A Crisis of Identity

Conceived in Belize, born in Kenya, raised in Namibia, British passport, in love with an American and lived there for the last ten years and most importantly my child is American, South African mother and British Father. I have in my blood, Irish, English, German, Malaysian, and Hottentot. With all of these names and places to define who I am I have ended up being none.

Growing up in Namibia I was never Namibian because I was not born there and my passport was British, I was reminded of this by people who liked to tease me but I chose to be Namibian in spite of the passport and in spite of the birth. It was the place I was, so how could I be anything but? If I chose one of the others I would always be yearning to leave and never be home. And so, emotionally, I clawed my way into a place where I stood up and claimed the dunes and the cold sea and the sun and the winter wind and made them into the things I loved and longed for.

Then I went to England, and Cape Town and America and always I wished to be back in Namibia, back where I belonged and back home. But now over time the balance has shifted. Many people I knew have moved away, the country has moved on and I have not been there to keep up. My accent has changed, and so has my perspective and those left behind take every pleasure in reminding me of it all. If I ever was Namibian, I can no longer claim to be so.

So now in my soul is a space, a place where who and what I am is blank but also like a puzzle just dumped out of its box. It isn't something that should be so and I must decide. Shall I fill it with everything or will I be able to finally belong to somewhere and some identity alone. Some place that will make me feel like I am home and I will always be home?

Tomorrow, I am going to Nakuru, place of my birth. I hope to stop at places that my parents and grandparents lived and worked, places I visited as a small child. I hope to fill in one more piece of who I am and make clear some of the confusion and loneliness I feel, at least by givng images to stories and places I have heard of throughout my life.

A con at governmental levels

Recently we received a parcel from Emma's Great Grandma. It was two very cute little dresses, originally wrapped in pink tissue paper. When K picked it up from the Post Office he was told the following little story and then charged a fee for the package.

When international packages come in, apparently Customs is allowed to charge an import duty. To deduce the amount that this duty should be, a customs official opens the package in front of a postal employee, unwraps any gifts and assigns value to the gifts. Then they charge you some percentage of that value. Yes... that's right... they OPEN the package and UNWRAP the gifts. All sanctioned by LAW. I love this country, where even postal theft is governed.

I wonder, do they read the birthday card too? I am now tempted to have someone send me ribbed condoms and body chocolate and write salacious things in the card. Would that be 50 shillings? Or would that be free?

Emma Update; dance with me darling, sweet and slow

Since she was born we have danced with Emma. Keir dances with her to Opera and Banjo music and I dance with her to 80's music and powerful female artists. Recently when you put on the music while holding her, she will grab your free hand and wave it around to indicate that it is time to dance. When you oblige she giggles, hums and asks to be dipped by throwing herself backwards while you twirl around the room.

You Little Beauty!

When you have read all the books written by a favourite author you can only read them again. But when you started reading their books as a teen and have been reading them for 15 years it's possible there are books you haven't read, or books you have forgotten that you read. Sometimes you think you discover one of these, dusty on your mother's bookshelf. There is an excitement at the familar grouping of letters in the author's name, coupled with the unfamiliar grouping of letters in the title. Perhaps you savour the book, not opening it for a few days, just letting your eye get used to the cover. Finally you settle down, snuggle up and open it. But oh! The terrible suspicion that creeps upon you by page 23. "Don't I know this character?" By page 100; "I do know this plot" by page 212, I recall the ending. You have two choices. Accept that you have read it and enjoy the prose once more, or set it down, unfinished but remembered.

I recently found what I thought had to be one of these. On a bookshelf in the dining hall at Mpala. A graveyard of books where "good" books are quickly snapped up and others grow ever dustier and infested by spiders, mice and other scurrying creatures.

Surely, surely, I have read all Elizabeth George's novels? Page 23 came and went, followed by page 100. Now I am in the deliscious excitement of letting her pull me towards the great reveal at the end, all the while amusing me, educating me and entertaining me. What a pleasure her words are, and how delightful to find new aspects to Tommy Lynley's character.

So now, having put my own words down and shared my find, I will return to the soft pages of my paperback and Ms. George's enlightening diction.