South Africa doesn’t
smile at strangers
By Ijeoma Ogwuegbu [ijtruthhurts@yahoo.com]
Saturday, August 27, 2005
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•Journalists
from other African countries
Photos: Sun News |
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It was 5 am and the temperature outside was about 5C. For
a Nigerian more used to a warmer 30-32C, this freezing cold
was near impossible to endure. But I was even colder inside
the car that had picked us up from the airport than I thought
it was possible to be. The reason? The words of our driver
and impromptu guide, Charles:
“In South Africa,” he said, “be careful
not to make a call on your cell-phone, especially if it’s
a very good one, even if the window is wound up. If you stop
at a traffic light, someone might smash the window and take
it from you.”
I had just arrived in Johannesburg for a week-long stay for
The Face of Africa finals and had planned to have as much
fun as I could cram into that period. Now I was having second
thoughts as two fellow journalists, Nonye, Emmanuel and I,
were regaled with what I could only call Tales from the Twilight
Zone.
Security
“ If you notice, people really don’t walk on the
streets here. They’d rather buy a car and drive than
take a bus or walk anywhere. You could get stabbed on the
street by someone trying to steal your bag or wallet. Don’t
worry,” he then added, trying to be reassuring. “Whenever
you need to cross the road, ask the security man you see standing
by the traffic light to cross with you. That way, you’ll
be safe.”
That even bewildered me more. A security man by the traffic
light? What kind of trouble had we gotten ourselves into?
Most Nigerians have a rose-tinted view of South Africa. Some
considered it the America of our continent, with streets paved
with gold and ample opportunities that Nigeria could never
offer. Others view it as beautiful country with a vibrant
economy that needed exploring. It was all these and more,
but here was the ugly underbelly that you would never find
in any tourist manuals or cute documentaries, the one where
every security man, whether a police officer or from a private
agency, carried a gun.
“But I thought crime was only a Nigerian thing?”
I asked our guide wryly.
“No way. As far as crime is concerned, we are way ahead
of you guys,” he replied. “Please stay in your
hotel if you don’t have anyone to go out with. It’s
much safer there.”
This being the first time I had been outside Nigeria, I had
hoped to have as good as an adventure as I could. Suddenly
I wasn’t so sure if that would be a good idea.
My sojourn had started with an unsmiling immigration officer
who insisted on speaking his native language to me even though
I told him I was Nigerian. He also insisted on searching every
corner of my tightly packed traveling bag, and only stopped
when he stuck his eyes and nose into a small bag I already
told him held my underwear. The embarrased look on his face
left me with a smirk of satisfaction and it was the only thing
that stopped me from insisting he pack my now strewn belongings
and bag back the way he found it.
Johannesburg’s roads were quite busy, even though it
was only 5.30am and it seemed everyone was in a hurry to get
to work. Of course, it was even weirder seeing them all seemingly
driving on the wrong side of the road and it took some time
to adjust to seeing the driver slip into what should have
been the passenger seat.
Cold
The freezing wind hit us again as we stepped out of the car
at the hotel, even though we had been briefed about the weather
and came armed in sweaters. But not even that warning prepared
us for the cold and so we dashed into the hotel at top speed.
It was well passed 10a.m when we came down for breakfast,
only to learn the restaurant had stopped serving breakfast.
There we were, two Nigerian ladies, hungry and cold, with
not a Rand between us. Wanting to change some money so we
could get something to eat, we asked the receptionist if she
could help us, seeing as we had seen the exchange rate board
behind her.
“It’s better if you go to the bank,” she
said crisply. “It’s just down the road from here.”
Down the road? That meant stepping outside the hotel into
uncharted territory, something we had been warned not to do.
But we could not sit there starving to death.
“Look, we are Lagos girls, tough as anybody else,”
I and Nonye then said to ourselves. “If anybody harasses
us, we show them Naija style.”
So, feeling the way those first explorers on the moon must
have felt, we took our lives in our hands and took the plunge,
marching out like we owned the place. That is, we intended
to march, until the cold reduced it to a wobble and had us
cowering into our sweaters and jackets. But resolutely we
wobbled on.
First we walked past a construction site and when the dangerous-looking
workers whistled at us, we almost ran back.
“The key, I think,” Nonye said, “is looking
like we belong.”
This another up-hill task, seeing as we both wore the lime-green
socks and white and pink sweaters while everyone else around
us seemed to be wearing every shade of grey. Still we marched
on. Until we got lost.
