The harder you hold onto something, the more likely you are to lose it. I am a Scatterling of Africa. A Soutie. A Vagabond. One who has no fixed home. There were 147 boys in my Matric class. A group of them had been with me for 12 years. Not by choice. Some were very glad to see the back of others they had been trapped with. I was at University for 4 years, and at the three companies I worked at for 4.5 years, 5 years, and a year respectively. I was always a “Team Player”. Throwing myself in wholeheartedly and enthusiastically. But cynicism has grown to replace my romantic side. I am wary of Trusts, Legal People, and groups who we use the language of Ordinary People for. Speaking of Countries, Companies, and Teams as if they are a flesh and blood someone we owe our allegiance to. Teams change. Those groups I was at, no longer exist. The real group we owe our allegiance to is bigger. And smaller. To the real people we meet. The real people who move. To the expansion. To the connection. Time is a one-way door. I can’t move home. It does not exist. Yet I am home. If I loosen my grip.
Class 1 - 1986