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| behance.net |
There were not many people in the small gallery.
“We can make a quick getaway if this is not fun,” I said
under my breath to my friend Lara, a born South African but bred Swede, who I
had dragged along with me for moral support.
We stood in a corner, feeling awkward with our heavy coats
and handbags, nervous lest we bump and break some of the art or craft
work. A Ugandan artist’s work was on
display. The bright colours and irregular
shapes of people and city skylines was so comforting in a country in love with
modernism and Ikea prints.
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| ikapa.co.za |
“Welcome ladies,” said a soft spoken coloured man, handing
us each a business card for ‘The South Africa Society in Sweden’, the
organizers of this event. He welcomed us
to join the group and take part in upcoming events such as potjiekos
competitions and Youth Day braais.
“Oh for a proper braai with proper meat. There will definitely be no falukorv and
hotdogs there!” I exclaimed to Lara.
Grapetizer, was being offered around by a young woman with a
strong Coloured accent and a friendly, open manner. Her green African print headband was just as
bright as her personality. She joked and laughed at herself, making me feel
comfortable and welcome, almost like we knew each other from a previous
occasion.
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| africanfabriclady.com |
Slowly but surely people began arriving.
“Howzit!”
“Yslike, this wind is cold man!”
My heart was filled with joy and I smiled involuntarily as I
recognized the jargon, accents and dialects of my fellow countrymen.
A tall Zimbabwean-born, South African-bred man introduced
himself to us. He freely asked personal
questions and openly shared his feelings.
A gay CapeTonian with his cardigan and high-pitched voice
still seemed manly in comparison to the average metro-sexual Scandinavian man.
Two women with strong Cape-Coloured accents laughed loudly
as they sat on the gallery stairs, observing the musicians setting up.
The stereotypical South African men in jeans and T-shirts
were such a comfort to eyes exhausted by style and high fashion.
These were people who I could understand.
There was barely room for us all in the gallery’s small back
room and we rubbed shoulders and squeezed together to fit in. This was as it should be at a gathering of
South Africans, a society accustomed to overpopulation and overcrowding.
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| behance.net |
The proceedings began with the singing of Du Gamla, Du Fria and Nkosi Sikelela Afrika. I observed one South African with their hand over their
heart. Such a gesture was the utmost
sign of respect and my eyes filled with emotion. In Sweden and much of Europe,
such a gesture would be interpreted as dangerous and nationalistic whereas for
us it represented unity and love. My tears soon turned to laughter as Vanessa
and I caught one another’s eye, we both knew the language of the Swedish
national anthem as much as we knew our own – very poorly!
Presently the Swedish hip hop musicians began sharing about
their collaboration with South African musicians and all that they had
experienced.
Suddenly, the proceedings were interrupted as, in true South
African style, the Ambassador arrived late.
She wore traditional African dress with a head dress and beads. The
polite, young Swedes stepped aside to give her room. No doubt they had experienced
this sort of thing on their travels in South Africa.
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| johandelange.co.za |
“Good afternoon ladies and gentleman. I am so proud to see
so many South Africans united in celebration of the freedom of our
country. It is you who are, the true
ambassadors of South Africa. Don’t lose
your friendliness, your Ubuntu, here in this cold, unfriendly country....”
I was attacked with a case of the giggles. I knew her. She was my university lecturer; she was the
minister of some obscure government cabinet; she was the clerk at home affairs;
she was a stereotype who frustrated me back home but who I missed in the
dignified and ordered proceedings of Sweden. I felt as though she would surely
give me a hug and call me ‘her baby’ should I greet her. Her lack of diplomacy and disregard for
Swedish social norms made me proud and happy.
She truly was proudly South African and had not been shamed into
changing her culture to fit in - as I was guilty of doing. I thought her admirable and brave.
After the presentation I joined the motley crew for drinks
in a nearby restaurant. A tall, skinny, coloured man with crazy curls flopping round
his face like a small puppy’s large ears entertained me with stories of life in
Europe.
Some had come for work, others for love. Most had stayed for their careers.
“Don’t believe in the fairy tale of a Swedish prince my girl,”
a divorced woman advised. “If you want a
pretty face then you got to be happy with the personality of a f***ing doorknob,”
she said dryly elbowing a poor Swedish man beside her who simply laughed and
nodded in agreement.
The South Africans’ relationship with the country and people
had been similar to my current feelings initially.
“I hated it. Hay-ted it.
Hated the f***ing weather. Hated
the f***ing food. Hated the people too.”
“And now?” I asked, desperately hoping that things would
improve.
“Ag now I like it.
This is the best time now. The
summer is magic. Magic ek se. Everyone out in the streets. Braaing and drinking. A lot of parties you know. You gonna love it. Now the city comes alive.”
The chairman of the South Africans in Sweden Society ordered
chicken wings and chips for the table to share.
It was wonderful to share food with these simple
people. There was no propriety and
rituals to eating. No sitting primly and
refusing on the grounds of vegan-ism or vegetarianism, no stick-thin beauties
disciplined and self-flagellating. Men and women tucked in, licking their
fingers with no regard for the opinion of others. They sat comfortably on their stools,
reaching across one another and interrupting with their own anecdotes and
experiences.
We were a politically incorrect bunch. Stereotypes regarding race and gender were
freely stated although a more diverse group you would not find in the entire
restaurant. Quotas for black, white,
coloured, old, young, male and female were all filled. We were foreigners yes, but
our group also included a few Swedes who clearly enjoyed the company of South
Africans.
I felt for the first time since leaving home like I was
truly understood and accepted. I did not have to explain myself or put away my slang and humour. I did not have to impress or present myself in
an acceptable manner. I was South
African and a part of the family of South Africans. I now understood why foreigners are so
reluctant to assimilate and so eagerly sought their own people and formed
ghettos. Among your own people, you were
protected and found a place in a very large, rather unforgiving city.
