“I live in this world”

‘Thank You for your poem.’

I looked up from my Monday morning diary to see the familiar smiling face of Theodora. Her gleaming white teeth sparkled against the blemish and wrinkle free ebony of her perfect African skin which is so often the envy of regular salon goers who would part with good money and endure expensive and painful procedures to achieve such a result.

I knew exactly which poem she was referring to, but I was struggling to connect the dots of how she had received the piece.

It had been no more than forty-two hours since the Springboks had dished out a rugby lesson to the confident English team in the final of the Rugby World Cup, and most of that forty-two hours since then had been a blur for the majority of South Africans who had celebrated a sensational victory. I had written a poem during the game in an effort to keep my own emotions in check as I have a penchant (a good French word in light of their being a French referee) for losing my cool and shouting at said referees through a TV screen in the belief that they will change their decisions from a loud enough armchair criticism. The poem was read out to a smattering of young boys, and a few Dads at the final whistle. A close friend had recorded it, sent it out to a few mates, and the rest as they say, went viral.

Within hours I had received messages from people still in the stadium in Tokyo, a family in Dubai, a friend in Canada, my rugby playing nephew in the UK whose smile at the victory was impossibly larger than usual as he was surrounded by his Richmond Rugby club mates, and a host of other interesting and far off places.

All these connections were running through a dulled and discombobulated mind as I looked up at the smiling Theodora who in her customary way was still holding my Americano in her right hand, and holding her right hand gently in her left. I have come to learn that this is a very symbolic act in both the giving and receiving of gifts or blessings. One gives and receives with both hands for then one is truly grateful or appreciative. It is as if one is giving fully of themselves, and being fully present in the moment of ceremony. One hand is not stuck in a pocket or attached to a cell phone. Both are given to the relationship – anything else might be considered rude.

As I accepted (with both hands) the steaming cup of caffeine, a medicinal miracle on such a Monday morning, she could no doubt read my confusion as I stammered through a condescending sounding response:

“Theodora, how did you get the poem.”

Perhaps I had put more emphasis on the word ‘You’ than would show up in black and white type, but her response was as gentle as her smile and as swift as her service:

“I live in this world.”

Not for the first time, and probably not the last either, my perception of myself as a transformed and evolved white South African male had been shattered.

‘I live in this world.”

Why, for one moment had I thought she didn’t? Why did I assume she didn’t have access to social media? Or that she probably never watched the rugby? Or that she was in some way incapable of joining the dots far quicker than I could have in that moment?

Perhaps I learned right there, that the blinkers we have on the way we see the world need constant removal, the lenses of our viewpoints require regular maintenance, and although our eyes remain the same colour for most of our lives, the colour they see and the assumptions which follow may need ongoing cleansing for clarity.

Had I really based my thoughts, and dare I say judgements on the colour of her skin, her gender or the job she was doing serving me coffee in the coffee shop of my son’s school as I strategically avoided the Johannesburg morning traffic?

I have paid a lot more attention to Theodora since then – if even in a more welcoming and thankful smile as she hurries about like a nurse tending to the early morning demands of a largely post weekend deflated clientele.

Theodora comes from Venda near a place called Thoyandou in the Province of Limpopo. She has four of her own children, and another five which she has adopted from both a Brother and a Sister who have passed on.

Nine children. One job.

Oscar Wilde, an Irish play write and poet once said:

“To live is the rarest thing in the world, most people just exist.”

Theodora would do well to just exist on a small income and a broad set of responsibilities, yet she does more than this. She lives fully as she smiles and serves… and offers her thanks to unsuspecting people for their poetry.

You do live in this world Theodora, and because of you many others do too.

I can only imagine those nine smiling faces welcoming you back on your next trip home.

I will see you next Monday with clearer eyes and a smile… And both hands will be out graciously as I accept a coffee poured with love.

Steve