Portraits of the Holiday Camp

Ipeleng: Skillz Street Star

Kim-Kgolo Veterans: Bonolo, Gloria, and Landi

Ishmael: A new face from the orphanage

Better Late than Never?

It’s about two months overdue, but contrary to what my blog may suggest, Grassroot Soccer Kimberley was in fact operational in December.

We kicked off the month with a Voluntary Counseling and Testing (VCT) event that combined free HIV testing services and a soccer tournament for both male and female teams. These events generally demand a great deal of both logistical preparation and energy input the day of, and ours was no exception. We started bright and early, arriving at our fields of choice around 7am to assemble our persistently problematic goals and set down sideline cones. Hooter was in charge of coordinating the men’s side while I was tasked with the women’s side. As teams filtered onto the fields, I belatedly began to see what should have been fully foreseeable—while the men’s teams were out in full force, a few women’s teams didn’t show up, while others failed to field entire teams. A discouraging start to a day that would prove to continue along this initial, somewhat disappointing trend.

As the men’s side seemed to move along without a hitch, my coordinating fiasco became only messier and more frustrating as the day went on. Team absenteeism, absconding referees, and heckling teenage boys blurred my thought processes, and the blazing hot sun burned my particularly pale skin to a crisp. After moonlighting as a referee, and being yelled at consistently (never gave them enough credit), and trying to explain that our pristinely planned bracket no longer mattered because of teams gone AWOL, and being yelled at consistently, and attempting to explain how the majority of our testers didn’t show up and so a lot of teams wouldn’t be able to test, and being yelled at consistently, I confess, I had to take a little personal time. I also confess, I didn’t do this as gracefully as I would have desired. I shed some tears and took refuge in the slight shade provided by sitting in the dirt right next to our Toyota Tazz, avoiding any and all responsibilities I may have had at the time.

On the bright side, a pack of my girls from Skillz Street had walked all the way to the venue to hang out with us. Three of them came and sat with me by the car, immediately relieving a little stress. The group in its entirety also became the impromptu substitution team, coming through in a pinch and filling out the bracket. They were a glorious throng of reinforcement in my life that day, both logistically and emotionally. Who knew these tiny, twelve year old girls would come through for me like that. Pulled me 180 degrees right around.

One of our winning teams receiving their medals

Eventually I got my act together and finished off the tournament, chaotic as it was. When the day was finally over, I think the entire Kimberley team felt a little disappointed with the outcome. Kids definitely had fun, and some good soccer was played, but we didn’t accomplish what we set out to do, and strings of unfortunate minor failures culminated in a pretty lackluster day, at best. We wrapped up around 6pm. By 7pm Hooter and I began our two-hour trek to Lime Acres and Danielskuil with the coaches we’d brought in to help out. We arrived back home around 11:30pm, exhausted.

Two days later we embarked upon the next of our major projects, a weeklong soccer camp during the school holiday. Similar to the camps we held in September, these days consisted of two short-sided soccer matches that emphasized fair play values, along with two HIV/AIDS educational “Skillz” sessions. Holiday Camps generally offer a lot of fun interaction with the participants, but they’re also busy, bustling, and borderline stressful. This camp in particular was uniquely challenging.

We held the camp on a beautifully grassy field in Galeshewe—a rare commodity in the township. The field was also situated, however, within the grounds of both a “Place of Safety” and a “Secure Care Center.” The Lorato Place of Safety is a facility that accommodates youth who have troubled or broken homes. The Molehe Mampe Secure Care Center is a facility that accommodates youth who have been convicted of some sort of criminal activity. Needless to say, incorporating these kids into our programs, along with kids from nearby primary schools and an HIV/AIDS orphanage, presented a slew of unusual and unfamiliar challenges.

Aside from dealing with difficult behavioral issues throughout the days, we were also warned to make sure participants didn’t linger near the fences, as their friends sometimes smuggled “goods”—drugs or weapons—to them. Hooter also went into the secure care center to retrieve the participants for that day, and he said they lived in dim, tiny cells. Even by just looking at these kids, much less watching them interact with others, we could tell that they were much different from the generally wholesome primary school kids we usually work with. They just seemed rougher. They looked severe. They were both defiant and guarded at once. After the camp ended we found out that some of them had been convicted of murder.

