Libreville, Gabon - I blame it on my upbringing. Every time I go out, I check my pockets to see if anything gives away what it contains. I grew up in Durban, Inanda to be specific, at a time when you never answered your phone anywhere and only the brave would walk around wearing headphones because that’s the last thing you’d do with you phone before it’s “expropriated”.
Only the foolhardy would use those long passages. The smart took the long route thinking they would get there with all their belongings intact.
I walked around Libreville with that mindset, constantly checking my surroundings as I explored this city. It’s in me and I doubt anything will change that. But there was no danger at this relaxed place.
I shuffled behind one lady, doing that dance where you try to go one way and the other person goes that way too and you repeat that act a couple of times. She was carrying a handbag and pulling a large bag.
Not only did she not look back, she didn’t even do what sensible people do when there’s a stranger ahead - clutch the handbag tightly.
I walked the streets of Libreville at night without any threat or worry after that. After the games in Port-Gentil, I saw people walking almost 10km at 11pm back to their homes. I realised then that I have to leave my paranoia behind.
Mandela, crime and Aids - in that order, is what South Africa is mostly famous for in these parts. A lot of the volunteers at both the venues I have been to, Stade de l ’Amitie and Stade Port-Gentil, have been to South Africa.
They spoke about it’s beauty and crime. Our translator, who studied at the University of Johannesburg, told me he was mugged at the Nelson Mandela Bridge, which connects
Newtown with Braamfontein, so many times that he lost count.
But the one thing that touched me most, is how many of the locals I had exchanges with understand a bit of isiZulu and isiXhosa. And here I am not even able to construct a sentence in French. I only found out about Fang, the most spoken Gabonese
language, when I was researching about the country before my trip here. I have always known that South Africans are insular, hardly looking at anything that happens beyond Limpopo. To us, no life exists there. That’s why we speak about going outside the borders and into other parts of the continent like it’s signing your death wish.
“Make sure you’re safe,” is a statement from family and friends you carry with your passport. One of the volunteers here, in his soft-spoken manner, gave me a dressing down I will never forget.
He asked why I can’t speak French, one of the most widely spoken languages on the continent. I muttered something about where I come from. He said the problem is that English-speaking Africans are spoilt by those who speak French and can also
understand English.
It reminded me of the first time I arrived in Johannesburg. I could only speak isiZulu and when someone responded in another language, I would still use my language until they changed. Damn! I should be more open-minded. That’s why I intend to learn French this year.