To make a local connection

by Audrey Jantjies (South Africa)

Making a local connection Italy

Who am I really? For some reason this has been the most dominant question on my mind lately. A school friend now residing in Nieu Zealand recently posted the question on facebook. Who is the one teacher who told you that one thing that stuck with you throughout your life. Years ago when I was in Grade 5, I did a very, very brave thing. I spent weeks writing a short story. Long hand, of course. I was so very proud of myself. I summoned up the courage and gave it to our then Afrikaans teacher, Mr Swanepoel. I was so excited and anticipated his response with the anxiety that only an 11 year old can feel when on the brink of some grand discovery. My story was so good, I believed this with all my heart. It was a love story of a rich blonde, blue eyed girl who finds love in the arms of a poor boy from the wrong side of the town. I went back a couple of days later, just palpitating. I couldn't wait to hear his response! He had a soft spoken manner and I now think that this made his answer even worse. It is good, he said. But I want you to write about our people. Oh oh oh I was devastated! How can he say such a thing? What was there to write about? About "our people"? Our people are nothing, I thought at the time. We live on the brink of poverty every day. We don't have straight noses or long shiny hair. Who wants to know about "our people". There's nothing to say. I dropped my writing for many, many years after that. I think that I just couldn't fathom "our people" being worthy of any great stories. Growing up and into myself, I see how I've become. I recognize myself in people everywhere. The one however, that will most certainly remain with me always, is the gentleman I saw in Rome, Italy. And he became my inspiration to start writing again. On a tour to Italy in 2015, my friend and I visited her husband's uncle who lives in Rome. We were walking the cobble stone streets l, doing touristy touchy feely things. Then he appeared. He sells books. He is wearing traditional African cloth and he is very, very tall and dark as night. For a minute, or I don't know for how long, we just stood and looked at each other. I caught the tear in his eye and felt the kindred spirit. The one that makes you relate. The one that makes you family. And then he was gone. After walking quietly for a couple of streets, my friend asked me if I saw the way gentleman looked at me. And whether I saw that he was crying. Yes, I said. Let's go look for him. I wanted to give him 10 euro. But he was gone. I think it was my braids that reminded him of home. Of the poverty stricken land he escaped in search of a better life. Maybe at that moment he missed his origins so terribly, that he regrets the day he left the home soil on that rickety, overcrowded boat. Maybe I reminded him of a daughter he hadn't seen in ages. And maybe he just gave in to the knowledge that finally someone recognized and acknowledged him for who he truly was. This, I now realise, is the "our people" Mr Swanepoel wanted me to tell of. Our people. My people. Me. I am found in every single one. Every day. On different levels. I am such a blend of spirits and of skin tones and of genes. Above all, I am awesomely human. What baffles me today still, is why I had to travel halfway around the world to make a local connection in this foreign land, when back on home soil, I would have in all probability just have acknowledged his presence with a slight nod. The answer to this, I guess, was in the wordless conversation we had. He became the mute narrator, and I the verbalizer of his quiet desolation, his longing, his brave story.