Something that happened years ago
Posted: Thu Sep 18, 2025 9:20 pm
ALWAYS DYING, NEVER DEAD
The car was safely parked opposite the Home Affairs office. My wife had already walked through the steel gates and entered the building. I followed and stepped into a crowded room. She had found a seat.
The Black security guard stopped me.
“Turn off your cell phone.”
I don’t have one.
“You don’t have one?”
I do have one, but I left it at home. Can I go and stand over there, next to my wife?
“Stand? No! The law on standing is that only I can stand in this room. You must sit. If you want to stand, go outside there and stand.”
OK I will sit there then, in that empty chair.
“No, you cannot sit there. You,” he said, pointing at two Black men seated next to the empty chair. “You move this way. This man must sit next to his wife”.
Ah no. It’s OK, I can sit just there now, at the end of the row – it’s OK.
“Now you!” he ordered, his broad hand encompassing two people in a row next to the newly opened seat. “You two move down!” They did so, looking at me in blank silence.
OK, I’ll sit in the empty seat. Thank you.
“No!” The guard put his arm across my chest. He turned back to the row in which my wife was sitting at the far end. He pointed at the Black man closest to him. “You! You come here to this empty seat. This man must sit next to his wife”. Scowling, the man hopped to his left, taking the first seat in the row.
I wanted so badly to sit in his vacant chair. A man and woman with a toddler would be between Lynn and me. It is OK. Kea leboha, ntate. I will sit there.
“No! Now, you two move over this way!” he barked. By this time, seventy people were interested in the operation. The man and woman struggled with their bags and the baby but managed to obey orders.
“You!”
Me?
“Yes. You! Now go sit. By your wife!”
I obeyed too.
Lynn said, “The guard took my paid-receipt, and he handed it to the people behind the counter there. Perhaps you should give the guard your receipt too.”
And I did.
“What’s this?” he asked.
My receipt, just like my wife’s.
“Huh. You should have given it to me when you came in.”
Yes, very sorry, ntate.
“Wait.” And he took it to the counter, shouted up a clerk and handed the paper over. He shouted some more in Sesotho.
Lynn’s name was called, and she went up to the counter to receive her sealed envelope. Would it be acceptance or rejection?
My name was called too. She looked at me. “You don’t suppose that we were called first because we ‘re . . .”
Her voice died.
We tore open our envelopes and received our good news. Visas approved.
My wife teared up as we shuffled past all the expressionless Black faces, heads turning to watch us leave.
We ducked our heads and mumbled in a general sort of way to the waiting crowd as we reached the door
Thank you. Sorry. Good luck.
The car was safely parked opposite the Home Affairs office. My wife had already walked through the steel gates and entered the building. I followed and stepped into a crowded room. She had found a seat.
The Black security guard stopped me.
“Turn off your cell phone.”
I don’t have one.
“You don’t have one?”
I do have one, but I left it at home. Can I go and stand over there, next to my wife?
“Stand? No! The law on standing is that only I can stand in this room. You must sit. If you want to stand, go outside there and stand.”
OK I will sit there then, in that empty chair.
“No, you cannot sit there. You,” he said, pointing at two Black men seated next to the empty chair. “You move this way. This man must sit next to his wife”.
Ah no. It’s OK, I can sit just there now, at the end of the row – it’s OK.
“Now you!” he ordered, his broad hand encompassing two people in a row next to the newly opened seat. “You two move down!” They did so, looking at me in blank silence.
OK, I’ll sit in the empty seat. Thank you.
“No!” The guard put his arm across my chest. He turned back to the row in which my wife was sitting at the far end. He pointed at the Black man closest to him. “You! You come here to this empty seat. This man must sit next to his wife”. Scowling, the man hopped to his left, taking the first seat in the row.
I wanted so badly to sit in his vacant chair. A man and woman with a toddler would be between Lynn and me. It is OK. Kea leboha, ntate. I will sit there.
“No! Now, you two move over this way!” he barked. By this time, seventy people were interested in the operation. The man and woman struggled with their bags and the baby but managed to obey orders.
“You!”
Me?
“Yes. You! Now go sit. By your wife!”
I obeyed too.
Lynn said, “The guard took my paid-receipt, and he handed it to the people behind the counter there. Perhaps you should give the guard your receipt too.”
And I did.
“What’s this?” he asked.
My receipt, just like my wife’s.
“Huh. You should have given it to me when you came in.”
Yes, very sorry, ntate.
“Wait.” And he took it to the counter, shouted up a clerk and handed the paper over. He shouted some more in Sesotho.
Lynn’s name was called, and she went up to the counter to receive her sealed envelope. Would it be acceptance or rejection?
My name was called too. She looked at me. “You don’t suppose that we were called first because we ‘re . . .”
Her voice died.
We tore open our envelopes and received our good news. Visas approved.
My wife teared up as we shuffled past all the expressionless Black faces, heads turning to watch us leave.
We ducked our heads and mumbled in a general sort of way to the waiting crowd as we reached the door
Thank you. Sorry. Good luck.