That revelation was shocking, and it honestly made me a little uneasy. We’d been with them all week, and further, we’d recruited little good-natured neighborhood kids to play with them. That said, these kids, probably more so than any others we work with, are most in need of the information our programs provide. And the couple of hours they spent with us were a precious few they could experience outside, playing soccer, and interacting with other people. Grassroot Soccer programs are intended to be unique, exceptional experiences for the participants. For these kids, this week was surely the exception to their everyday lives.

A Typically Diverse Team at Our Camp

The participants from the Place of Safety were also challenging, sometimes more so than those from the secure care center. Male and female participants would physically fight each other, and many spewed some serious sass at their coaches and teammates. But similar to working with the kids from Molehe Mampe, it was rewarding to help kids who truly need a little extra help in their worlds. On our last day at the camp, one of my favorite coaches, Tweeny (a lady who deserves an entry unto herself) relayed to me an experience with one of the girls on her team. Tweeny explained that a young girl from the Place of Safety, who had been difficult to work with throughout the week, opened up to both Tweeny and her fellow teammates about her HIV positive status. She had been raped over a year before. She said that until that day, she hadn’t fully told her story to anyone. Tweeny told me that every single person listening was in tears. Tweeny also told me that she’d organized to meet up with the girl periodically to check up on her and support her in anyway she could. After long weeks of stress, frustration, disappointment and more, Tweeny’s story restored my faith in the program, in our mission and methods, and in my time spent here in South Africa.

All drama and intensity aside, the week did provide some wonderful and even slightly carefree fun with some of the participants. The gaggle of kids we brought over from a nearby HIV/AIDS orphanage were absolutely, hands down, beyond amazing. They were so genuine. So happy and excited to be with us. They also behaved like such an adorable, heartwarming little family. They looked after and cared about each other. It was so obvious that they'd really bonded to each other and made a real support network where they had nothing before.

Beyond this unexpected introduction to the most beautiful make-shift family I've ever encountered, a group of my girls from Skillz Street made it to this camp as well. Seeing them fearlessly meander their way through multiple security fences to hang out with us, and knowing that they'd walked miles, from the entirely opposite side of Galeshewe just to continue to be a part of what we do, made me ooze happiness all over the place. After we finished the camp each day, the Skillz Street veterans from Kim-Kgolo Primary stuck around for an extra hour as we cleaned up. We drove away with them crowding our windows, holding our hands, and chasing our car as we finally broke free. I intend to track them down and make them hang out with me again throughout the year. I really can't wait.

Skillz Street Meets Our Holiday Camp: Bonolo Celebrating her Goal

“The sun illuminates only the eye of the man, but shines into the eye and the heart of the child” -Ralph Waldo Emerson

Loyiso: Met while stranded on the side of the road, on the way to Lesotho

Rethabile: Faithful Skillz Street Onlooker

"Because of your smile, you make life more beautiful." -Thich Nhat Hanh

Mpho

My Team

I decided to become a GRS intern within a period of two weeks, without ever adequately devoting enough consideration to the prospect. I had nothing else to do. I thought it was a good cause. It was more of “why not?” logic than a ravenous, must-have mentality. It’s so surreal to think that had my somewhat haphazard decision-making led me down a different path, I never would have met the 11 girls on my team. I never would have known they exist.

I guess this can be said of anyone, anywhere. But the fragments of my life, and theirs, that had to fall into place to result in our happy collision seem more unlikely than usual. In honor of this personally awe-inspiring serendipity, I’ve decided to immortalize my roster in the vast breadth of cyber space, or, my blog. I confess, I’m partially motivated by my desire to give my readership (humorous… “readership”…as if it expanded much beyond my parents) an idea of the names I attempt to pronounce on a regular basis. Thus, I present the exquisitely feisty females that make up team “Red Danger.”

Unacceptable Coach's Favoritism: Tshego and Kelebs

Tshegofatso Maarman: Shy, yet amazingly spunky and stylish in her own way. Defender. Eleven years old. Dreadlocks. Favorite.

Molebogeng Lefera: Bold. Confident, yet quietly so. Midfielder. Twelve years old. Fascinated by my hair.

Mpho Mbangi: Reserved, but so genuinely sweet she could give me diabetes. Midfielder. Twelve years old. Comes through during discussions like a champ.

Didimalang Moses: Attitude. Sassiest little lady I’ve ever seen. Loud. Striker. Thirteen years old. Tall and utterly beautiful. Alpha female.

Refilwe Jakkals: Extremely quiet. Always observing. Defender. Twelve years old. Soft, pink-brown, J-shaped scar reaching from her lower left lip up into her cheek. I don’t know what happened. Scars are commonplace here, but I want to hear her story.

