The Stranger in My Mirror
The Stranger in My Mirror When I was a child, my grandmother used to say, "The border is something people draw on maps. Hunger, hope, and grief don't stop to check passports." I nodded whenever she said it, but I never truly understood. Years later, I found myself standing outside a small grocery shop in Johannesburg, watching a crowd shout at a man with a Zimbabwean accent. They called him names. They told him to go home. Some threw stones. I stood there and did nothing. In my mind, I justified it. They're taking jobs. They're making life harder. They don't belong here. I was Black. I was African. Yet somehow, I believed another Black African was less deserving than I was because he had crossed a border. A week later, load shedding hit our neighborhood. The only shop still open was the same Zimbabwean man's store. I went in because I needed bread. He greeted me with a smile. "How are you, brother?" Brother. Not stranger. Not South African. Not c...
