Wherever I go and whatever I do, this sense of place and belonging. Not everybody, I notice, is as connected to their land of origin. My husband is a nomad, putting down shallow roots wherever he lays his Cape Union Mart hat. I believe he could live anywhere; he’d make a decision and thrive. My roots are more discriminating; they curl up their ends in protest, unwilling to embrace strange, new soil. I lived abroad like a spectre; not really being there, moving slowly as if in a dreamworld, vaguely surprised that people could see me.
Now we live in Green Point close to the stadium where everything, lately, happens. This makes traffic a mare from time to time, like a few weeks ago, the weekend of the Cape Town Marathon coinciding with a rugby event. I woke up to the 7am sounds of a commentator welcoming the day and the athletes. I brewed a cup of strong Swedish coffee and opened the windows wide to see our strip of slate-blue sea. From my bedroom window you could travel, in a straight stripe, to the wild and windswept shores of Robben Island. On clear days I watch its waves crashing.
Then, the opening strands of Juluka’s Impi – of course. Our Zulu warrior song for the warrior scatterlings flying over Table Mountain National Park, tracing the footsteps of everyone’s early ancestors, pounding the tarmac of our city streets, fighting inner demons, fighting themselves to keep running, keep running, you can do it. Our metaphor for life down here: keep running, warrior, you can do it.
Impi! wo ‘nans’ impi iyeza
Obani bengathinta amabhubesi?
(Warrior! the army is coming!
Who here can touch the lions?)
And, I’m home. Johnny Clegg is singing to me from beyond the grave, alive as he’s ever been, flying up over the mountaintops, giving the runners courage, reminding us of our fighter spirit, telling us we belong.
Nothing things become things. Maybe because I was uprooted for so long. A 4pm walk in Green Point park through the alleyway of trees that takes you straight down to the lighthouse (the oldest in South Africa) and the sea. Pale spring sunshine and a slight nip in the air. Winter exiting but not quite out of the building. Three Xhosa nannies with their push-chairs and small charges. They walk slowly, ambling along. Unlike me they meander; now stopping for no apparent reason. Now talking loudly, a hand on a generous hip. I wish I could understand what they were saying but we white people are limited when it comes to language. My friend, Nolo, speaks five languages fluently without thinking anything of it.
Having grown up during the darkest days of apartheid it always amazes me to see the ease with which South African people mix. There’s a warmth and a friendliness and a willingness to connect, to reach out, to bridge divides. I see it around me all day long. The offer of help, to carry a bag, to give a lift, to donate to a child. Say, Molo, Sisi before you ask for your chicken strips at Spar and you get the biggest smile. Order the samp and beans and you’ve got a friend for life.
At the heart of us humans lies the most fundamental need of all our of needs and that is for connection to other humans. In the cool, northern parts of Europe this connection has become lost. People are too self-sufficient; the need for one another is obsolete and it has resulted in a deep loneliness. You see it on their faces, especially during the winter months. Sweden is the nation with the highest amount of people living alone, a massive 47% of its 10.4 million population.
At the end of the working day they let themselves into their (mostly) rented apartments. Nobody is waiting to greet them. No delicious smells emanate from their small kitchens. They stand in the hallway’s semi-darkness and hang their coat on a hook. They walk through the rooms, alone, turning on lights. They warm up their dinner-for-one and eat in front of TV. Advertisements paid for by the state remind Swedish people to say hello to their neighbours. A hundred meters up from our apartment in Malmö is an area of road where people cross to access a small town square and a walking street. The crossing is unusually wide. After wondering about it for years I asked a local why it had been designed that way. To encourage people to interact with each other, was his reply.
