Dear South Africa,
I miss you. But I’ll see you soon.
Have you seen Robin Hood Prince of Thieves? You know that scene when Robin arrives back in England after the Crusades and buries his face in the beach sand? Home—right? That’s what I want to do. Bury my face.
Are you ready for me?
I have some people I’d like to introduce you to. Amelia, Layla, Jackson, Aiden and Delilah. They don’t know you like I do but still… they’re made of you. Because I’m made of you. And their dad is made of you.
Blood to blood. Soil to soil.
Please can you make sure there are storms, with thunder and lightning, and orange sunsets and dry grass that’ll stick to my jersey and never come off, so that when I am back in London, I’ll have pieces of you against my skin always. I’m joking—obviously. Not about the storms and sky but the dry grass—it’s flippen annoying.
Could we see some lions and rhinos. Baby warthogs would be nice too! Can the monkeys not steal our lunch, please. If we could find a couple of Springbok plushies at Sportsman’s Warehouse I’d be grateful, and some good stones in the Scratch Patch (not just Tiger’s Eyes). Can we have a sunny day for Table Mountain and please could we have some epic waves in Tsitsikamma (and some good rocks for them to crash against). And, also, could we see a Parktown Prawn—baptise my children in the terror, you have my permission.
I’ve never had load shedding and potholes were bad but not too bad. So… happy to keep those to a minimum. Could we not be robbed or hijacked or killed. Thanks.
If Cream Soda does not taste the same, I am going to be sad (same with pink sauce and onion rings at Spur, and also Steers chips) so… ja, if you could hook that up. And biltong, hey. Make sure there’s a lot.
I know you can be temperamental – I’ve warned the kids – but you are also my home, and I love you… and to be honest, I am not sure if my heart is ready.
What if I don’t want to leave. But also, what if I do want to leave?
When does soil erode?
When does the river run dry?
When does brick crumble?
….when do you have no right?
I know the answer. But I want you to tell me.
I’m coming.
xoxo Andrea
Author & Storyteller: Andrea Zanin
Andrea is a writer, wife, mother and dreamer; also the author of this website. She moved to London in 2006 to earn £s, travel, see bands and buy 24-up Dr Martens—which she did, and then ended up staying. Andrea lives in North London with her husband (also a Saffa) and five children. She loves this grand old city but misses her home and wishes her children could say “lekker” (like a South African) and knew what a “khoki” is.
