Tag Archives: south africa

The Trap Of Instant Digital Gratification.

Recently I attended a two day conference at Goethe-Institut in Johannesburg called African Futures where we spoke about aliens, comics, science fiction and the pervasiveness of social media, some of my favorite topics. It was intoxicating to hear people speak with such passion about ideas that I had previously thought too far-fetched to even conduct conversations about. There was so much to take in but weeks later, one particular talk has stuck with me, speakers were asked how they use social media in their work and the answers caused me to pause.

I spend what is probably an inordinate amount of time on social media, mostly Twitter and Instagram, but of late I have been wondering how this is shaping my worldview. Asked how he uses social media, Faustin Linyekula a choreographer from the DRC, spoke of how for him it is functional but at the same time invasive. He went on to speak of how social media forces us to live in the now, not seeing the immediate past or future, how we’ve become so transfixed on the absolute immediate present, as finite as it is. A great example of this is Twitter, where it is said 9000 tweets per second are tweeted and depending on how many people or trends you follow, your timeline can become a raging river of tweets where you can easily drown in your attempts to stay current.  In Japan in 2013 this peaked at 143199 tweets per second. This is typical of other modern media sources, constantly updating the latest news story literally by the second.

We’ve become so conditioned to seeking instant online gratification that by the time we get it we are already seeking the next new shiny thing. It is a cruel, cruel irony that in our search for instant gratification that gratification itself is nonexistent. If it did exist logic follows that once we we were satisfied we would log out until the next craving.

I realized that I was as much a perpetrator as a victim of this vice. That morning I started to think critically about just how much time I spend online and what benefit I derive from it and contribute to those I interact with. How much information am I actually consuming and what am I doing with it? What is the mental shelf-life of all this data streaming past my eyes and into my sub-conscious somewhere to be pulled out in random conversation later? Do I really need to be out here as much as I am? How much of this is me actually engaging with people for greater understanding and how much of it is me feeding my ego? Retweets and those exploding red hearts can be so addictive.

I realized I couldn’t introspect whilst remaining plugged into the machine so for the first time in years, I took a Twitter break. I spent the time reading articles and instead of tweeting out every next thought, taking the time to think that thought through. Till then I hadn’t realized just how mentally trigger-happy I had become. The whole world slowed down, the immediacy ebbed away, I started having conversations with myself again.

I really must thank my cellular service provider though, without their ridiculous data charges I might never have considered tuning out as a real option. I find tuning out is therapeutic for me, I can’t live life at the speed of the next big trend, that way of life is not great for my goal-setting. Life is more fun when you decide just how fast it comes at you.

The Law Of (Un)intended Consequences

Much has been said about South Africa’s new Immigration Law and regulations, most of it negative. As someone who has been directly affected, I have read as much on this as I can in the hope when I need to interact with the Department of Home Affairs, I am fully informed. Yesterday, I encountered the painful side of these regulations.

I am a Zimbabwean citizen and for almost two years, it’s our anniversary in a month, I have been married to my South African wife. We have been blessed with a beautiful daughter who was born at Sandton Medi-Clinic sixteen months ago today. We always joke about how we had three weddings and so three wedding anniversaries, the first in her hometown Kimberley on 21 September, the second at my home in Bulawayo on 28 December and the third on 14 February when we signed in Johannesburg. I swear the last was pure coincidence, it just happened to be the first available date and we have no photos.

With all the controversy around the new Immigration law and regulations, we decided to wait for clarity on the regulations governing the status of foreign nationals married to South African citizens. This is why three months ago I started putting together my application for a relatives’ visa as the spouse of a citizen. Amongst the requirements is a police clearance, in my case I had to get one each from South Africa and Zimbabwe. Now I’ve had what can only be termed a colourful life so I was a little nervous going into a criminal records office to voluntarily ask if they were not looking for me. Thankfully, I am a law-abiding citizen and have not one but two police clearance certificates to prove it. Both SAPS and ZRP were exemplary in assisting me.

After compiling my documents I then consulted Home Affairs via their customer careline on various aspects of the application and they were extremely helpful every time. I had some difficulty getting information out of the South African embassy in Harare where I had to submit my application and eventually just went to Harare anyway. Upon arriving there were some complications and I had to wait a week before submitting. As happens with matters of such a delicate nature, there was some back and forth but at 3:30pm yesterday my application was accepted, just in time for me to check in for my 6:00p.m. flight back to Johannesburg.

That’s when they dropped the bombshell.