Tumelo Motsamai: Independent. Speaks when she needs to. Striker. Thirteen years old. Tall, lanky, and dark.

Goitsemang Springbok: Affectionate. Fairly awkward. Any position she deems suitable at any given moment. Twelve years old.

Abigail Moawci: Vocal at the right time. Passionate. Striker. Thirteen years old. Great afro puff.

Kamogelo Motlagomang: Edgy and borderline arrogant. Latecomer. Ally of Didi. Striker. Thirteen years old. Good foot skills. Short and slight.

Becca Mosina: Smart. Soft-spoken yet powerful. Midfielder. Twelve years old. Extra junk in the trunk. AWOL, sadly.

Kelebogile Konstantina: Deceptively quiet. Attitude and flair all her own, once you pull her out of the shell. Defender. Twelve years old. Balls outrageous. Favorite number two.

Those are my ladies, as best as I can accurately and concisely depict them. Needless to say, nicknames have saved me.

Street Soccer: Girlz Only

During my earliest days as an intern I was charged with the exciting yet daunting task of creating and coordinating a soccer league for little ladies. As part of a new program GRS has dubbed “Skillz Street,” these leagues are intended to provide a fun, safe soccer experience, centered on the values of fair play. The leagues theoretically combine small-sided soccer, close relationships to GRS coaches, and fair play rules and discussions; they are designed to promote HIV/AIDS awareness, foster constructive discussion and communications skills, and help develop positive self-image and a sense of self-efficacy among the participants. Most importantly, the final stipulation: Girlz only.

The feminization of HIV is a staggering phenomenon. The proportion of women living with HIV has steadily increased, especially in sub-Saharan Africa; 76% of young people (aged 15-24) who are infected with HIV are women or girls. Not surprisingly, given such figures, girls and young women stand out as a particularly at-risk demographic group. Thus the focus on girls for Skillz Street.

After two chaotic and demanding weeks of preparation, a pilot league of Skillz Street was fast-tracked onto the Kimberley scene on November 3^rd. Much to my amazement, and relief, nearly every registered girl came to our opening day. Not as much to my amazement, two of our coaches backed out at the last minute (an unfortunate yet not entirely unexpected occurrence) and so Thuso and I stepped in as coaches. In any of the other GRS sites, I would definitely not be the go-to backup coach. But Kimberley faces a major coaching shortage, and with Thuso already subbing in, I—the washed up college athlete who hasn’t engaged in legitimate physical activity in months—was next off the bench. It’s not ideal, and it’s definitely not Skillz Street in theory, especially considering my Setswana repertoire is still painfully minimal. But for me, it’s been the most rewarding experience in Kimberley to date.

A typical day of Skillz Street begins with a Skillz Core intervention under the careful guidance of Thuso Jones. Extracting the GRS lingo, the girls come about an hour before match time to go through one of the eight HIV/AIDS educational sessions in the GRS curriculum. As the rest of the coaches filter into the Letsego school grounds, Kristin and I (primarily Kristin—she’s a godsend) set up the short-sided fields and attempt to assemble our consistently finicky pug goals. We generally acquire the assistance of gaggles of intrigued 10-year-old onlookers. Once the teams have congregated around their respective coaches, opposing teams decide upon the fair play rules for the match. Nearly every time they choose the same rules: No insults, both teams must celebrate every goal, and an opponent must help a player up if she falls.

Matches last 20 minutes. Soccer skillz fluctuate from a complete inability to make contact with the ball and the regular use of hands, to some genuinely impressive passing and dribbling talent. My team was undefeated for the first couple of games. We’ve since hit a rough patch.

After the match the teams reconvene to discuss how well they adhered to the fair play rules. We then move on to broader discussions about our “theme for the day.” Some of the themes we’ve covered include: the importance of personal choices, teamwork, communication, and peer and community pressure on girls. As I drafted the questions that guide these discussions, I was admittedly a little skeptical about the outcome. I’ve been pleasantly surprised by the “theme of the day” in practice. Once discussion is sparked, the girls have generally far exceeded my expectations. They are smart, usually sassy, and much more aware than I ever was at their age.

After spending two or three hours with my girls twice a week throughout the month, I’ll bid them farewell when the league ends on December 3^rd. Generally the role of an intern is played out on the sidelines—coordinating, supporting, basically executing any task that will make the real game more worthwhile, more influential, more lasting. My brief stint as a Skillz Street coach has afforded me the opportunity to step onto the field, and I can’t be more thankful.

