On the way homeYou know you are living in the third world when you walk pass two men, one holding the other’s leg as he was half way down a gutter plucking coins that passer by’s have dropped but had the dignity to not fish out. A few seconds later, one of the men pulled the other out – he was covered in what could only be described as vestiges of grim and he was clutching a disgusting five dollar note.
You know you are living in a ghetto when you walk pass gangs of black youths in their cheap and awful gangster couture and then walk pass a group of white boys dressed all in their best black outfits emblazoned with Metallica across their backs.
You know you are living in a juvenile detention centre when you witness scores of young teenagers holding cans of VB while some poor fat kid, obviously the designated sober one in the group was forced to carry the box of VB.
You know you are living in an ethnic enclave when the cars that are parked along the street are all playing the same kind of ethnic music blasting from their cheap sound systems and cheaper motor vehicles.
You know you are living in a drought when the person next to you smells so putrid that you are forced to break into a sprint in expensive shoes to escape the stench.
You know you are crazy when you witness all of this within the immediate vicinity of the train station at night.
You know you are insane when you witness all of this within the space of 2 minutes as you are walking to the taxi stand.
You know you are mad when you still call this place home and accept it as part of living in the West.
On the way to dry my eyesA strange thing happened to me the other day. It was Friday night and I was spending it like I normally would: alone in my room with half a bottle of wine, a pack of cigarettes and lemongrass scented candles burning serenely in my expensive tea light holders. And like any Friday night, I was too exhausted and stressed from work, suffering from chronic sleep deprivation coupled with mental and physical fatigue to doing anything useful besides stretching out and pouring another glass or flicking a match to light up.
And like any other night, I was calmly thumbing through my myriad amounts of magazines when an advertisement caught my attention and for a brief amount, I could feel the tears swelling in my eyes and wanted to burst out crying. I’m not ashamed to cry but it’s a too emotionally draining activity, so it is something I avoid, but on that night, I felt a surge of sadness and grief trigger by that advertisement.
It was a simple black and white ad that had a profound meaning that struck an accord with me. It featured a man, in his late thirties or early forties lying down next to a boy, around eight or nine years old, presumably his son. They were both gazing at their out stretched hands with their palms touching as though the boy was comparing the size of his hand to his father’s. The warmth, love and admiration that projected from the ad made me want to cry. At that point, I could hear the clock ticking and knew it is time to start being serious if I wanted the things that the people in the ad had.
So serious I am going to become. I am going to put in place the things that need to be done so I can achieve what I desperately crave and up to that point, had unknowingly suppressed into the depths of my soul.
As the ad said, “You never actually own a Patek Phillppe. You merely look after it for the next generation.”
