Holding Up the Sky by Sandy Blackburn-Wright

Author:Sandy Blackburn-Wright
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Allen & Unwin
Published: 2016-07-13T04:00:00+00:00

The next morning, before Teboho’s friend Joe arrived to collect us for our trip to Namibia, I took Teboho outside and had a belated gift giving ceremony out of the boot of Moss and Khumo’s car. Joe arrived shortly after, having already fetched the rest of the gang for our Namibian trip in his kombi. Joe and Teboho had become good friends when Teboho worked at SUCA. Joe had just completed his commerce degree and was now working in a corporate job in Pretoria. We said our goodbyes to Moss and Khumo and thanked Pinky and Winky for their hospitality before jumping into the kombi and onto the freeway for the long drive to Windhoek, some twenty hours away.

Once more, the kombi was full of friends, though this time it was only six others besides Teboho and myself, making the journey a little more comfortable. They all knew each other from SUCA and so were studying at various universities across the country. While I was once again the only white passenger there was a mix of language groups in the kombi; English, as a common denominator, made a more regular appearance.

It was somewhat frustrating to me that just as my Zulu was becoming comfortably conversational, I was switching to languages that were at the other end of the African linguistic spectrum. Both Sesotho and Setswana, the more common languages of the northern part of the country, as well as Lesotho and Botswana, had a completely different rhythm. Zulu has a regular beat to it, with every syllable being pronounced. Sesotho and Setswana have a lilting tone that tumbles like water over a rocky creek bed, more complex and irregular than the drum beat of Zulu. While I had enjoyed learning Zulu, there was something exquisite about listening to the music of Sesotho being spoken, spurring my desire to begin again.

After travelling all day and well into the night, we arrived at the little desert town of Springbok which marked an end to our easterly trek and the beginning of the drive due north to Windhoek. We pulled up at a petrol station and all piled out of the car to stretch our legs. As Teboho and I walked towards the kerb of the empty street, I asked him if we were stopping here for the night. I was exhausted and my body ached for a comfortable bed. He laughed, as did Joe who was nearby, and I suddenly realised my first world assumption: I was on holiday with a bunch of black university students; a motel room was beyond the scope of the budget. While my mind understood this, my body screamed out in protest as I dropped into the gutter and cried. My own lack of stoicism during these holidays was embarrassing– which made me cry even more. The image of that dark empty street, the solitary lights of the petrol station, the feel of the cold concrete beneath me is still burnt into my mind, so sharp were my feelings of helplessness and disappointment.

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