Lost
“Please, can you direct us to the bank?” we finally
asked one of the dozens of security officers that seemed to
cover the streets of Sandton like a bad rash. His face as
hard as stone, he pointed us on our way, where we almost got
knocked down by a car driving on what, to us, was the wrong
side of the road. Then we saw two men wave down a car in front
of them and then step out of their own cars. The guns we saw
strapped to their hips hurried our footsteps as far away from
them as we could. We didn’t want to be a witness of
whatever was about to happen. Eventually we found the bank,
where I encountered my first escalator of the trip, a machine
I later began to regard as an instrument of torture. We eventually
left the bank empty-handed, when we found out that what we
would have paid them in commission was more than what we would
have left with. Thanks but no thanks, we said and spun on
our heels. The streets we walked down were very clean but
almost deserted and we began to wonder where everybody was.
Perfectly manicured lawns and new cars on the streets made
this look like the kind of city you would see in a property
magazine and not one in which actual people lived.
It was on our way back to the hotel that we began discussing
our impressions of what precious little we had seen of Johannesburg.
Coming from a big and boisterous city like Lagos, the lack
of noise was the first thing that hit you. The constant hum
and vibe you could feel the minute you stepped into Lagos
absent.
No smiles
Then there was the other matter of how people reacted to you
on the streets. Usually, when foreigners come to Nigeria,
I often hear them talking about how warm and helpful Nigerians
generally are. I never really put much stock into it. But
here I was in a new city and I couldn’t remember a single
person having smiled at us all morning. I was more accustomed
to a Lagos that was noisy and crazy, but one where if you
walked down the street and your eyes met with that of someone
else, you automatically nodded or smiled. Here people tended
to look the other way or straight down when they walked passed
you. Even the hotel was no different, as the receptionists
and doormen held their faces as though it would fall apart
if they smiled.
“I think people from the west of Africa are generally
warmer than people from this region,” said Nii Amah
Dagadu, a journalist from Ghana who had arrived the day before
we had and had also been in South Africa before, when we later
spoke to him about it. “I noticed it too before but
I’ve gotten used to it.”
It was from Nii, as we fondly called him, that we had our
next adventure of the day. We had still not eaten breakfast
and lunchtime had arrived. Nii, who was practically an old
hand at finding his way around town compared to us, assured
us he could find us a place to eat. It was from him we learnt
that Nelson Mandela Square was just opposite our hotel and
that it contained a gigantic mall that was sure to have at
least one restaurant.
By this time I was wearing a second sweater on top of the
first, though it did me little good. But hunger conquered
the cold and off we went.
Window shopping
The mall was a maze of shops and restaurants, so many it felt
like a giant market under one roof. There were about four
levels and our new guide Nii was determined to show us around
it. What I didn’t bargain for was the number of escalators
in the place.
Now, on a good day, escalators are a good thing, helpful especially
if you’re tired or want a rest from all that walking
around the mall. All you need do is stick your foot out, land
on the moving stair at the right time and off you go. That
is, of course, if you’re not someone who has a fear
of machines she can’t control and has only ever been
on one less than a dozen times in your own country. So our
trip round the mall became a battle of my nerves against the
escalators. Every time I came near one, my heart beat faster,
my palms became sweaty and I had visions of missing my step
and tumbling head first down one of those monsters. My guide
soon realized this and grabbed my hand whenever we came near
one.
“Another one of your friends,” he would say. Finally
we found an area that had fast-food restaurants lined up and
we stepped forward, hoping we could find something to eat.
We scanned the menu to find anything recognizable and all
we found were chicken and chips which someone had forgotten
to add salt and pepper to.
Now, here’s a tip. If you’re a Nigerian, used
to spicy Nigerian food, be sure to travel with a bottle of
very hot pepper that you may have to sprinkle liberally on
everything.
Dinner was at a fancy steakhouse at the mall, where we scanned
the menu for anything that had some spice in it. I settled
on something called the Portuguese rib with peri-peri sauce
and a side dish of chips, asking for a medium sized portion.
It couldn’t be anything more than meat, I reasoned.
Meat meal
It was meat all right, enough to feed a small village. Laughter
rang out at the table, when the other journalists, who by
now had risen to about 12 from all over Africa, saw the ‘medium-sized’
portion I had gotten.
“Looks like they killed a cow, removed the head and
gave the rest to you,” Timothy from Uganda remarked,
eliciting more laughter. Bravely, I struggled to eat my way
through the rib. This was a classic battle of beauty against
the beast. Sadly, the beast won, as I could only make a small
dent in it.