Back in Green Point, going anywhere by car on event days is unthinkable so I decide, if I can’t beat them I’ll join them. The main road is packed with spectators. The first runners, the serious athletes, came in hours ago. These ones are tired, they’ve been running for five hours and the pain and exhaustion is evident on their faces. Many don’t look like athletes and you wonder at the determination, the inner fire that makes them do this, makes them persevere. The training sessions after work, already tired from a long day of traffic and complaints. Getting out of bed early on weekends to meet their friends, to run. I see a husband practically carrying his wife over the last 100 meters. I see a white lady and a black lady somewhere in their sixties, holding hands tightly, willing one other towards the finish line.
A woman on the sidelines is clapping and singing for these amateur runners. Initially I think she’s marathon staff but after a while I realise she’s just a spectator, spurring the competitors on. She sings, here we go, ruh-nuhs, here we go! Only two hundred meters to go! You’ve got such a beautiful weather in Cape Town today, thank the almighty for this beautiful weather! She reads the logos on their vests and calls them by name, fist-bumping those who still have the energy to look up, to lift their arms: Go, SAPS! Thank you SAPS for fighting the creemeenals! Go, Rondebosch Running Club! You can do it, Durbanveeeel!
Tired runners and their families walk the short distance back to their cars. Tonight they’ll make a braai. The aunties and uncles are coming; maybe a neighbour or two. They’ll bring tupperware for barakat so nothing goes to waste. Back to their houses in Mitchell’s Plain. Bloukrantz wood, klippies and coke and a barking dog. Auntie Salwaah has made her famous ‘Rille Gebak’ (spiced doughnuts). There was a special on lamb chops at Food Lover’s. They’ve been marinading all afternoon in shishamyana spice and love. Money is tight; there are no extras. But it’s lekker. It’s oraait.
That uniquely South African smell of braai drifts across the city’s neighbourhoods, over the vibercrete walls, satellite dishes, guava trees, Toyota Cressidas. Epson Salt for aching muscles. Wyn vir die pyn. Kaptein, Span die Seile is playing somewhere. The other night, on the way back from the jol, my 17-year-old daughter and her friends asked the Uber driver to make a stop at McDonalds. They ended up having a picnic with him outside on the lawn. He wanted a Big Mac Meal. This stuff, the very marrow of South African life day-to-day, this doesn’t make it onto the news, but this is where we really live. Here, with our people.
The Disco Pants Blog 
Ooooooh Susan!!!! Reading this from a vvvvvery cold (& dark) Hertfordshire in England, and literally “balling my eyes out “ , such a heartfelt piece!!!
Down in Hove by the ‘other prom’. Also having a little weep. Long live Johnny Clegg in our hearts forever. Thanks Susan.
What can I say? You absolutely nailed it, especially about running the Cape Town Marathon – the support was tremendous.
Jeepers Suz – only you can make me laugh out loud and then swallow hard the lump in my throat in a matter of a few paragraphs. ‘Travel the world, my darling,’ my father told me years ago,’ travel the world, but once Africa is in your blood, its there forever.’ He was so right – no matter where I went, this is my North Star. I’m grateful every single day for being home, this beautiful rainbow nation.
Hello Susan Hayden,Welcome back.! Your blogs are my best and this one brings a tear to my eye. You hit the na
What can I say? At this moment, in the later stages of my life sand as I run my biggest challenge, this pops into my inbox.
It lifts me up, it fills my battered spirit and gives me strength to carry on.
I can only say, thank you.
In the mid-1950s, when I was a child, we lived for a short time in Moullie Court, Beach road, about 650m from the lighthouse – and the Dolls House drive-in restaurant was just across the road from the lighthouse.
We lived in the flat to the right of the entrance with the ROUND window directly behind the white car, and when it was stormy the spindrift/sea-spume used to coat the windows and cover the little balcony.
You have lived in Swedenâ¦and I was born in Norway but my Capetonian mom took me to SA in 1950 when I was still quite little.
Erik
Erik Eilertsen
04 5156 1502
erik@eriktheready.com
What can I say? At this moment, in the later stages of my life sand as I run my biggest challenge, this pops into my inbox.
It lifts me up, it fills my battered spirit and gives me strength to carry on.
