So I'm squatting in a township in a crowd outside Mzoli's eating braai from a bowl on the sidewalk when...
Wait. Let's go back a bit.
I find myself in a recurring predicament when I have to give my address to Liberians.
"Where you live?"
"Thirteenth St."
"Fifteen?"
"No, thirteen."
"Fourteen?"
"No! Thirteen. One, three."
"Twenty-seven?"
The problem is that Liberian's pronounce thirteen tight-teen. I really can't bring myself to scream those words into a phone so I just end up picking up my own take-out. Meanwhile, another number became unutterable, too. I spent four weeks really losing the plot over it. I'm surprised no one had me medicated.
So like an old dog padding off alone to leave this world, I went to Cape Town to turn thirty. It was as far from home as the continent permitted. I almost had a grip on things until the night of my birthday, when I was sitting in an opera house watching Porgy and Bess. Someone asked Bess how old she was and Bess said, "Twenty year." The cast howled; someone shouted, "Dat girl's thirty if she's a day." The saddest little eeeep! flew from my throat.
Soon it was midnight and I was really out of my twenties and everything was alright. Then the fog of narcissism lifted and I was acutely aware of being quietly watched by South Africans. (The irony of this is not lost on me, having spent much of that next week staring down animals of all walks.) I had fallen into one of my favorite parts of any book:
"It had taken some time but the tables had been turned; now I was in the zoo, and they were watching."
Cape Town is full of beautiful things; what it lacks are multicolored couples. No one says anything rude out loud (apart from those baristas in Stellenbosch -- thanks guys) but the air is oddly heavy and you remember how recently apartheid ended. Liberia isn't the most diverse nook of the world but here I never feel like I'm breaking the rules. So for all the thrills I had there, Cape Town can have its horses and vineyards and haute cuisine and antelope steaks and fancy meats and ostrich rides and penguins and sanctuaries and whale-watching and bed-and-breakfasts and clean water and bungee jumping and zip-lines and vistas and water sports and malls and gems and hikes.
Just let a girl walk hand in hand with her dude. What else is there in this life? (Note: I will retract this statement after a week in Monrovia.)
Wait. Let's go back a bit.
I find myself in a recurring predicament when I have to give my address to Liberians.
"Where you live?"
"Thirteenth St."
"Fifteen?"
"No, thirteen."
"Fourteen?"
"No! Thirteen. One, three."
"Twenty-seven?"
The problem is that Liberian's pronounce thirteen tight-teen. I really can't bring myself to scream those words into a phone so I just end up picking up my own take-out. Meanwhile, another number became unutterable, too. I spent four weeks really losing the plot over it. I'm surprised no one had me medicated.
So like an old dog padding off alone to leave this world, I went to Cape Town to turn thirty. It was as far from home as the continent permitted. I almost had a grip on things until the night of my birthday, when I was sitting in an opera house watching Porgy and Bess. Someone asked Bess how old she was and Bess said, "Twenty year." The cast howled; someone shouted, "Dat girl's thirty if she's a day." The saddest little eeeep! flew from my throat.
Soon it was midnight and I was really out of my twenties and everything was alright. Then the fog of narcissism lifted and I was acutely aware of being quietly watched by South Africans. (The irony of this is not lost on me, having spent much of that next week staring down animals of all walks.) I had fallen into one of my favorite parts of any book:
"It had taken some time but the tables had been turned; now I was in the zoo, and they were watching."
Cape Town is full of beautiful things; what it lacks are multicolored couples. No one says anything rude out loud (apart from those baristas in Stellenbosch -- thanks guys) but the air is oddly heavy and you remember how recently apartheid ended. Liberia isn't the most diverse nook of the world but here I never feel like I'm breaking the rules. So for all the thrills I had there, Cape Town can have its horses and vineyards and haute cuisine and antelope steaks and fancy meats and ostrich rides and penguins and sanctuaries and whale-watching and bed-and-breakfasts and clean water and bungee jumping and zip-lines and vistas and water sports and malls and gems and hikes.
Just let a girl walk hand in hand with her dude. What else is there in this life? (Note: I will retract this statement after a week in Monrovia.)
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