“How can anyone bear to eat so much meat?” I wondered
aloud. “In Nigeria, meat is usually part of a meal,
hardly ever the main course.” This led to a discussion
about the differences between our countries. Penny, our South
African guide, who had been to Nigeria before, couldn’t
understand why a bumping into the car in front of you in a
traffic jam could lead to both parties screaming at each other
in the street.
“Why don’t they just exchange insurance information
and let the insurance companies deal with it?” she asked.
“Probably because one of them doesn’t have insurance
and besides, it’s easier to get what you want in Lagos
when you yell. The city makes you crazy. It’s a survival
strategy for most people. You’ve got to be crazy or
else you get walked over,” she heard.
But I still believe Lagos has a method to its madness. For
instance, you hardly have people being robbed in broad daylight
at knife point on major streets like is rampant in South Africa,
without running the risk of people reacting, mostly by chasing
the robber and lynching him. The Nigerian way might be more
violent and even vulgar, but at least it keeps petty violent
crime down.
Pink gloves
Next day started with me braving the escalators to buy myself
a pair of woolen gloves. I had had enough of walking around
with frozen fingers, seeing as I had been able to protect
the rest of my body except those. Unfortunately, the only
ones I could find were in a ridiculous pink and this was to
lead to much teasing from the new friends I had made. It was
no wonder as I must have looked a sight in my giant white
sweater, pink gloves and bile green socks we had been given
on our South African airways flight. We also had a hard time
convincing them that we were not just trying to be patriotic,
since only the journalists from Nigeria got them.
So off we were to see a completely different part of Johannesburg.
Greater Joburg was our destination and before long we began
to see sites we were more used to. Here there were poor people,
mostly dressed in very drab, shabby clothes. There was more
than one person pushing a cart with scavenged bottles in it.
Here was refuse on the streets. Here was a street hawker.
I was thinking the thought when one of the others voiced it.
“Finally, a place that looks like people live in it.”
It was not just the refuse or the people. There was a different
feeling here, a greater vibrancy, none of the manufactured
air that Sandton had. The people here didn’t look like
they had been put there to make the city look a certain way.
But still, even here, there was an underlying air of tension,
like a city being held back, under control, a control that
could snap at any moment and erupt. It was in the way people
stood around, in the way the driver would not slow down when
we wanted to get a closer look at something. I wasn’t
the only one that felt this way, as the others voiced the
same thoughts.
The native
The next day was our trip to Sun City, the resort where the
event we had come to cover was taking place. But first, I
had grown tired of living in my jeans and sweaters. I defiantly
decided that since it was a Saturday, I was going to wear
one of the native attires I had brought. If I had known the
reaction it would elicit, I might have taken that decision
earlier.
Down I went for breakfast and even from the elevator, the
reaction was immediate. Before that day, I had found it hard
to understand how you could get into a lift with people, especially
white people, say good morning and be completely ignored.
Yet this had happened to me several times here. Mostly people
pretended they didn’t see or hear you. But this day
was very different. Suddenly, people smiled at me and said
hello, before telling me my dress was beautiful. Some wanted
to know where they could get something similar and yet others
asked what country I was from. These included the doormen,
receptionists and guests who had previously ignored us. By
some strange coincidence, the two other Nigerians also wore
natives in Ankara as well and at first it seemed like we had
planned it.
At first, I was bewildered. If I had worn this anywhere in
Nigeria, I probably would not have gotten a second glance.
But here I was, having to explain to the other Africans that
what I was wearing wasn’t particularly extraordinary
and was what you would probably see at most offices on dress
down Fridays or at weddings and churches on Saturdays and
Sundays.
“In my country,” said Caroline from Kenya, “Only
the older women wear this kind of fabric, not young women
like me. But the way you’ve sown yours just makes it
look young and trendy, like something I would wear.”
What followed was another thirty minutes explaining how a
fashion revolution had led to more young people in Nigeria
adapting the native look to allow them look young and hip
while still being traditional. Still there was amazement.
“If this is how your people dress to church, then I
would love to come around one Sunday, just to see how beautiful
everybody must look,” said Adhiambo, also from Kenya.
But Nii had a final word.
“For you to comprehend, just understand that Nigerians
are very fashionable and flamboyant.”
For once, here was a conversation between ordinary Africans
in which the Nigerian was not a villain. From the Kenyans
especially, we had endured hours of argument, the bottom line
of which was that most Nigerian men were liars. Most others
believed Nigerians to be a bit shady. Here was something we
could talk about without anyone thinking Nigerians ‘too
pushy’.
The resort
Our trip to Sun City took two hours and sometimes I could
close my eyes and imagine I was travelling to Enugu instead
of being thousands of miles away. The terrain was so familiar.