I can only say, thank you.
You can’t leave us for longer than a sosatie roll, please, Susan. A South African friend and I were cheering some runners in Lisbon during a marathon. The reaction from the runners and the other spectators was so funny: some almost tripped, others moved their heads from side to side wondering where the noise came from, the spectators looked at us, frowning. We then realized we were being very soufafrikan and had a lekker laugh. Thanks for this.
LOVE YOUR VIEW !
Thank YOU! For always showing the positive side of our wild beautiful fierce country – you make me so glad I call this place home ♥
I’ve missed your blog, I too love the warmth and generosity of spirit of my fellow South African’s, thank you
A lovely piece, as usual, and very relatable for everyone who grew up as a third culture kid. Though, if you don’t mind, regarding Sweden, it’s a bit more complicated than that. There are 1.9 million single occupancy households (and thus people living alone, not 5 million). Interestingly, Swedes feel less lonely than people of most other nationalities: only around 5%, which is one of the lowest anywhere. Though I do miss the African talk-to-everyone-you-meet mentality here in Europe. 😊
Hooray, you’re back!! and yes yes yes! I have friends and relations all over the world and they don’t have this, and they miss it. Hamba kahle oxo
Dear Mrs Disco Pants ( are the sequin maybe?),
I so love this blog…….how often do you write your blog? Surely not monthly, because it seems like ages since I’ve read one.
My daughter also used to live in a flat opposite the Green Point Park and the Stadium. When I visited we often went walking through that park ( which I was always so pleased to see that it was clean with plenty of joggers and dog walkers passing by). She absolutely loved her ten years of living there, and made some wonderful friends for life. I will send this to her now…I know that she’ll want to join. She met her future husband in Cape Town and the wonderful memories will keep them going throughout their love affair. They had to move to Hillcrest, Durban for business reasons, but the smell and sound of the sea and that vibe that you cannot replicate, will live on in their hearts forever.
I look forward to your next episode. Please keep them coming regularly!
Many thanks,
Louise ( a huge fan)
Beautiful!
Susan, so so beautiful, and so relatab
i haven’t read your blog on ages but I realised I’ve missed it and loved this. It brought tears to my eyes.
As an expat living in the UK, I miss this party of home so much! I try to describe it to non South African friends but it’s so hard. I call it out “lifestyle” but it’s so much more than that! I miss the South Africanessness!
Thank you for this. 💚💛🇿🇦
Welcome back!;0)Jenny
After an 8 year gap in visiting SA my husband joined me in Cape Town for a week in August…. Can relate to the easy chats between total strangers… and we SOOO MISS THAT!
Thank you for a wonderful piece!!!
Almost out of a book I wrote… the white heart diaries; the similarities are love, joy, and the celebration of the collective: ons mense, our people.
Loved reading this.
I’m old now and not a warrior anymore. Magog now, but great to hear it’s still magic out there.
Ag no you make me really homesick !! – beautifully written
Wonderful to have another post in my inbox. You have a knack of making me cry whenever I read your posts. Thank god I’m not in Sweden as then I would really weep!
Welcome home! x
Agh man! We’ve been in (very troubled!) America for 46 years and your beautiful piece brought back the flavor of the land that I love. Never heard of shishamyana. Will order it next time from African Hut, along with Robertsons Portuguese spice, Pro-Vita, boeries and billies.
We visited SA in August with the whole family, some of whom had never been. New fans for life. Dankie, meisietjie!
I loved this piece, champagne for the soul.
I just love this and I am like you very entrenched, very long roots, a beautiful read! Thanks
So happy you’re back Susan – your writing is exceptionally poignant and relatable. I love your posts on South Africa – it feels like someone has taken my thoughts and feelings and turned them into these incredible stories. THANK YOU – you’re amazing xxx
This went straight to my heart in a faraway land. Yes I cried!! Mooi, man.
Love this Susan. And the clip â over 40 years old!
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Wonderful ♥️