Isaiah 51:1 Look to the rock from which
you were cut and to the quarry from which you were
The world cup is about to kick off in a week. How could I forget with the 400 out of my 900 facebook friends being in South Africa and reminding me with countless status updates! Urgh. This is the fucking worst thing about travelling … I don’t mean international sporting events, I mean when something mega rad happens back home and you aren’t there! You can’t even claim it just because you are South African and the event is being held in South Africa. Nah…sozz buddy, doesn’t count. You have to actually be on African soil to claim any kind of affiliation.
I have no kids but the pride I feel for my country is probably similar to that of a parents pride for their spawn, er I mean children. Like if they do real well at school or some shit, as a parent, you just feel like you have done something great too because you are connected to the little grommit. Meantime, it’s the kid that did all the work and the folks actually didn’t do shit. When I hear Die Antwoord are involved in some kind of zef style world domination, or Faith 47 has produced yet another work of beauty, when I see Nelson Mandela on the telly (I reckon old mate is gonna live forever hey) or when they advertise South African trips before the movie starts at the cinema, my little jaded heart swells with boastful pride. I wanna scream out, ‘Hey! That’s where I’m from! How fucking cool is it?!’ But what good would it do? Does it even count?
The thing is, I don’t even really FEEL South African anymore. I think I developed some kind of protective installation in my brain that stops me from becoming a nostalgic mess. I live by the saying, ‘I live where ever I am’ – and up until now, it has worked for me. Except when the place in which I was hewn going quite frankly “fucking berserk” I can’t help but feeling that I might be missing all the fun.