By the time we got to our destination however, that was where
the similarities ended. In the midst of the mountains, Sun
City lay like a jewel. It was a beautiful resort and the longer
I stayed there, the longer I wondered when my country would
get to this point. Environmentally, there was nothing really
spectacular about the area where it was situated. Except from
the mountains, everything had been built by hand, from the
picturesque ruins and hotels to the beaches and shopping villages.
Even the waves on the beach were made by machines that sounded
like a lion’s roar and added to the excitement. Then
there were the caves where entertainment centre was, with
its beautiful fantasy-themed roof. Fantasy was the theme everywhere.
It was no wonder. I heard some guy had dreamt of an enchanted
lost city and this was the result. All I could think was that
someone should let me know what drug he was on, so I could
find a way to get all the people in Nigeria’s Tourism
Ministry into one room and lace their drinks with it.
But a bit of a culture shock awaited me and it was mostly
about lifestyle. I met a friend of mine from Lagos, whose
sister was one of the contestants. On the night of the event,
he was looking very nice, being a tall dark fellow. But that
was to have some unexpected repercussions for him.
We were sitting and chatting when suddenly, a young, pretty
but obviously drunk lady walked up to him.
“Where are you from,” she wanted to know, speaking
as loud as her voice could go. “From Nigeria? Men, you’re
f**king brilliant. I’ve been watching you all night.
The way you dance, the way you dressed, everything. If I wasn’t
gay, I would f**k you, I swear. You’re f**king brilliant!”
needless to say, my friend squirmed in his seat. But this
was only the beginning. Some twenty minutes later, another
person approached him, this time a guy.
“Hey, what’s your name? I really like you, you
know. I’ve been watching you all evening. I’d
like to have a drink with you in my room. Here’s my
room number. If you want, we can go up now.”
This was when he finally called out to me in yoruba.
“Ijeoma, please come and save me. Please just sit by
my side. I don enter trouble today.”
When the guy eventually got the hint and left, we laughed
about it and I teased about the kind of people he seemed to
be attracting. But even though it was funny then, I’m
sometimes glad for the way my country is. Call me a homophobe
if you like, but I’m some things are still not acceptable.
After a while, the artificiality of some things began to get
on my nerves. Like the concrete floor of the beach. Then getting
stared down by this white bloke in one of the restaurants
didn’t help. The look in his eyes seemed to be asking
what I was doing in ‘his’ territory. I didn’t
really blame him. Most black people there worked in the complex
and I could count the number of black guests, other than ourselves,
who were there. But there was one thing I couldn’t begrudge
them and that was that this was someone’s vision and
it had come to pass.
The Lessons
This was one of the things I had learnt while in South Africa.
I saw what could happen when things are run properly. The
streets were clean, traffic was low and people generally seemed
to go about their businesses in an orderly manner. Though
eventually, I got to see Alexandra, which looked like any
slum in Nigeria, the overwhelming feeling was that of a clean,
organized country. This would be Nigeria, if we got our acts
together. If our leaders stopped stealing our money and actually
started doing something with it. Sometimes, I felt, it was
a bit too organized. For one, the seemingly uncountable traffic
lights drove me crazy. Or maybe I was just too used to the
craziness of Lagos. Maybe I didn’t like being made to
feel like a second-class citizen, which was the vibe I got
there, being a black person. Maybe I didn’t know what
I was missing, like my cousin who lived there said. He asked
me if I would like to get a job in South Africa. His eyes
said he expected me to jump at the opportunity and my eyes
replied, “Thanks but hell no!”
By Tuesday, I was terribly homesick and suffering from withdrawal
symptoms from the lack of serious pepper in my diet. It had
been quite an experience and one that I would not mind repeating.
I had learnt things about people from other African countries
that I never knew and might never have known otherwise. I
had seen how things could be done in my own. Even now, sometimes
when I get stuck in traffic, I long for the open roads of
Johannesburg. But only for a moment. For now, I needed only
one thing and that was a shot of Lagos.
Homecoming
Of course, I wasn’t to get that until two days after
I was supposed to have landed in Lagos. Some planes got stuck
on the runway, causing it to be closed and our flight diverted
to Accra, Ghana, where my friend Nonye lost $100 to thieves,
something that hadn’t happened in South Africa all the
time we had been there. Here’s another tip. Have you
heard that Accra is much more beautiful than Lagos? Don’t
believe everything you hear.
Finally, we got home, though I didn’t relax until I
was in a taxi heading for home. Then I breathed easily and
allowed myself to say that old cliché.
“There’s no place like home.’
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