20. The Call of Africa

In 5 days, our family makes the long journey back to South Africa for a short but deserved vacation (with a little bit of work thrown in). It has been almost 3 years since our last trip. Feelings of excitement aren’t immediate. It’s those familiar feelings of anxiety rather, that lurk in the back of my mind. I have a genuine concern for mine and my family’s safety. I think about load shedding and whether our luggage will be secure. I worry about whether someone will follow us from the airport. I think about having to speak to my children, much older now, about the dangers of a potential hijacking. I feel my heart beat a little faster as I start to realise that I’ve forgotten how to live with fear. As that good ol’ adrenalin starts to kick in, I try hard to remember the things I miss.

As immigrants, we become masters of filing. Some take longer than others, but when the time is right, we place people and things into neat folders in the back of our mind, out of reach, so that we can start to build our new lives. New memories carefully layer over the old, never replacing, just protecting, as somewhat of a survival mechanism.

I start to remember our old home. Our very average, but perfect home. The first house we bought as a married couple, the one we brought both our newborn children to from the hospital, the one where we’d be surrounded by family and friends on countless occasions and celebrations. I know that I am still not ready to see our old home. I will never forget standing in that empty house, hearing only the echoes of our voices, staring at a ghost of our old life and holding nothing but a set of keys. I wonder if it’s something I’ll ever be ready to do.

I start to remember good friends. Some have kept in touch since we moved. Some have even made the trip to visit us here in New Zealand. Some of them now live in other parts of the world, and some lost and broken friendships have even been renewed. I can’t deny that my heart aches to see them all. Quickly I begin to shuffle through the filing cabinet of my mind, unpacking birthdays and braais, holidays and dinner parties. I start to tell myself that “surely, it’s not that unsafe? I’m sure it’ll all be fine.”

I think about family. This one is always the most difficult. No matter how often we read eachother’s posts on Facebook, or how many times we share a video call over Skype, there is nothing like putting your arms around that person, or sitting next to them with a drink by the swimming pool, under the glorious South African summer sun.

I want to hug them and tell them about our life here, about how we sleep so well at night, about how our children ride their bikes unsupervised in the park , about how we leave our house and car unlocked, about how the prime minister sent a thank you letter to our child for a drawing she sent to parliament, about how our freedom was worth the price we paid to get here. Then my mind starts to wonder how that kind of talk would be received. Will they think I am constantly trying to justify our decision?

The journey back to the life we once had is never simple. It is filled with as much emotion as that which broke our hearts when we first left, but after having spent the past couple of days imagining the joyful reunions, the electricity of the highveld thunderstorms (‘coz we ain’t gettin’ no electricity from anywhere else), and chatting with the Woolworths cashiers, I can hear the call of Africa in my heart, and it is strong!

5 days and counting down…

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