On family

Family is a funny old fabric. We've all been wrapped in its sheltering cocoon, or smothered by its love. I've seen mine billow and fray so often in the past years and still its weave holds across time and distance, and it amazes me. I haven't seen a family member since the tearful send off at Johannesburg International, when I was a brave young woman fearlessly off to conquer a new country. For two years, I've sent back infrequent reports, trying to convince myself as much as them that I am brave and strong and don't need to hear that they're doing fine but they miss me and they're proud. Above all, proud. Because silly Pride tells me that I've given them nothing to be proud of yet. Is this the modern malaise, that infects us from billboards and glossy magazines, stuffing us full of the notion that we need to Achieve? That we're nothing without degrees and flash gadgets and awards? Because I've fallen for that, and its tastes like ash. We live in a hell where the worst thing that can happen to us is getting what we want, but we can't be satisfied until we do. And what I really want is... harder to answer today than it was yesterday. What I really want is to share a flask of coffee with my dad as we drive a long dusty road through the African veld, and have my mother brush my hair.