Johannesburg, I am soaking you in. I am parched and you are succulent and nourishing balm, you are a mental and emotional emollient. Months of travelling in countries where I do not speak the language, where the music does not move me quite as deeply as I need to be moved, where my skin, my features, my existence are novelties has slowly been drying me out, leaving me feeling chapped and tightened.

But here you are with your streets, shops and buildings full of beautiful black faces that call each other (and me) ‘sister’ or ‘brother’ and the elders ‘mother’ and ‘father; with your music that makes me sweat out my road-weariness on the dancefloor, with your new luxuries and your old culture on full and unabashed display; and – perhaps most importantly – with your Krispy Kreme and your Popeye’s and your Outkast playing on the radio. Already, I can tell that you are much too much to explore all in one go, but I’m willing to give it my best shot.

***

In hindsight, I didn’t really realize how physically and mentally exhausting Morocco (and my long layover in Egypt) was. Being in Johannesburg has sharply contrasted my entire north African experience. I literally feel like I have emerged from an ancient desert with the sand still stinging my eyes, and landed smack in the middle of a modern, luxurious world where the familiarity of everything makes me feel strangely disoriented. The past 2.5 days in Jozi have been a gradual awakening from a dream that I had resigned myself to accepting as brute fact into a much sweeter reality. No piles of carcasses on the streets. Here, there are Porsches and BMWs. No hawkers or hustlers to avoid or clap back at. Here, the street vendors are passively available to anyone who’s interested in buying. No worry about what to wear so as not to draw undue attention to myself. No dirt and grime and dust settled into everything. No navigating narrow alleyways in medinas or hoping that the taxi I just hailed will actually take me to my destination and won’t end up heatedly arguing with me about the fare. Here, the Uber driver always arrives on time, asks me what radio station I want to listen to, calls me sister and wishes me a nice day when I disembark. I can barely swallow it all. I feel grateful and almost, but not quite undeserving. I have earned this. I deserve to bask in these simple luxuries.

***

As I pass people on the street, in the mall, at the office, I openly observe their faces, mannerisms, the way they walk, their style of dress. I am hungry for these people. My eyes devour all the beautiful black faces around me. I am generous with my ‘hellos’ and thank you’s and ‘good mornings’ and ‘have a nice days’. I eavesdrop and smile at snippets of conversations….

Hearing someone exclaim “AAYEEE!” while talking to their friend.

Hearing everyone of similar age refer to each other (even strangers, even me) as sister and brother and to their elders as mother and father.

The guy at the security checkpoint in the airport to the older woman dressed in her West African finest... “Mother, this way please’

The girl at the coffee shop when I was inquiring about ground transport, “I know one father here who drives a taxi…”

The security guard who was making the rounds in the office where I was working late one evening. “Hello, sister, how are you?”

And that accent? So roundly soft with British and Dutch undertones yet still so distinctly African. I plump up every time I hear it.

 ***

My Uber driver who dropped me off back at my flat after I finished grocery shopping asked me,

“First time to South Africa?”

“Yes.”

“What do you think of it?”

“I like it. Everyone looks so healthy and happy here.”

He laughs.