I will never forget that day: 27th April 1994.
It was supposed to be the day that symbolized hope, but the fine print read something else.
I was born brown in a black and white world.
That is my reality. I did not choose this but I have come to own it.
As a young boy growing up in an apartheid South Africa, I never really understood what the apartheid meant. Very few young people of color ever did. It was not our naivety. It was just a by-product of the sheltering from our parents. But with time, we grew up and we became bold, and that bravery was what taught us some of life’s toughest lessons: for starters, that hope is a carrot, ignorance is the stick and we were the donkeys.
The morning of 27th April 1994 was different. It felt like hope rose with the sun. People seemed to walk taller and the smiles they wore had a distinct freshness to it. The wrinkles on their faces told stories of pain but that didn’t matter anyone. Today was the day the curtains of injustice were finally drawn closed.
I was too young to vote but not too young to understand the importance of the day. I remember carrying my cricket bat and ball and marching to the nearest community hall to spur on those who made it to the lines. This time, I was on the reserve bench but I planned on being a good team player. It was a day spent running from person to person offering them an endless supply of water and biscuits. My only job was to make sure they got to the booths because that is all that mattered.
28th April 1994
From the dead end streets and gravel paths, children carried their broken bats.
Marching towards the green grass of parks we saw but never touched.
‘Whites Only’ — the signs that once put fear in our hearts were now the toys we played with.
Hope was the carrot and ignorance was the stick.
In the shadows of the trees, still afraid of the green grass, we waited for the invitation that was never going to come.
This is fine print: for some, great will just never be good enough.
Hope was the carrot and ignorance was the stick.
I cried myself to sleep more times than I could remember, often pondering the same question:
Who decided that white is the colour of purity?
And that black will represent the darkness the world should fear.
Caterpillars become butterflies, my father once said. With tears in my eyes and that memory in my heart, I would wrap myself tightly in a cocoon, hoping to one day wake up white. Only so I could ask a white God why can’t a black child ever play on the green grass?
I’m forty years old now and I live in a world of lies. I lie every day to unassuming people.
I tell them, the day you plant the seed is not the day you eat the fruit. But the truth is, not all seeds will bear fruit.
I tell them, time heals. But the truth is, time isn’t kind to everyone.
I tell them, create space and trust it. But the truth is, space for some of us is a boundary wall, not an opportunity.
In the shadows of the trees, you can hear the sounds of laughter. It is the one who told us that white is the colour of purity. Now, their whispers have made us believe that ‘space’ can be filled.
Hope was always the carrot and ignorance was always the stick.
