Hitching a lift to his Future

The bus shelter is full.

The older ladies have first right of refusal to a seat, and some are sitting on each other’s laps. The men are huddled in as close as possible, and although everyone is wearing their covid masks, there is no semblance of social distancing as the rain washes the commuters into this covered catchment area.

A lone figure stands proudly on the side of the road in the wet drizzle of this Eastern Cape rain which is a welcome gift for the farmers, but an inconvenience for the commuters. He is neatly dressed in black trousers, a pressed white shirt split perfectly down the front by a black tie and his shoes are so well polished that the rain drops run off them like drops of mercury. If you weren’t from South Africa, you may think he was on his way to a funeral, but this is a dress code for millions of scholars in this country, particularly in the more rural areas outside of the city schools. Under the arm of his coat is his school bag; in there are his books and as I learn later, his books need protecting, for these are the weapons with which he’ll conquer his future.

Giving lifts to hitch hikers is not generally encouraged, and I have driven past many a potential story with the lens of an unfriendly world, but this time I stopped. There was something resolute even in the tip of his thumb and resilient in his proud posture, and yet in all of it was an air of resignation, and a gentle surrender to the elements about which he had no control. In his book ‘Blink’, Malcolm Gladwell suggests that our first impressions are often correct, and that we should trust our gut and our intuition, but only if we are able to ‘thin slice’ through the overwhelming information around us, throw out the potentially irrelevant and get to the core elements which help us guide our decisions. In that split second, my brain would have been processing a multitude of connected and random thoughts. Murder rates and poverty. Desperate youth fueled by growing unemployment and an increasingly hopeless future. Is my wallet safely in my pocket, or have I left it lying in the coffee cup holder of my car? Where is my phone? I wonder how fast he might move? He looks really athletic. I can’t see his face – he is wearing a mask. How wet will the passenger seat get, and is there any mud on his shoes. Do I have to wear my mask now? How will I explain any of this to my wife – it is her car after all?

Yet, in the blink of an eye I saw resoluteness, resilience and resignation.

I saw someone who needed a lift.

In the sixteen kilometers from the St Francis Bay entrance to the outskirts of Humansdorp, I learned a lot about the matric year of the class of 2020. A tough time, and a year with little reward. No sport and the temporary relief and outlet it offers – and certainly no glory of representing ones school teams. Curve balls and speed bumps seem to have littered the path of progress and a rewrite of two leaked exam papers seemed to be the rotten cherry on the bottom of a mostly miserable year.

My passenger, Zusakhe was on his way to prepare for the rewrites. His class would be there together, and his teacher would be waiting. They should all have their feet up by this time in mid-December, but the work goes on he tells me, and he needs to continue to do his best. He has not one, not two, but three options for future studies in 2021 and good results now will count favourably towards the next steps of his journey.

It turns out, the rewrites never happened, but nothing will have been lost in the preparation.

Perhaps that class will have bonded together a little more. Maybe they will remember the teacher who selflessly ignored the protests and gave just that little bit more. I am sure that that same teacher will enjoy Christmas even more as the feeling of sacrifice and its resultant reward will provide another cushion of comfort for her weary legs. I am also sure that if I was ever in a position to interview potential job candidates, I would look with renewed interest at the class of 2020 and I would ask them three things:

1. How did they remain resolute? Determined to carry on through the chaos.

2. What did they learn about resilience? To bounce back from the disappointments.

3. How did they practice resignation? To surrender to the situations out of their control.

As I write, I ask myself exactly the same questions.

Questions sticking out on the end of a thumb by a lone figure on the side of the road in the rain, hitching a lift to his future.

The name Zusakhe means ‘builder’, and more appropriately ‘uplifter’.

Whilst I may have given him a lift, it was I who felt uplifted.

Steve Hall