I’m so sick and tired of it. The happening of it. The unhappening by those who just can’t fathom that such things do happen. It is pretty unbelievable. If I had to explain it to an alien, aside from the obvious language barrier, they would be totally lost.
I deliberately avoid coastal towns. Not because of the hordes of holiday makers that descend over the December break. No. But because of the attitude of the locals. The millions of Penny Sparrows who proliferate that part of the country.
They carry with them the weight of being their god’s chosen people. Some Arab god-o, of amazing blonde-and-blue-eyed variety, ordained that they shall be the chosen ones. Adored by many. Envied by lesser mortals.
Oh, and the lesser mortals? Why, me and you and every other person who calls themselves South African. I purposefully avoid using the label: white. Mainly, because it’s a fiction. There is no white race or black race or any other race.
Proponents of race theory will probably consider me a heretic. They can expect nothing less from an oppressed person of their fictional class regime. Apartheid is dead. But its legacy lives on. It is perpetuated inevitably.
So, I avoid the coast over the festive season. We went to the Vaal, which is a river right at the border of Gauteng. We were the only “people of colour” at the resort. It started insidiously enough. The dirty looks.
We were able to clear the pool simply by dipping our toes in the water. As if the melanin would do some chemical tango and disrupt the genetic structure of that pure white skin. Or something. Okay, maybe it wasn’t so insidious.
And then on our last day, the manager came breathing fire and brimstone upon us. We were in the wrong, sure. But she mishandled the situation completely. I was so embarrassed. But perhaps, I’m over reacting. I’m just tired.