My name is Lovelyn Chidinma Nwadeyi. I am a Nigerian.
Born in Nigeria to two Nigerian parents. Raised in
Queenstown, Eastern Cape by those same Nigerian parents
right up until I completed my Bachelors at Stellenbosch.
Lovelyn Chidinma Nwadeyi
Lovelyn Chidinma Nwadeyi. Photo: supplied
Growing up in South Africa, I was always reminded by those
around me that I was different to everyone else. In primary
school, I had a much darker complexion than I do now, and
super white teeth – the telling marks of a foreigner that
betray you even when you put on your best English accent. It
is just too obvious.
I bear citizenship of both worlds. I speak fluent Xhosa, Igbo,
Afrikaans and English. I can make sense of Tswana and
Sotho. I enjoy a good braai, I love vetkoek and bunny-chow.
I can’t get enough of Bokomo WeetBix, I love Ouma’s rusks
and I can pull off my panstulas with any outfit on a lazy
Saturday when I want to head to town. I am the first to break
it down with the ngwaza and the dombolo at the sound of
some decent house music or kwaito be it in Pick n Pay or at
a party.
I can sokkie and I enjoy it (albeit with my two left feet). My
darkest moments can be reversed by koeksisters and a cup
of rooibos tea any day. I can jump between the high pitched
and arguably annoying accents of some Constantia moms,
the lank kif and apparently sophisticated English of my
Hilton brothers and the heavy accents of my fellow Eastern
Capers. I can attempt the fast paced, lyrical Afrikaans of my
coloured brothers in the Cape and I can serve you the best
butternut soup you have ever known.
I am as South African as you need me to be.
But my ability to navigate all these spaces did not just
happen. Learning to blend into all these spaces was a matter
of survival for me.
You see from the day I set foot in Queenstown and started
primary school, it was always made very clear to me that I
was an outsider. I only had white friends from my first few
years in school, because the other black girls couldn’t
understand why I was black but only spoke in English. They
thought I thought I was better than them. So I spent most of
my breaks humbly eating my peanut butter and strawberry
jam sandwich, surrounded by those who had Melrose
cheese and Provita Crackers with Bovril and/or marmite
sandwiches in their lunchboxes. The rest of the time I spent
alone, save the few brave souls of similar complexion who
tried to befriend me.
What nobody knew was that for the first three years of my
life in South Africa, my little brother and I barely saw my dad
more than twice a month. What was he doing absent from
the home, other than selling pillowcases, duvets and
bedsheets, from door to door on foot through the streets,
villages and side roads of the old Transkei and Ciskei? My
father would leave the house on Monday mornings after
him and my mom got us ready for school, and he would be
gone for days and weeks, selling the few pillowcases and
bedsheets he had from door to door. On foot. We were
never sure when he would return. But when he did, we were
always more grateful for his safety and aliveness than
anything else.
From Queenstown to Cala, Umtata, Qumbu, Qoqodala,
Whittlesea, Mount Fletcher, King Williamstown, Mdantsane,
Bhisho, Indwe, Butterworth, Aliwal North and even as far as
Matatiele and Kokstad. There are so many other places he
went to that I do not even know.
That is how my parents put us through school, until they
saved up enough money to open their own little shop where
they then started selling sewing machines, cotton and then
community phones. Then sweets and chips and take-aways;
and then hair products and the list goes on and on. It was on
this that I was able to go through primary school, high
school, and university. My parents have no tertiary
education; it was only in their late 40s that both of them
decided to register for part-time studies at Walter Sisulu to
get their Diplomas. Note: Diplomas.
It took them four years, because they were busy trying to
keep their kids in school, and keep selling their sweets and
sewing machines while attempting to dignify their efforts
with a degree.
My story is not unique – it is the story of most foreigners in
South Africa. Very few foreigners come into SA with skills
that make them employable here. Unless you are a medical
doctor, an academic and maybe an engineer or well-
established businessman before coming here, your chances
of getting meaningful employment in SA are as limited as
those of the United States letting Al-Qaeda members off the
hook – almost impossible.
Most foreigners come to SA with the ability to braid hair,
carve wood, or sell fruits, veggies, clothes, fizz pops, carpets
and soap before they can find their feet here. Some are
graduates…but what can another African degree do for you
in SA? And any foreigner in SA will tell you that that is the
truth. All of us started from below the bottom. Doing work
that carries no dignity, no respect and very little financial
gain. But when you have left or lost everything that you
know and love and end up in a foreign land as unwelcoming
in its laws and restrictions as South Africa, you have little
choice available to you.
I can bet you that there is not up to 10% of South Africans
who would be willing to do the menial and embarrassing
work my parents and other foreigners did for as long as they
did it, and for as little as they did it, were you to ask them
today. So it annoys me, to the deepest part of my being
when I see a South African open their mouth and cry “foul”
against innocent foreigners. Let’s discuss this:
Arachnophobia – the fear of spiders.
Claustrophobia – the fear of small/tight/enclosed spaces.
Xenophobia – the fear of foreigners.
However individuals who are afraid of spiders do not go
around killing spiders, rather they avoid spiders. Equally,
individuals who are afraid of small and tight spaces do not
go around trying to eliminate the existence of small spaces.
Thus xenophobia does not by definition imply the killing of
foreigners. Yet, we continue to label this current wave of
killings and murders in SA as xenophobic – and now the
cooler term – “Afrophobic” attacks. Can we please just get
real? What is happening in SA is a genocide, a genocide
fuelled by a deep-seated hatred for which no single
foreigner is responsible.
Before, you say this is too extreme, allow me to explain.
Genocide is the systematic/targeted killing of a specific tribe
or race.
In South Africa’s case, this would be the senseless killings of
non-South Africans, mostly those of African origin and some
Pakistani, Bangladeshi and other non-African minorities.
I think the government, South African and international
