Actually, I’m not quite sure which expat South African I am. I know I am not the bloke at the BBQ bashing bad ‘ol Zuma and recounting my home invasion with dramatic interludes and role play amongst intermittent gasps from first world friends who just came for the rugby game. I am most definitely not eating frikadels and solemnly searching the facebook groups for black market biltong dealers either.
I am just me in a different country. Yes, I like vetkoek. No I am not going to find oom Baas’ overpriced import shop 50 miles away and post photographic evidence of my Jelly Tots packet moment on FB. (no hate if that’s your jam, I just prefer signature range to Koo these days)
I’m proud of my heritage. I miss my family and friends. I long to lay my eyes upon a real, live wild animal, to hand feed a vervet monkey over the barb wire fence and watch it scurry off into the sugar cane fields. But I certainly do not need 7 online support groups or to praat the Taal t