My passport was required as part of my application which could not be processed without it. A process that takes eight weeks. I thought they were joking, when I realised they were serious, the ground fell out from under me. My mind fogged over, I couldn’t hear the words coming out of my mouth as the strength just left my body and I had to sit down. People were speaking around me and to me, I was responding but I can’t tell you the details of those conversations. All I could think was, what was I going to tell my wife? She was expecting me back in a few hours and now I had to tell her this? I pulled myself together and went back to the counter, just in case I had heard wrong, no, I had not. The consultant told me I could take my passport, get on my flight and come back when I was ready but my application would not be processed without it and I should choose to either spend eight weeks in Zimbabwe now, or then. I called my wife and we decided I should submit the application and we will figure out what to do.

I consider myself a pretty thorough person when it comes to perusing documents and complying with regulations, I cannot for the life of me, explain how I could have missed this most important detail, assuming at this stage, that it is indicated somewhere in the requirements I read. I remember asking if there is not some exemption from the eight weeks for those with infant children, they said no. I walked out of there broken and confused. The anger came later and passed, I knew it was not going to do anything for me but make me bitter about a situation I could do little about in the middle of the night.

I understand that Immigration have to be thorough in their processes and whilst some are tedious, I am willing to comply. Coming to Zimbabwe leaving my family behind to apply for a visa that allows me to better provide for them is that important to me. What I don’t understand is, why I must now sit in limbo away from my family for eight weeks, what purpose does this serve? Everything that matters in my life is in South Africa and I feel hurt and confused that I cannot be with them for that long, in the name of compliance. With so much that I had planned now out the window, I am seized with trying to rearrange my life around this new reality. The whole of last night my wife and I were planning how my family can come and spend time with me here, wether she can get time off work and if she should take unpaid leave. In addition to the emotional trauma of all of this we now have to go through a financial one.

I considered consulting a lawyer but I don’t know if I have the stomach for a fight with Home Affairs, my family and I have faced worse things than this and we are still here. This is not by any means to say I am not going to do anything about this but I will find a way to approach them, I know they are slow but they come around eventually. In the meantime, with the looming prospect of spending our second wedding anniversary apart, my heart breaks every time I think of my daughter and what she must be going through, earlier today when I asked after her, my wife sent me this message:

“. . . She knows you’re not here and is wondering where you are, I can see. Matilda (her nanny) says every time she hears footsteps in the corridor she runs to the door to see if they are of someone coming here.”

Zimbabwe Sees Boost In Regional Exports

Today the world woke up to the news that Zimbabwe has become a regional powerhouse in an unexpected field, load shedding. Whilst it is widely known that Zimbabwe has struggled with power generation for a number of years, it has only recently come to light that Africa’s most literate country has turned this national lemon into the proverbial lemonade.

Following a state visit to South Africa in April this year by President Mugabe, South Africa and Zimbabwe signed a variety of trade pacts. It is believed amongst these was a commitment by South Africa to increase it’s imports of load shedding from Zimbabwe by 500% phased in over 3 years to allow Zimbabwe to ramp up production. South Africa is believed to have wanted an exclusive deal but Zimbabwe resisted this siting her positions as chair of both SADC and the AU. Zimbabwe trade negotiators felt this resource must be shared with all of Africa. Unofficial sources have stated that load shedding exports to South Africa could be the economic panacea that Zimbabwe has been looking for after a similar deal with Nigeria fell through.

Zimbabwe is also a major global exporter of skilled and unskilled labour with South Africa being a major market. It is possibly the runaway success of this trade that swayed the Zuma presidency to conclude the mammoth load shedding deal.

Zimbabwe will also be ramping up exports of specialist financial services to South Africa and the greater SADC community, chief among them, currency devaluation and inflation fuelling. Early gains have already been recorded in South Africa with the ZAR now at near record levels to the currencies of western imperialist states. Inflation however, has proved to be rather stubborn and a specialist team has been seconded to Finance Minister NhlaNhla Nene from Zimbabwe’s Ministry of Finance as a matter of urgency.
Other areas where Zimbabwe has provided services to South Africa include:
Service non-delivery
Ghost worker deployment
Legislative bungling
National debt maximisation
Government Accountability reduction measures

As part of a cultural aspect Zimbabwe will also be deploying experts in historical revisionism to ensure the struggle against apartheid is forever remembered as it should be.

You’re Not From Here Are You? My migrant story.

