last year’s sales figures. Somebody must take the blame. Innovators and deal makers exit the stage.

I feel as if someone just punched me in the stomach.

I wonder upon a life without institutionalized capitalism.

Why don’t we account for the pain and suffering of the joblessness, in the same way we prioritize balance sheet, cashflow and income statements?

How many documents must I provide to the US lender to purchase a house? Double my answer. Then triple it. Then raise it to the power of 10. And wait few minutes, because the lender will ask me for more stuff. I feel like I am banging my head against the wall. I’m probably bleeding but I no longer care I’ve gotten used to the pain. I just want all of this to stop.

Notarize one document, thinking this is the only one…. A kind stranger acts as my witness. A friend scans and emails me what I think is the last of what I need to send through. Of course, I am wrong.

A day before I’m supposed to close, they want a document that I don’t have! Somehow, this materializes with sheer luck and probably some sort of miracle.

The day of my appointment with the embassy, I can’t leave work. Workers strike. We are on total knock-down. One leaves in an ambulance. No one can get in and out. A total lock down. Only in Africa. I walk around the campus to see if I can find a spot to climb over. The electric fences and my skirt kills my escape. I return to the office. Defeated. Utterly.

Few days pass. It’s 10pm. The lender tells me to get to the embassy tomorrow. I need a witness for all my signatures. I have less than eight hours to get someone to come with me. Oh, and I need to print like hundred pages. I have no appointment with the embassy.

I freak out. I take a day off from work and cancel important meetings.

Another friend is away from office but gets one of her minions to print out four copies for me. Another friend just quit her job, and so she’s able to be my witness. Bless yet another friend. He told me he’d take the day off to be my witness if I can’t find anyone else to help me. Thank you.

So far so good. The embassy grants me yet another emergency appointment! I have a witness. Let’s do this.

Wait! Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. It hasn’t been smooth sailing, and so, why would anything change? I am freaking out (still). The embassy is supposed to close in the next hour and I can’t pay them.

A kind looking man in his mid-fifties (sitting with his wife, son and daughter) reaches out, “How much money do you need?”
Me: “The cost of notarizing will set me back $450”
Taking out a fat wad of cash from his back pocket, he counts four $100s.
‘here, take this’.

Me: “no, no. I have money. They won’t take a card machine, and the embassy is about to close…. And you don’t even know me!’
Him: “Yeah but you seemed stressed and in need of help.”

Me: “Thank you so much. Wow, I’m speechless. Can I ask why you guys are here?”

The couple lives in Nigeria and their two children were visiting. They were hijacked on their way from the airport to the hotel, at gun point. No passport. No nothing. They must have been horrified.

Him: “It’s weird that it happened in South Africa. I’ve been living in Africa for the past twenty years and nothing like this has ever happened to us. We’re getting passports sorted so our daughter can go back on Sunday.”

My friend and I are in awe. After experiencing a tragedy of their own… just few hours after his family’s lives flashed before his eyes, he was willing to help a total stranger. Thank you for your random act of generosity.

Half hour later, the machine is back up and running. I sign my life away. Still no house, of course. The pain lingers.

A day before the final closing date (fingers crossed), I get another request for another signature. WTF!!! Another friend comes to rescue to print yet another form for me to sign. She scans it, and I email the attorneys.

Friends congratulate me. I know better.

Finally, the house transfers.

I come from a place where columns of black boots hit the pavement in perfect unison.
I come from a place where the one and only road must fight for space between rice paddies full of tadpoles and tiny insects.
I come from a place where nothing ever happens.
I come from a place that I used to called home.
Home is where I used to stare up at the sky, flat on my back, under a giant shade from a nearby tree gyrating to the gentle summer breeze. At eight years old, I contemplated life’s infinite possibilities, although I can’t quite remember to be honest, distracted by the regional train chugging along few kilometers away from my village.
It is a simple life.
Earthworms rise to the surface at the first sign of rain.
The air fills with the smell of morning mist gently lifting the veil of rising day.
A gaggle of small children giggle on their way to school.
It is a simple place when looking in from the outside, and I wonder how life would have been had it not been for all the darkness, and all the light that poured out of that small town.