It’s not the rooms in your house that count, says Nobantu Shabangu, in this tale of learning to live with change. It’s the room for love in your heart.
Johannesburg in the morning is beautiful. I work in a blue collar job where I have to be at work by half five and the latest quarter to six. I make it to work by quarter to six but before I get there I snooze the alarm a few times before going into the shower and lathering my body with soap while I lament my life.
I then walk back to my tiny bedroom and swing the curtains aside and there in darkness Johannesburg glitters before my eyes. At this moment, besides sunset, Johannesburg is at its most tender. I know Johannesburg and tender do not go hand in hand but it is.
I then make coffee and drink it while walking to the bus station. I’m not the only one walking; taxis are already speeding by and hundreds of black bodies hurriedly walk to their blue collar jobs. It’s dark and it’s warm but bleakness is in the atmosphere; if all these black bodies had a choice they would not be here on the streets at this time.
I have not always lived in Johannesburg. In fact, I have only been here a few months. I was born in Soweto and lived there for the first ten years of my life and afterwards, when my father had saved enough money, we moved to the suburbs in the West Rand. The house my father bought was huge: A double storey with five bedrooms and I would have my own bedroom for the first time. As scary as that was, I was excited.
The suburb we moved into has a strong Muslim community, so at four in the morning we were woken up by the call for prayer. It scared all of us at first but we eventually got used to it and learnt to sleep through it. Our neighbours were sweet and greeted us. The women had a bit of an advantage because even though they knew our faces, we didn’t know theirs because of the head scarfs they wore. As a result of this, they could avoid us easily at the grocery store without having to be coerced into awkward social small talks with us.
Life at home was easy and comfortable but always at sunset when the second last call for prayer blasted from the speakers of the Mosque, I knew that the life I was living was isolated and unreal. It was a safe box. A prison. A glass castle that would soon shatter.
Years went by real fast, like water through opened hands and suddenly my father helped me get my first secure job. After a few months, I decided to move out of the family home. My family protested, but I knew it was something I had to do. In my heart, I knew I had to make the change that would set the pace for the rest of my life.
A month after I moved out, my father passed away and the glass castle that was home shattered. You can never be fully prepared for death. We all know we are going to die, and yet, when one of us does goes we act all surprised.
That said, you can never be fully prepared for life either, but by stepping out of my parental home before my father passed, the wheels of change in my life were set in motion. By choosing to step out of a fantasy life provided by my family, I saw what truly mattered and that was love and time spent with others – not the many rooms the house had or the fridge filled with food.
I plan to buy a fridge by the end of the month. I’m not sure what I’ll fill it with but I’m trying to make a solitary home for myself.
But right now, I must get on the bus.
Picture: Jaxons / Shutterstock.com
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