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.

A set of tiny eyes squints as it peers into the autumn sky.
The little wings flit and flutter with little air beneath its narrow shoulders.
It hops and hobbles on tiny legs before mustering up the courage to balance itself on the edge of a cozy nest.
A big gulp of breath. Inhale. Exhale.
Another second passes and the moment is lost.
The bird has only one chance towards its independence.
Leaping too soon could cost its life.
Waiting too long to fly may mean it won’t grow strong enough to join the migration before winter comes.

Where there is light, there is darkness.
Don’t forget.
I won’t, shouts the brain.
But you must, whispers the heart.

A set of streams catapult down the mountain, not at all concerned with passersby taking selfies before scurrying off to snap another. The sun peeks around a spot of clouds to cast a ray across the water main, painting on the rocky surface tiny droplets of water falling down its face.

A wise woman once told me that most people give up too soon. Too painful. Too much to handle. Instead of digging, they polish the surface until it sparkles. The root festers and dies, covered by a sheen of pretentiousness.

I take a step forward. Then a step back. I step on your toes. I push and shove unintentionally. I stumble and fall. I’m not good at this, and this time is no different. My heart grows heavy before it weeps in silence. I fold this moment into a million pieces. I hold it close to my heart before releasing it into thin air.

 

It may have been a moment to share the broken self. Come with me. Peek into the cut once too raw and pungent. The cut that was left open to fester until the beast was awakened to lick the wound. To invite the scabbing and healing process to take place. I had to dig deep. Into the past to console the young and broken spirit. A faint scar invisible to the untrained eye remains. A tunnel is kept open.

Yesterday.
Today.
Tomorrow.

Embrace and soothe the scars while accepting the past for what it is and what it isn’t. I call this reconciliation.

I do my best to bridge the gap between the past and the future. Life’s balancing act reminds me to work towards the future while embracing the past.

Vowing to be better, I promise myself to do. Do no harm. Do some good. Do stand up. Do speak up. Do what scares me, at least once daily.

The past.
The present.
The future.

Wake up early to produce a fruitful 10-hour work day. Feeling a bit of magic inside, and it feels good to get things done. It’s just who I am. I hate the mediocrity. Aristotle said mediocrity is nothing but a habit. I am trying my best to not fall into the mass’s mess.

Row 9km at the gym before running into a friend which delayed my wrap up by half an hour, but welcome interruptions into another productive activity. It’s a symptom of my long stay here, which I appreciate.

News of someone close to my heart. Another reminder to be grateful for our life and to be careful with others.

Then a soccer match. A flat tire. Then a bit of rest.

One of the best days of April, if not the best.