Durban: House of Immigrants

Conversations overheard, statements delivered. Zimbabweans in South Africa, one finds out her study permit has been ‘lost’ by the university – her life is on hold as she frantically calls up office after office. Another is on the phone checking on the status of something, quickly moving from a polite enquiry to an emotional exchange – “you know I don’t want to be here, I’m just asking for information”, tears in his eyes as he slams down the phone. Someone stuck. And the handsome young man who came while we were here, and left while we were still here, back and forth from Zimbabwe, under the radar, fighting the fight. When he left, I said, lightly, as one might in my world, ‘hope it’s a good trip’. His response was determined. “It will”.

Immigrants, fighters, homeless and transient. All over the world, it’s the same, and yet another gulf that separates people – those that have and those that haven’t moved across boundaries in any way other than those predetermined, for the few predetermined.

And this is only middle-class strife. Sunpuppy (left) has found a home finally but still shakes when we take her out of the house (she was dognapped once), straining at the leash in the direction of the house of immigrants.

Hard out there …

Blackprof.com blogger Paul Butler talks about two articles in the Washington Post on “Hustle n Flow” – a black article and a white article.

The white article (front page of the Style section), by Philip Kennicott, begins hilariously:

“At dinner, say a month from now, perhaps it will be your very unhip great aunt who says it. Someone skimps her on dessert, so she looks plaintively down the table, waits for a moment of silence and then delivers the line — ‘It’s hard out here for a pimp.’ “

The other day, Boondocks had this to say (thanks Eric!)