media are being too cowardly to call it what it is. They know
what is going on in South Africa and yet they refuse to
acknowledge it for fear of who knows what. Is it because
their numbers are not high enough? Should we wait until a
few good hundred thousand foreigners have been murdered
before we speak the truth?
So now the value of human lives is being reduced to a
debate on politically correct terms and phrases to protect
certain interests. People are being butchered in the streets,
and the country is worrying about bad PR. I hate that now,
on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, everyone is now trying to
say, “Oh no, it’s not all South Africans that are doing this,
hey. Just a few of those people there.” South Africans are
trying to distance themselves from what is happening in
their own backyards as though it is of any consolation to
those watching their family members being sizzled in rubber
rings. As if that is what matters – true South African style.
This is not the first wave of attacks of this nature in South
Africa. In fact, the 2008 attacks were much worse in terms of
raw numbers of casualties suffered than these have been so
far. The issue of xenophobia is not a new one in SA.
However, the differentiator in 2015 is that this wave is
backed by a strong ideology; that somehow these attacks
can be and are justified.
An ideology that sees merit in the argument that foreigners
are stealing the jobs of locals, that they are stealing their
women, that these “makwerekwere” are the cause of most
ills in South African society.
It is a shame how uninformed and how baseless these
arguments are. Foreigners do not and CANNOT steal jobs in
SA. Do you know how hard it is to get South African papers,
just to get into the country – not to talk of getting a work
permit and convincing any company to take on the cost of
employing you as a foreigner? Unless you have some
freaking scarce skills in the country – it just does not happen
like that.
Secondly, just shut up and stop it. South Africans who
embibe these arguments are lazy. There is a disgusting
entitlement that is attached to this notion that jobs can be
stolen. This implies that there are jobs waiting for you – of
which there are none.
There are no freaking jobs waiting for anyone. Pick up a
bucket and start washing cars. Put on your shoes and walk
through your streets, sell tomatoes, eggs and tea – anything
people eat, they will buy. Or pick up a book, hustle your way
into university, work for a scholarship and get yourself an
education. But stop this senselessness. Nobody is stealing
your jobs.
I got my first job when I was 11-years-old. I worked on the
school bus in my town. I collected money for the bus driver,
wrote out receipts and kept order on the bus. I didn’t get
paid much, but it helped me learn first that nothing comes
easy, I learnt to be responsible and accountable to someone
else. Secondly it helped me pay for little extramural
expenses I did at school which were not the priority for my
parents at the time (and rightly so). In ‘varsity, even though I
had a tuition bursary, I worked two part-time jobs and one
contract job for the entire three years at Stellenbosch so I
could pay for my good, clothes and some additional
materials etc. Yes my parents supported me as best they
could, but naturally, part of growing up is that you don’t
bother your parents for every Rand you need.
So people see me and my family now, several years later
driving a decent car and living in an average house and they
say, “Ningama kwekwere, asinifuni apha. Niqaphele,
aningobalapha.”
“You are foreigners, we do not want you here. You better
watch out, you are not of this place,” – unaware of and
unwilling to hear of the years of struggle and hustle that
came with the decent car and the average house. [Which, by
the way, you can never fully own as SA law now restricts
ownership of property by foreigners – but that is another
discussion.]
And what has been the government’s response to the
worsening unemployment and crime situation in the cities
and suburbs that incites this violence and dissatisfaction
amongst its people? To tighten immigration laws, border
controls and any little room the foreigner may have had to
just maybe survive in the menacing streets of Johannesburg.
As if that is where the problem began.
Is it not the way our economy is structured? That there is
limited room for unskilled labour in the workforce? That
those who are not vocationally trained must then settle for
employment outside of their existing areas of knowledge
such as artisans, plumbers and electricians – whereas these
skills are equally needed in a developing economy? That we
have this thing called BEE which in practice just ensures that
the Black bourgeoisie get wealthier by hook or by crook
while still protecting and cushioning the impact of
democracy on old, white money and big business?
Is it really the little Ethiopian man with his spaza shop that is
threatening your progress na Bhuthi? Is it really the Nigerian
woman who braids hair and sells Fanta that is stealing your
job and place in your own land na Sisi? I can’t deal.
If none of these arguments have merit for you, then think of
the fact that during apartheid, Nigeria spent thousands of
dollars on the ANC protecting and moving its members
across borders; Angola, Mozambique, Tanzania, Burundi,
Zambia, Zimbabwe, Botswana, Kenya, Rwanda, Uganda all
housed, supported and/or trained struggle heros with open
arms and with no strings attached. How dare South Africans
forget how much Africans did for them during apartheid.
How dare you!
South Africans, go and learn your history. When you have
read your history, then please teach the correct version to
your children. Let them know that Africa helped put SA
where it is now. Let them know that all blacks are not Xhosa
or Zulu, but that that is irrelevant to the amount of dignity
you accord to another human being. Teach your children
that they must work for everything they want to have except
your love as a parent. Teach your children that they are
nothing without their neighbour – stop being selective about
who Ubuntu applies to and does not. Teach them the truth
about you.
The greatest enemy of the black man has always been
himself. Not the colonialists. Not the apartheid architects.
Only himself.
And as long as you refuse to take responsibility for where
you are now, you will remain there. Kill us foreigners or not,
it actually makes very little difference to your fortunes in
life, people of Mzansi.

Lovelyn Nwadeyi

All well said; what more can I say

Basildvalour:
All well said; what more can I say

You are right

Hmmm, very interesting, I hate SA more