Rejuvenation

I staunchly defend the position that a blog must offer, above all else, a home for honesty. Maintaining that commitment is, I confess, easier said than typed. When writing is my primary means of both relaying, and personally digesting an experience that I was incessantly told would be wholly enriching, it’s tempting to focus on the good and gloss over the bad and the ugly. But my life here includes all three, and more.

After our weeklong Holiday Camp festivities, I was seriously worn down. I was exhausted, and while I’d seen and experienced some truly inspiring moments, I’d also seen the opposite. One day as I waited for the teams to finish their games, I watched as a small girl lost her balance and tumbled off the nearby bleachers. She curled into a little bundle of collapsed, limp limbs, and as her sobs wilted into whimpers, I saw her tears drip onto the red dirt. A gang of teenage boys sat with her on the bleachers, and at the sight of her fall, they laughed hysterically. It was a raucous, wild laugh, not the subtler, guilty laugh that sometimes slips out when someone falls or does something embarrassing. It made me sick to my stomach. I’d endured their harassment everyday throughout the week, but when I saw this, I lost my last semblance of patience. I angrily demanded why no one helped her. They continued to laugh as they twirled their index fingers beside their ears, gesturing to me that they believed she was crazy. When I helped her up and sat her back on the bleachers, she just smiled at me and repeated my name, “Lindiwe, Lindiwe.” She even laughed at the boys. I wanted her to be angry like I was, and to fight back, or at least refuse to acknowledge her cruel tormentors. She did the opposite. She indulged them. I was speechless. The entire interaction lasted only five minutes, if that, but it broke me. I was disillusioned and frustrated. I wanted to go home—all the way home.

Vonnegut said that laughter and tears are both responses to frustration and exhaustion. I met the completion of that week, including its most testing and draining experiences, with the latter.

Vonnegut preferred the former, because there is less cleaning up to do afterward.

Our camp officially ended on Friday evening after we hosted our 24 coaches for dinner at our house. The following day, Hooter and I woke up at 7am to make the 2 hour trek to Danielskuil and Lime Acres to drive our coaches home, only to be followed, naturally, by the 2 hour return home.

Our Toyota Tazz-Condor combo caravan pulled into the Gateway 2 Heaven around noon. We planned on leaving again at 2pm, this time to dribble approximately 15 kilometers through Galeshewe to raise money for Grassroot Soccer with Hooter’s previous employer, the Greenwich Country Day School. Admittedly, I would have preferred to embark upon this sure-to-be-strenuous expedition on a different day. Alas, the Connecticut counterpart of our fundraiser was scheduled for that Saturday, so I had very little choice in the matter.

Outfitted in our bright yellow Grassroot Soccer t-shirts and two partially deflated Nike soccer balls, we set out on our journey, dribbling down the quieter and well-maintained streets of Kimberley. The atmosphere changed as we neared the township limits, and we were greeted by honking cars and enthusiastic bystanders. Interest mounted as we ran through a local park and called out in Setswana.

A left turn took us onto the busiest road in Galeshewe, where we were beautifully ambushed by a horde of intrigued and excited kids. They eagerly followed as we dribbled along the bustling streets and through the lively neighborhoods of Galeshewe, garnering much attention from older onlookers. The kids were elated to pass and dribble with us, and their happiness was contagious. With every kilometer we traveled, the weight of the past week slipped away from my mind. As we entered into the heart of the township, glorious South African rain began to pour down onto us, and we took refuge in a local school. We played soccer drills under an overhang to wait out the thunder. It was sublime chaos.

When we finally began to make our way home, we had to carry some of the youngest, and most tired, kids. The rain still fell softly, and every one of us was thoroughly drenched. I had befriended a young boy early on, asking “Leina le gago ke mang?”—what is your name? I think I fell in love when he responded, “Trouble.” I carried Trouble on my back from the school to his home. I held his older brother’s hand. I think it was the happiest I’ve been since I arrived on the African continent. Honest truth. Honest good.

Our farewell to these kids was bittersweet, but we said we’d return some day to play more soccer. I believe we will. I owe them. At one of my lowest times in Kimberley, the street soccer players of Galeshewe rejuvenated me.

Holla Galeshewe Holiday Camp

Castrol South Africa, major oil producer, makes a major donation to GRS to be distributed in four sites throughout South Africa. Result in terms of my world: a five day, soccer-centric, HIV-educating, dusty dirt field, hot, arid, exhausting extravaganza, all packed into the weeklong holiday children get off from school.

