Hidden Apart
A true story.
Remembering and then writing about this real-life event from a decade ago was more difficult than I expected1 . Not because of trying to recall its details - those I hope I'll never forget - but because of the emotions it still stirs. The memory of a conflict caused by a suppressed divide manifested itself again as a knot in my gut, only relieved once again by a simple act of bravery from an unknown woman.
It was the lightest of touches upon my knee. She continued to look straight ahead, her face emotionless, whilst daring to brave all with her subtle action. A movement of but a few inches, but deftly crossing the gulf between us with its intent.
I didn’t visibly react, but its unexpected intimacy made me stop and think. I somehow discerned what it meant. Stay quiet. For me. Please.
My wife and I had boarded an airport shuttle bus with a crowd of our fellow passengers. We were tired and irritable from our flight’s lengthy delay and eventual cancellation. We just wanted to rest. Some of the plane’s crew were also coming aboard, equally weary. I was sat in an aisle seat on the right-hand side of the bus, one of three seats in the row, my suitcase on the floor beside me. A man was sat next to me in the middle seat. Spare seats were scattered throughout the bus, including one by the window next to him.
I made a simple request to my neighbour to make more space for one of the crew to sit down. He just needed to shuffle up one seat towards the window. “Do you mind if this lady sits between us?”
His reply was unexpected. “Lady? Is she something you like, eh, man?”
I wasn’t in the mood for this nonsense from a complete stranger. Without thinking, I retorted, “My wife’s sat behind you, so if you want to hear from her, just keep going with your comments.”
He shifted along to the window seat. I stood up to let her sit down. He pulled up his bag, placing it between himself and her and leaned against the window. Our bus moved off into the bustling terminal traffic, heading for the hotel that would accommodate us for the night.
He made another comment under his breath. I don’t speak Afrikaans. My wife does. She was bristling but remained silent. I didn’t yet appreciate the situation to the same degree she did. I couldn’t let his rudeness pass. I made to speak again.
Her touch had come at that instant. Her long fingers with their manicured nails softly resting for just a moment longer than any unintentional brush of a limb. A stewardess’s hat jauntily set on her head. Head held high, eyes still fixed on the driver’s seat. Expressionless. A movement born of courage, from determination to avoid being the innocent victim of a pointless exchange between two white men. My words dissolved in my throat. I didn’t turn my head. Her ebony hand had conveyed its message.
She would be the only real loser if the altercation escalated to a complaint. Losing her job, her salary, her ability to look after her children. They were just another bus journey away in a Jo’burg township, but she couldn’t see them or her mother who was caring for them, despite the flight's cancellation. She was still on the crew roster and flying out again tomorrow. Stuck in another metallic tube to pamper richer, whiter people than her on their inconsequential journey to a far-flung land. Including people who still thought they knew where her place in their world was.
How wrong they were. Quiet fortitude would triumph over inbred ignorance. She knew this.
So I stayed silent. I understood her. I admired her. She had defused the situation with just a touch and I had learnt a lesson in the realities of prejudice and pride. A lesson I’ve never forgotten.
As a trite wordplay, the title of this piece juxtaposes a less subtle pointer to the story’s deeper context.