The Soapbox | Where South Africans Speak Out

BY JADE ADAMI

The morning of revelation, as I have coined it, started with my waking up to an alarm of deceit I had set the night before. I woke up with a spritely stretch following the 4:30am wake-up call I’d set to ensure I’d have enough time to endure the daily torment of a one-hour-long public transport trip to the upper-end gym I worked at in central London.

I stood languidly in the kitchen still half-asleep, smugly sipping a strong cup of coffee while reflecting on how pleased I was with myself for getting up so early. While mentally preparing myself for the day of noveau riche angst that undeniably loomed before me, I took a moment to glimpse at the kitchen oven’s digital clock. 6:00am.

At that moment a sense of pre-disposed panic shot through me. Toppling over the kitchen stool and spilling coffee everywhere, I choked while clambering for my phone (slash alarm clock). 5:00am.

It was at this point that, somewhere between the front door, and my panicked feet slapping against the hard, wet road, alarm bells of shame went off in my head. Daylight Savings.

Amidst the ominous moaning of rain and hopeless tackling of the umbrella that flailed wildly above my head, I made the mistake of thinking to myself that it couldn’t get worse than this.

At that exact moment, as if on cue, the big red bus symbolising my last chance for redemption brazenly cruised past me, slicing a thick puddle of rainy dirt that spewed all over my pathetic and ghostlike silhouette.

I stood defeated like a drowned flamingo on the roadside in a ridiculously optimistic pink coat. Raising a helpless blank gaze to the greyish black hole that jeered right back down at me, my eyes begged the question: “Why”?

In response, the heavens opened their mocking mouth with a rumbling crack of reply that left me solidly drenched. I imagined a cosy tea party of gods in the sky all pointing and cackling hysterically at the entertaining expense that was my misery.

Crying was considered as an option, or perhaps even belting out a howling tantrum. I stared sulkily at the road and considered flinging my pathetic umbrella and bag into the puddle that reflected the cave of sky above.

Instead, I found myself nervously glancing around for some kind of camera equipment and TV show host to spring out from the shrubbery and announce that this was all just a cruel joke.
But, as black cars splashed on through the puddles in the road, coupled with blank figures avoiding eye-contact who passed me by, the voice of reason seeped in with an ironic giggle from the top of my throat: “What was I doing here?”

Melodrama aside, I felt like a goldfish in salt water. Zombie-walking to the next bus stop I took it all in.

Considering all the “Saffas” I’d seen patriotically huddled together at the nearest boerie roll stand at the Just Jinjer concerts, or outside the nearest Walkabout pub down the road, I couldn’t help but speculate as to why so many of us travelled half-way across the world to clump together and deck out in Springbok rugby gear.

It’s no wonder the SAA terminal at Heathrow airport feels more like a family reunion than anything else. Suddenly everyone is your cousin and they all want to know what you were up to in London, and if you were also living along the District Line. Of course a few Afrikaans words are thrown around because even though you may not have spoken it since your Grade Twelve “mondeling” now’s an opportunity to speak it – so why not?

Truth be told, I loved hovering with the Saffas at that airport terminal, dreaming of the chutney, Provitas, Nik-naks and biltong I’d soon be able to buy in Rands. Although when I got back home some of the novelty in that thought was lost, I realised how much I’d missed my country, my people and my sunshine.

As for London, maybe I’ll be back in a few years, but for now, here’s to 2010 being hosted in South Africa. Paint me green and bring out the boerie rolls.

Jade Adami is studying Brand Leadership at Vega.