From time to time I struggle to follow my
own advice and slowly fall into, what I imagine to be, a writer’s despair. This
feeling that perhaps I have no new ideas to share with the world, and gradually
all the fears and dreams gets locked in the same dark room hiding behind
sinister moods. There seem to be no reprieve from this malady - at least that
is what I tell myself, until I am forced to face the facts.
A change is required. Otherwise I will be
continuously trapped in the spirals of ‘what could have been’s? I could have
been a good writer, but I never really tried so I will never know. I could have
been a real mountain climber, but I was too afraid of heights and so I never
ventured up that long path onto the high slope and peered over the edge and I
could have been a world traveller, but I was just too lazy and scared to step
out of my comfort zone and spending the precious silver coins was just too
much. So, the only reference I would have carried of the world would have been
trapped between the pages of the Apartheid censored literature where the world
was divided into black and white, the good west and the bad east.
Instead, I try again. Still collecting new
ideas from books I manage to snatch of the bargain rack. What can I say, you
can take the girl out of poverty, but you cannot really curb the urge to save
in the woman. Sometimes even the woman thinks her views might be considered a
bit on the antiquated side.
I manage to stay up late and ponder the
words the universe speaks through my fingers. I revel in the idea that soon I
will be reunited with my daughter and big extended family. Even as I write
this, I wonder what will be the first issue that will wake up our old sore
points. A government that is too corrupt
to truly care about the needs of local communities? Who will be the first
smoker to offend my delicate senses? There is a realisation that one’s tolerance
levels diminishes with time even when the memory bank can still have instant
recall. Salt snoek smoor on a Wednesday night. Slowly braised cabbage stew any
other night of the week. Now the choices seems more sophisticated. The
realities more complicated and the ideas sometimes still hovering on the
grandeur of being liberated.
There is this natural urge to be somebody
-- yearning for some recognition and fame outside my own imagination. I want to
be famous one day! Fame should of course never be confused with notoriety. I
want to see my name in print. A collected works of poetry, The Diary of a Love
Immigrant scattered casually on bookshelves.
Perhaps it will be good to write about the
experience of being black. A black person who is not treated as being black,
but whose disposition of being different is so big that she, who can pride
herself in making instant connections, are so strange that she is finding
herself constantly on the edge of a fishbowl. Stuttering along in a foreign
tongue, still searching for peer approval, which she even failed to attain in
her juvenile mother tongue speaking years. Maybe she is just too different. Imaginably
held back by the huge chip on her shoulder. Move on! Create, create and
continue to create. Follow the advice you so freely give to others. Write as a
daily practice. Drive the demons away by giving attention to details. Fight
fear with fear’s greatest enemy. Action. Fight inner conflict with its worst
enemy – peace and contemplation. Dream big dreams and make them a reality. Write, write and write some more… splurge the
screen with your scribbles and reawaken the church bells so that you can
remember the simple things in life. Like how you learnt to read the time by
shouting out the roman numerals on the church tower and counting the going as
it told the time.
Suddenly, you recall how you just this
evening talked about the opportunity that some of today’s youth have in
delaying their adulthood. In this information age where there is a true global
village at work. When slave wages are once again becoming the norm as the
morning news told me. Like I did not already know or understood the life of the
working poor. Making ends meet is how to live and how the world’s wheels are
oiled. Men, women and children who manage to survive. Maybe it is just a new
way of natural selection. I, a product of the working poor have full empathy. Hell!
I commiserate, but I cannot call myself part of its ranks anymore. Just like I
was part of a generation forced to rapidly find my way into adulthood despite
clinging to my personal mantra… defy, defy, defy! How many times did I not
suffer the consequences of this brave defiance? Beatings for chores incomplete
and of poor standards, bullying for daring to wear my warm winter coat when it
was damn cold! Systematic victimisation when I dared to speak up against bad
management and the blatant violation of people’s rights. I have a long history
of understanding the benefits of voicing displeasure and bearing the
consequences of defending my principles.
The battle still remains even though the
comfort zones are bigger and the bolstering love right here in my arms. Self-love
is the biggest of these. Do I manage to follow my own advice in this regard?
Occasionally. Perchance it is a fracas
we do not want to talk about. We hide behind the dreams and wishes of others. Our
worries slowly tie up our visions into distant reveries, which can sometimes be
like the sky on a moonless night. Dark and impenetrable.
I somehow manage to push through, and I
hope to find the next step in the process. Sleep is finally creeping closer so
it is a question for another day. Do I have the power to live the change? Can I
see beyond the comfort zones of a snug bed, reasonable albeit unfit movement,
someone with whom to cuddle? What more can a woman want?
Inner peace is the immediate thought that
comes to mind. Stopping the search and the quest to change the world. Knitting
needles and some colourful wool might just be it! Can you interest me in a new
book to read or pots of food to cook? Sitting quietly in the forest? Can I
still the mind enough to be content! Do pigs fly?
By Simone Beatrice Naik Hagfeldt 2013-09-10
