My African soul: Two encounters.

I spent some time last year at a university in a small US city. I saw an "African evening" advertised at the university housing I was accommodated in, so I took my homesick self along to it. There I was introduced to a man, Mark*, who was supposedly also South African. I couldn't hear him too well over the music, but it appeared that he lived in the US and spent regular time in Cape Town lecturing courses at UCT. He made noises about his heart really being African, or something to that effect. He had a very strange accent, and he was wearing a hand-woven pants leather shoes African-soul getup.

On the plane back from that trip to the US, I ended up sitting next to Robyn*, a South African lady, blonde and elegant, who must have been in her early thirties. By this stage I had become wary of speaking to South African's outside of South Africa (see What I learned in the USA and Heather's great comment) so sitting next to her didn't fill me with gladness. But we got chatting and she turned out to be very lovely, we chatted about our experiences in the US and how we found it different from South Africa, and all sorts of things. She was definitely proudly South African. I've forgotten a lot of the conversation, but I remember her telling me about her maid finding out she had AIDS and how they are working through it and that sort of thing. And her saying that she wanted her work, which was in the medical field, to be part of building South Africa. And how she agonised over medical fees and tried to convince her partners to do more pro bono work.

On the other side of me was a Bosnian girl, Nina*, who was also a pleasure to sit next to. All three of us chatted for a while and Nina girl brought up affirmative action, which she was obviously very against. I held my breath because I know this is a sensitive issue to many white South Africans. There was a pause. Robyn didn't step in so I felt I had to. Hesitantly, gently, very carefully, I explained that affirmative action is necessary for us. I was very gentle, I didn't want to make enemies of my new South African friend, who I was on a 16 hour flight with. To my great delight, when I was finished Robyn agreed with what I had said and furthered it with some examples from her own experience of working with selection committees and the like, grappling to decide who were the most fair and promising candidates for bursaries. Nina was unmoved.

I doubt Robyn would claim to have an African soul, or anything to that effect. I seriously doubt she has any hand woven garments, and I am almost entirely certain she does not have any leather velskoen type shoes. So does that mean Robyn isn't a real South African? Or a real African? Is Mark a real South African, with his all natural clothes and "African soul"?

I confess I was quite angry after meeting Mark. It took me a while to sort through all my feelings but I eventually decided that my anger was because Mark was almost a picture of a stereotype American people have of Africans, certainly white people in Africa. A bit weird. Hippyish. The whole Mother Africa and Africa-is-so-spiritual-man business. It almost felt like he was using all those symbols so say to the world "I am an African!" to claim something about himself that might not even have any substance. I didn't speak to him for long, so I must say that my assumptions about him could be way off. But if he just spends a month lecturing at UCT every year, then what is that? What does being an African mean to him? Beyond some sentimental identification?

Then we have Robyn. No pretense, she probably has some very un-PC opinions. She would call herself a South African, and an African. But not with the same gusto or weird self-importance as Mark. Being a South African isn't a badge for her, its just who she is, where her heart is invested. And for her, her heart is invested in a broken South African, where we grapple with the issues of crime and AIDS and racism and poverty. Where we feel helpless sometimes, despair other times, fearful sometimes, hopeful sometimes, proud sometimes.

Then Mark, perhaps also invested in South Africa. It is, after all, where his heart is. Or so he says. But does his Africa even exist? What is that Africa he belongs to in his mind? Are there AIDS orphans in his Africa? Home Affairs bungling? Eskom rolling blackouts? Has he cried when we won a rugby world cup? Has he ever been turned away from a job he so wanted, and told the reason was affirmative action? Has his car been stolen? Has he stood in a queue to vote and been awed and the men and women who died to make such days possible for all South Africans? Has he ever watched Isidingo? And been glad that they are moving to multiple languages?

Because that is the South Africa I live in. That is the South Africa Robyn lives in. That is the South Africa another 48 million of our fellow citizens live in. Broken, but alive with possibility.

If this isn't Mark's South Africa, then I don't know what is means for him to call himself a South African. But I know what it means for Robyn to call herself a South African. And I know what it means for me to call myself a South African.

What is means to be a South African, or an African... its quite a topic. I could say more and I'm sure anyone reading this will have their own ideas. But the images of these two people have stuck with me.

* Names changed