I never meant to end up in Johannesburg but I always knew my life was not in the streets of Bulawayo. I was born with a wanderlust and for as long as I can remember being on the road has always been a source of great joy. The less planned the journey the better.

The events of the last few weeks around South Africa have touched me deeply and made me think a lot about my life, my place in this country and the world at large. Though I see myself as a global citizen, I am currently resident in a country that is in flux, leading to so many questions.

How does this affect me?

What of my family?

How will I tell our daughter why people were dying in the country of her birth whilst she was preoccupied with taking her first steps? Whilst we cut her first birthday cake last Sunday a family in Alexandra, barely ten kilometres from us, was mourning the death of a father and brother killed for being Mozambican.

I have lived in South Africa on and off since 1998 but only really returned here two years ago after a decade away. At the time I even wrote a breakup letter to the country of my birth, Zimbabwe. The only place I ever really felt at home was in Cape Town over a decade ago, this time however, I’ve come to call Johannesburg home, albeit grudgingly so. Cape Town was a great place to disappear into because one had the sense that everyone there was from somewhere else, we were all foreigners of sorts. Johannesburg, has been different, whilst I have never been a victim of outright xenophobia in my face, I have often been subtly reminded of my place here, especially online.

In response to this I guard my online conversations so as not to give life to the trolls. Whenever tweeting or writing about South Africa I am careful to never use the collective “we”. The reason being once you get under the skin of locals they will be quick to remind you, “you’re not from here though are you, so who is this we you refer to?”. This will quickly be followed by a torrent of “go back to Zimbabwe” and “ungrateful foreigner” rants. I have seen it and it’s ugly with little chance of recovery for your reputation.

I’m wary to get too deeply involved in South African discussions for fear of that comment that can instantly delegitimise me. it is always there, lurking like an axe swinging inches from one’s throat. Is that a xenophobic trait amongst South Africans? I don’t think so but I really cannot say for sure, it could be but I doubt it. I don’t know if I want to find out either, some things are best left as they are.

This detachment has left me at odds with those who advocate assimilation. Those who long ago burned their Zimbabwean documents in favour of completely embracing their new-found South Africanness. I’ve even been told to tone down my “Zimbabweaness” because I may offend the locals, difference between us is unlike some my brothers and sisters, I have no fear of being found out.

In my mind my detachment allows me a level of independence to speak, write and create in a way I would not enjoy otherwise. It still doesn’t help me figure out how I will explain this time in South Africa’s history to our daughter when she comes of age. Will we still judge each other by where we are from and what language we speak? I hope not.

An Introduction To Curating

Recently I, for lack of a better term, came out as the administrator of two social media platforms CurateZAR and CurateZIM through which I run rotating curator twitter accounts. These accounts serve as virtual listening posts to what South African and Zimbabwean twitter are talking about. CurateZAR is close to it’s hundredth week of canvassing the online views of the nation from a broad spectrum of South Africans.

CurateZIM is in it’s twentieth week and has grown rapidly in that time. It has been a remarkable ride giving new insights into what Zimbabweans from all walks of life and ages are talking about.

Recently I was interviewed by The Citizen newspaper about Curate, you can find the article here.

If you would like to find out what the fuss is all about come and join the conversations on twitter with @CurateZAR and @CurateZIM. You can also find me on @rickyemarima.

A Different Kind Of Privilege

Lately I have read a lot in the South African media and online forums about privilege. It is not homogenous, it is varied, coming in as many permutations as there are social and professional situations. The most dominant is white privilege, hardly surprising with race in South Africa being the emotive issue it is. I have also come across pretty privilege, private school privilege, yellow-bone privilege and of-course male privilege which might actually be more of an issue than white privilege.

A recent much publicised incident at a Cape Town restaurant and hotel got me thinking about my own privilege, let’s call it black foreign national privilege or BFN. I lived, worked and studied in Cape Town from 1998 to 2003 living on campus very briefly. Within three months I moved out to live with friends and six months later I found my own place because my siblings were coming to attend university in 1999 and we needed a place for the whole family. My sister and I saw many places and soon settled on a house in Observatory but soon moved to Greenpoint before finally settling in a Three Anchor Bay apartment for the next four and a half years.

In that time I took up part-time employment waiting tables to supplement my allowance and through this met some of my closest friends to this day. I never thought much of it but people on campus were always amazed at how I got to work and live where I did. I do remember the almost uniform reaction from white interviewers, clients and estate agents when they would hear my accent.

Them: “Oh what a lovely accent, you’re not South African, where are you from?”

