You’ll never believe what I heard the other day. My ex-boyfriend—you remember the one—got arrested for attempted murder. Remember all those times I told you I’d nearly died in the passenger seat of his Ford Focus? — When we drag raced some beat up Citi Golf all the way to Paarl? — Exactly — Well, he got into a drag race at 2 AM with a car that turned out to be an unmarked police vehicle. And then when he was pulled over, he tried to run over a cop — Honestly, very on-brand.

Oh yeah, he bribed his way out. Sometimes the selective law enforcement in South Africa amazes me. You know I was once bounced from a club for getting into a bar-fight? Yeah, you know the one, Boogies in Mont— right around the corner from Roof — Well, we’re all on the dancefloor and it’s absolutely packed. And this drunk piece of shit gropes me from behind — like, doesn’t just squeeze my ass — yeah, exactly — when they go ahead and reach underneath. Anyway, I swung around and he just lifts his palms up on either side of his head, as though that’s going to convince me that he had good intentions — exactly — and so I take a swing at him. My boxing coach always said I had an impressive right hook. I don’t know how good my punch was or how drunk the asshole was, but he dropped like a sack of potatoes — Yeah, I mean, I like to think violence is never the answer but he kinda deserved it, right? — Anyways, the bouncer comes up to me and politely asks me to leave. Says it’s “club policy”. — No, I mean, that’s understandable. — So I leave.

What was I on about? Oh yeah, lawlessness. Have you ever been up to the top of the Carlton Center? — Yeah, in Johannesburg CBD. It’s the tallest building in Africa, I think — Don’t fact-check me on that. Anyway, it’s got 50 storeys with a massive elevator shaft down the center. — Yeah, the view’s crazy — It’s in the part of Johannesburg run by the Nigerian mafia. And so the mythology is that they drop bodies down the shaft of the Center, which is why the elevator is rarely working.

Nigerians? Yeah there are loads living in South Africa. Yeah — we’ve got a huge immigrant population— from all around Africa, really. Especially Zimbabwe. Speaking of Zimbabwe, have I ever told you how Zimbabwe isn’t on the Delta Airlines list of countries? Yeah, I was trying to fly home from college — and I’m at the San Jose airport, right? — and the guy behind the counter asks me for my country of birth. And I say “Zimbabwe”. And he clicks around on the computer, and I can see him getting flustered. He asks me how to spell it. Z-I-M-B-A-B-W-E. Do you mean Zambia? No, I don’t mean fucking Zambia. Well the list only goes up to Zambia. Is there a different name? Not since 1980. — I know — Dumb fucking Americans — Zimbabwe in South Africa?

Eventually he just had to enter it manually. Sometimes analog is better anyway. That’s why I always take the stairs— you can’t trust elevators. When I was living in a student hostel in Cape Town, the elevator buttons went missing regularly. And when the elevators were operational, there was either vomit or alcohol all over the floor. That’s what happens when you have a bunch of privileged assholes paying a premium for a student building and blacking out every other night. Some of them even released a fire extinguisher once— all over the 8th floor.

Sometimes I think about what a dream world that kids born into wealth in South Africa live in. My family moved here from Zimbabwe because of the food shortage in the early 2000s. It was around the time where Zimbabwe experienced the most rapid hyperinflation since the Fall of the Roman Empire. I’m sure you’ve seen the hundred trillion Zim dollar note. (That’s ten raised to the fourteenth power). Everyone’s money was suddenly completely worthless. My grandparents lost their pensions, the shelves in the grocery stores were completely empty, except for some rotten fruit, a couple Tsetse flies, and a few rats scuttling beneath the shelves. Foreign governments placed sanctions on us because our president was seizing farms and encouraging his followers to kill farmers and ethnic minorities. That’s why I say that South African kids know fuck all about the rest of Africa.

Americans know even less about Africa, I must admit. There are fifty-four countries on the continent, five beginning with G. I don’t know if you’d be able to name a single one of them. I don’t even know if you’d be able to point to my country on a map. I can name all fifty states in my sleep.

I think I’m part of the problem. I tell people horror stories about my upbringing here— play into the stereotype. To be fair, I never lie. We were terrified when we moved to Johannesburg— we’d heard how dangerous it was to live here: violent home invasions, armed robberies, the works. I was seven years old and watching Nanny McPhee in my parents' bedroom when we heard exchange of gunfire. Three hitmen had broken into our neighbor’s house— a neighbor who happened to be a prominent figure in the mob. He shot and killed two of the gunmen and the other jumped over the wall into our garden and fled. Our yard and home had to be searched by the Hawks — a specialist anti-organized-crime unit of the police force.

One house over lived a nightclub owner. We’d always hear him come home in the early hours, and always recognised his turquoise Lamborghini. One night, while he was out, his house was broken into. His wife was tied up. She didn’t know the passcode to his safe. As a consequence for not cooperating, the intruders burnt her with a clothing iron.

Yeah— that was a little heavy, huh? — Sorry. Uhhh — I promise that there are loads of much lighter things to talk about. Half of our culture is joking about suffering. And slang, I guess. Instead of saying “yeah”, we say “ja” — yeah, pronounced “yar”. Instead of saying “party”, we say “jol” — no, no, the o-sound is rounder— jo-rl. To show pity, we say “jammer...”. To express surprise, we exclaim “jislaaik!”. I won’t be there shortly, I’ll be there “now now”, or “just now”.