The five-person team here in Kimberley split up to support two camps at separate venues, each hosting over 100 excited kids. The camps were intended to run from 10:30 to 2:30. In reality, we arrived to set up around 8am, only to find the majority of the participants already waiting for us, ready and running. Every day, without fail, we watched our intended departure time slip further and further away as our schedule fell victim to a variety of obstacles, including but not limited to: the intrusion of a herd of migrating cows on our soccer pitches, the intrusion of a herd of migrating goats on our soccer pitches, the lag time in our efforts to coordinate games and activities for over 100 kids and 13 coaches, mild to somewhat-not-so-mild dust storms, and the constant heckling/confusion/distraction generously offered by a gang of friendly yet sassy kids who stopped by to take in the scene.

Each day the participants and coaches alternated between two Grassroot Soccer educational sessions and two soccer matches, specifically focused on the values of fair play. Before each game the teams discussed and decided upon three “fair play rules” which, if followed throughout the match, could garner additional points. The most popular rules prohibited insults, required both teams to celebrate every goal scored, and stipulated that when players fell, opponents had to help them up. The execution of said rules was generally varied, ranging from unfortunate and blatant disregard to genuine and uplifting adherence.

On the final day we brought in a voluntary counseling and testing partner organization, New Start, to offer players of legal age (14+) and coaches the opportunity to be tested for HIV. Four representatives from the organization came to our site. They worked out of two tents set up a few yards away from our fields, providing pre and post-counseling along with the test itself. The entire process takes under an hour.

The testing component of the camp was easily the most charged event of the week. Every individual that tested, or even considered testing, surely experienced a sense of fear and anxiety that I struggle to describe, much less truly understand. In speaking with our coaches—the individuals who dedicate hours and hours of their time per week to educate about HIV—and hearing even their concerns about testing, I began to more fully realize the intense and complex implications that accompany the testing process. While some coaches decided that they weren’t ready to take that step, many others decided differently.

Zweli, an unusually tall, lanky, and loud coach from Danielskuil, recounted his testing experience to me as I drove a group of coaches home after the camp. He explained that, knowing of the VCT opportunity at the end of the camp, he’d struggled between the temptation and the fear to know his status throughout the entire week. When he encouraged his team to test, they responded with a challenge—a challenge for their coach to test along with them. Armed with this motivation, Zweli attended pre-counseling with every member of his team who tested. He waited for and spoke with every player after they received their results, and finally, he followed through on his promise.

As we drove through the vast, flat landscape back to Danielskuil, Zweli brought me along for the ride of his emotional roller coaster. He concluded his story by explaining that it was the courage of his players that finally convinced him to learn his status. He told me that he was proud of them, not only for their own courage, but also for the courage that they instilled within him. Zweli is a remarkable coach. He’s energetic, enthusiastic and fully engaged. But at that moment, when attention shifted away from Zweli and instead towards his team, I’d never been more impressed by him.

Thankfully, every member of Zweli’s team who tested was HIV negative. But in a country where, statistically speaking, 20 of our 100 participants should be HIV positive, Zweli’s team was most likely an exception. Out of the 28 individuals who were tested at our camps, one tested positive. He is 15 years old.

Testing results remain entirely confidential. If people test positive they immediately receive post-test counseling and are referred to a local clinic equipped to provide further care, including anti-retroviral treatment. Unfortunately, consistency is essential for the effectiveness of treatment, and this consistency is rarely realized. It’s a surreal experience to suddenly know, with certainty, that one of the kids that attended our camp all week is HIV positive. It’s nearly impossible to fathom his experience: to learn within minutes, from a complete stranger, in only a light fabric tent raised above the dirt ground, that he will live the rest of his life with knowledge of his positive status. I’m afraid for him. I’m overwhelmed by the hugely daunting challenges I imagine his future will hold. He is 15 years old.

Joyful

I found out today that my avocado-stocking friend at our friendly neighborhood Pick n Pay is named "Joy." I can imagine nothing more fitting.

A Little Goes a Long Way

At the risk of flaunting my capacity for the cliché, sometimes the smallest, most seemingly insignificant gestures and interactions have meant the most to me here. I find that my memories of events and larger experiences have already begun to fade into an overall abstract, indefinite place in my mind. The abstract is marked, however, by a handful of acute memories—moments that stand out as particularly joyful, and sometimes genuinely heartwarming.