Me: “I’m from Zimbabwe, I’m studying for an economics degree at UCT”

Them: “Oh I see, no wonder. Zimbabweans are such lovely people.”

Not having grown up with apartheid and racism I missed the inference, “you’re not like our blacks”. This, is the BFN privilege. My accent and origins put these people at ease and i walked into and worked in places I probably would not have otherwise. In most of the places I worked I was always the only black face on the floor, be it Camps Bay, the Waterfront or the Waterfront. I admit, I milked it for all it was worth and often made as much money as my white counterparts or more on some nights. I never had trouble looking for an apartment because as soon as they heard I was a foreigner the agent assumed i must be rich otherwise I wouldn’t be looking for an apartment in that area. They would have probably fainted if they knew the truth.

Towards the end of my degree I got amazing job offers from two major financial firms but I had to turn them down to go back home. I often wonder what it is they saw in me because I had average marks but that was then. Fast forward to today. I’m older, wiser and now know the meaning of privilege. Every Zimbabwean who has ever lived in South Africa I know, knows the benefits of BFN privilege. It’s not something we ever asked for but are often happy to exploit to our ends. It gets us in places where local blacks have an issue. It gets us that seat at the table in that life-changing meeting. It gets us executive positions in previously lily-white companies ahead of local blacks. It gets us that apartment or house in that exclusive part of town. It gets us the girl or the guy leaving others to wonder, “what is it about that Zimbabwean?”. It’s a certain confidence that causes white people usually intimidated by blackness to relax and speak or behave freely, so much so they always get my name right. Call it what you like, it’s privilege.

In my time in South Africa I cannot remember being a victim of open white racist aggression or in fact racism of any kind. But that’s not to say it does not happen or that it will not ever happen. it may have been so subtle it didn’t register or it could have been totally unimportant, we Zimbabweans have a way of turning our outrage on and off at will. It’s not just a Zimbabwean thing, I know of Malawian, Zambian, Kenyan, Namibian, Ethiopian, American British and West African nationals who are beneficiaries of BNF privilege.

Now like with any other privilege, the beneficiary cannot simply turn it off, I am born with it so I must live with it and the consequences. The side glances when I walk into a room, the police officer who insists on speaking to me in a language he knows I don’t understand, the “jokes” about taking all the women and jobs her, the wisecracks about “go back to Zimbabwe”. It’s galling but it’s not xenophobia nor is it life-threatening, in time we will get to understand each other better but who knows, maybe you too enjoy some secret privilege?

Not All Who Wonder Through Their Twenties Are Lost.

They say if you can remember your twenties then they were not that much fun. Well, I remember some. Earlier tonight on twitter I saw so many twenty-somethings are going through that first heavy self-doubt phase. I used to live there. Let me tell you a story.

Though it may not feel like it, it’s perfectly normal to look at more successful people your age & wonder what you’re doing wrong.

You will wonder where & when your breakthrough’s coming from. You will torment yourself & likely go a little mad. I did, it’s allowed.

I cannot tell you what it feels like when that big break does happen because it never happened for me. Instead, I’ve had many small breaks.

At the time, each break did not seem like a big deal but one day I looked back and wondered, “how the hell did this happen?’ Then I lost it all

One of my mentors told me “it takes about five attempts before you are wealthy” by then he’d lost everything six times but made it seven times, more with each attempt.

He died one of the richest men I have ever known. I have made & lost it all four times in twenty years, yes, I started young & had a few lucky breaks.

Money is not important, it is merely a means to a certain type of life. I used to be a liker of things till I learned to live without them.

From times when I had more money than I knew what to do with to days I would wake up to two slices of bread & an egg in the fridge. I have been that guy.

What I learned is after it is all gone, only life remains. Only life is important. I have much less money and trinkets now than I did in my twenties but I am happier.

The gist of my story is, there are no single big breaks. Life is full of incremental breaks and how you handle each one sets you further on a path.

The path is challenging, confusing, exhilarating & incredibly rewarding. Thing is, whatever decision you make, you are never off the path.

Whatever choices you make now or at any other time, are YOUR choices, embrace them as such but don’t be beholden to them. It’s ok to change your mind.

i may not have found my purpose in life yet but I am ok with that. There was a time I obsessed about that but if I survived me, so can you survive yourself.

After the last time I lost it all I learned this:
Don’t ever think you’ve arrived. Because once you do, that’s when the music stops.

I hope my two cents worth helps some of you make sense of life. This is not advice, just a bit of my story so far.

Later.