The Last Word

By Kai Williams

I’m not one to complain. After all, I am British, I come from a land where it is preferred to suffer than to ruffle feathers and where every problem is faced with a stiff upper lip. Regardless of this fact, I warn you that I am about to lodge a couple of complaints based on my observations and personal feelings after living in this country for the last 5 months.

I was born and bred in London, England, and I’ve lived there my entire life. I’m a fully fledged British citizen, red passport, free healthcare and bad teeth – the works. Oh, and I also happen to be black. Shocked? I don’t blame you. I mean, “there’s no way [I] can be from England, look at [me]!”*. It would be absolutely insane for somebody from London to “escape from Africa and come all the way back!”*. But there you have it folks, I’m a person of colour that comes from Royal Britannia, and who has a bee in his bonnet (you see that? Only a British person would say that) about…well, about Namibia and the treatment I’ve received in the Land of the Brave.

You see, nobody in this country seems to believe I’m British, for some reason, a black person coming from England is an impossible concept in the minds of most Namibians I’ve met, white or black. However, being Black British has put me in a unique position. I am able to see both sides of Africa; White Africa and Black Africa, Luderitz and Location, Swakopmund and Shabeen, and this has given me a unique perspective on the great colour divide.

I’ve noticed that some Afrikaaners in this country seem to hold a limited view on the capabilities of black people, especially when that black person is me. Now, I don’t want to lie to you, a 6ft tall dark skinned black male won’t inspire confidence in most people, let alone the members of a country still smarted by apartheid. But does this really mean that I have to be looked at with suspicion every time I walk into Edgar’s? Don’t get me wrong, if I was walking around with an empty bag touching every garment I could see while trying to hide my face from the security guards, then by all means, scrutinise the hell out of me, I deserve it. But if I walk in and begin to look at the shirts on offer, I do not need an overzealous young shop assistant asking me if I need help whilst trying to catch the eye of the muscle at the door, nor do I need a trainee clerk to follow me around inconspicuously as I browse, staying within 2 metres of me at all times. And no, I’m not being paranoid, this has actually happened, on numerous occasions, in numerous different clothes shops and each time I have to remind myself that there’s nothing I can do. Is it too much to expect to be judged by the content of my character, and not the colour of my skin or passport?

And why are things like this? It’s because of you. Yes you. Black Africa, I’m talking to you. It’s your fault. There, I said it, what are you gonna do about it? Don’t get me wrong, I’m not talking about Black Africa as a whole, please don’t think I’m referring to every single Black African on this continent. No, I’m talking to you, the Herero at the trafficstop who won’t let people through without something to pad his pocket. I’m talking to you, the Ovambo in the flashy car blaring out kwaito at 11 in the morning on a quiet street. I’m especially talking to you, the Damara whose only source of income is mugging the Afrikaaners in the previous paragraph. You, who act surprised when you get fired from your job for turning up late and drunk every day for a week. You, whose temper flares when offered help with something simple. You, who expect the world to be given to you on a silver platter without you raising a finger. You are single-handedly destroying any chance the decent, hardworking black population of this country has of succeeding, and what’s worse is, you refuse to take the blame.

I’m not going to pretend that apartheid didn’t happen. It was a horrible, despicable way to treat human beings, and nothing has benefited Southern Africa more than getting rid of it. I understand that the memory is hard to bury, especially for those who were forced to live through it. What I don’t understand however, is why some black Africans feel that the way to get rid of this memory is to treat the white race with suspicion and hostility. What’s worse is, I fear the current generation of black youths, the children born into the new, free Namibia, have seen this ingrained secret hatred their parents harbour, and have decided to vocalise it, treating all Afrikaaners with hostility without reason. This, in turn, causes Afrikaaners to instantly assume they are to be treated badly by the black population of this country, which does nothing to help the relationship between white and black.

In short, to my western eyes it is both sides reluctance to forget the past and move into the future that is causing the rift between black and white.

*I made neither of these sentences up. Both are direct quotes from two different people I’ve met here.

The Buchter News would like to make it known that this article comes from an independent source and in no way represents the views of The Buchter News itself.