Mama Shujaa

I could never squat by the roadside and relieve myself, in broad daylight, on sprays of grass in South Africa's breadbasket, the Highveld. No amount of decent cover could convince me to diversify the soil's fertility, to contribute tributary rivulets to fecal mounds of the animal variety scattered on the vast land; dried up, brown black swirls, no longer Swiss cakes to the bluebottle flies buzzing around. I assure you; you would not come upon me crouching behind a clump of bushes as cars speed past on the N1 freeway towards Free State Stadium in Bloemfontein. I am not, after all, an African woman. I be lady o. I no be woman. I be lady o. Market woman, na woman o. I am an acculturated African lady.  And that van load of Nigerian soccer fans, men and women gathered on the side of the road, within inches of each other, in varying positions of relief; spouting, spurting, oblivious to the hundreds of World Cup road travelers, the men of course, having it easier than the women...

I have become a good shock-absorber, cultural or otherwise.  So, my life is now an important reservoir of long-standing beliefs, and of fresh, unused experiences.  All to be seen in a pleasantly consistent whole, some day. As growth.  An African writer who wants to move into a realm of content that exemplifies humanistic expression, wholly involved in the search for spiritual and intellectual heights that are universal. I am back from our family's South Africa 2010 holiday. And I am an evolving long-distance traveler - Johannesburg to Dubai: 8 hours; Dubai to New York: 13.5 hours; New York to Atlanta: 2.5 hours.  I admit, I do not possess an unbiased eye, and frankly, mimicking passengers at airport security checkpoints, customs and immigration, has worn me out. Yet it inspires a flowering of thought, stories to feed the soul.  Slow eater that I am. Now, the World Cup 2010 Final is upon us:  Holland and Spain.  And I am routing for Holland! Ma...