In an effort to recruit over 200 kids for our upcoming soccer/HIV and AIDS education event, my fellow intern Hooter and I took to the streets of Galeshewe, visiting 10 different schools, three days in a row, to drop off and retrieve necessary forms. We spoke with teachers and school principals who were both eager and thankful to get their students involved, and we waved and smiled incessantly at rowdy, uniformed kids. On the last day before the holiday break, we stopped by all of the schools to drop off “Yellow Cards”—our hopeful attempt to make the participants actually show up the following Monday.

At our last school, as I frantically rushed to color in the final cards, my yellow colored pencil was dwindling. I awkwardly attempted to whittle the tip of the pencil with a scissor blade. My fumbling hands, outstretched from our car window, must have been comically visible, because without even noticing her presence, I was gently nudged by a young girl. She didn’t say a word, but she opened her palm flat, revealing a tiny metal pencil sharpener. I thanked her profusely, and at an unfortunately high octave due to this unexpected thoughtfulness. I sharpened my pencil as quickly as I could, returned the device to her little hand, and watched as she scampered off away from our car.

I was blown away. It seems so ridiculous, but it totally struck me. I was giddy for the rest of the afternoon. She was probably surprised when I assaulted her with my excessive gratitude, but it just flowed out of me. I can only hope to make a similar impact with such a simple gesture someday.

Interestingly, yet unsurprisingly, even the world of sports is largely segregated in South Africa, especially in Kimberley. White Afrikaners doggedly support their favorite rugby teams, while soccer is life for most black South Africans. At “The Halfway House,” the local bar we’ve begun to frequent, two large “Natal Sharks” statues preside over the courtyard. On a random weekend night at the Half, I once asked an Afrikaner man if he was going to attend a big upcoming soccer match. He laughed in my face. Galeshewe, on the other hand, is dotted with red dirt soccer fields. Painted emblems of favorite South African soccer teams brand most houses. When we saw a Bloemfontein Celtics game, we were quite possibly the only white people in a packed stadium seating over 20,000. (An experience that deserves its own post…if only motivation wasn’t’ so hard to come by.)

In an extremely, seriously extremely, rare turn of events, the South African national soccer team, Bafana Bafana, rolled into Kimberley, of all places, to play an international friendly match against the Malagasy national team. Somewhat ironically, they displaced the local professional rugby team, and the once predominantly white populated stadium assumed an entirely new character, as hundreds of black Bafana fans filed into the stands. The stadium erupted when Bafana finally scored the only goal of the match late in the second half.

As we meandered our way out of the stands to beat the post-game rush, we exchanged Bafana cheers with the crazy, yellow-clad fans in front of us. One man looked at our little string of white soccer fanatics and said “Thank you. I’ll be at the next rugby match.” It happened so quickly I almost missed what he was actually saying to us. I returned his smile and waved as the flow of the exiting crowd pushed us steadily forward.

Bafana Fans

Language seems to be somewhat of a dividing force here in Kimberley. While I’ve encountered many black children and adults who speak both English and Afrikaans, in addition to their native Setswana, I have yet to meet an Afrikaner who utters a word of Setswana. Necessity breeds change, and apparently Afrikaans works. I guess language will probably remain a one-way (drive-in-the-left-lane) type of street, for now.

This communication dynamic has largely motivated me to pick up a little Setswana here and there, primarily through daily harassment of Thuso. After countless humbling yet hilarious attempts to mimic the more guttural sounds Thuso so effortlessly voices, I’ve perfected a few key phrases.

Today, as I perused the produce aisle in our local Pick n Pay, I smiled at an older black employee as he stocked avocados. He had a wrinkled, friendly face, and his dark hair faded into an endearing gray border meeting his forehead. I timidly uttered “Dumela rra”—Hello sir—and his smile lit up. He responded, “Le kae?”—How am I. I said I was fine, and asked about him, all in Setswana. He grabbed onto my arm and practically hugged me right then and there. Right next to the avocados. He laughed affectionately as I explained that, unfortunately, I had already exhausted my Setswana vocabulary. I assured him that I’d work on it and return to speak to him. I could tell just by looking at him that he believed me, and he believed in me. Well, I couldn’t really tell that he believed in me just by looking at him. He actually told me that.

Either way, I’m looking forward to our next conversation, after I pick Thuso’s brain a little more. I’m hoping I’ll get another hug.