Being late is only good if you’re trying for a baby, otherwise, lateness equals tardiness and a disregard for another person’s time.
Some late people try to rebrand ‘late’.
They’ll say “I’m fashionably late”, which is like saying , “I’m stylishly racist.”
But time doesn’t work the same in Australia as it does in South Africa.
There’s something called ‘African time’ and that means ‘it will happen, we don’t know when, but it will be soon-ish’.
I was sent to cover an event where a local MPs would address an audience.
I can’t recall the occasion but know that I arrived on white girl time and didn’t get the memo African time was at play.
So, there’s me, bang on time and sitting on a chair in an empty row.
In front and behind me were rows and rows of empty chairs.
The chairs were white so at least I matched the decor.
I looked at my watch and it was already 10 minutes past the time the invitation said it would start.
Crickets…
Then at least an hour later the lauded dignitaries sauntered in and people began to take their seats.
I decided to play the game in future and rock up fashionably late … which is probably not best word usage considering my opening paragraphs.
There is something different about Africa that has nothing to do with the clock and rather a feeling.
I am not going to get all touchy feely here, because that’s not my style.
I’m pragmatic, realistic and pride myself on being able to control my emotions.
But control over emotions doesn’t’ happen in South Africa and that’s truly beautiful.
The minister for health was visiting a rural hospital with a tour of the wards scheduled.
Let me set the scene.
The hospital was in a rural landscape and rudimentary at best.
I was far from the main town and the only ‘white girl in the village’ (sorry Little Britian).
As a journalist I genuinely enjoyed interviewing and spending time with the people of South Africa who just happened to be black.
A helicopter landed on a field next to the hospital.
Red sand and debris spat upwards then rained down on the lines of nurses and hospital staff waiting on the minister’s arrival.
They formed two lines and a pathway for the minister to walk through.
As she walked, the African people chanted, warbled high pitched sounds, sang, danced and clapped their hands.
There was no stiff upper lip here, no formal handshakes and the minister danced down the line as she made her way to the hospital building.
This is something I miss about South Africa.
The joy that’s not stifled and the singing that bursts forth because the happiness too strong, too deep, to not let it out.
Another journo had a different experience with a helicopter and interview with a dignitary,
She was sent to cover the genocide in Rwanda.
The helicopter landed and she got out while the rotors were going hell for leather.
She ducked, she wasn’t stupid, but she’d made a massive error in judgement.
The helicopter landed where thousands of corpses lay rotting in the sand.
Maggots were whipped up and soon she was coated in them.
She stuck around long enough to file a good story, then high tailed it out of there to have a long, hot shower no doubt.
When I interview someone and they hear my accent, there’s a few questions they ask without fail.
“What does ‘now now’ mean?” they ask.
I tell them, it means shortly.
“And what does ‘just now’ mean?”
That means longer then now now, so when I get to it.
My sons knew they were in trouble when I said, “listen here my boy”.
That turn of phrase has become a meme and that makes me laugh because it is so accurate.
If we say, “listen here my friend”, the time for listening has passed and you are not our friend.
Good time keeping is important and respectful.
If I am late I will text ahead and apologise profusely.
Time is important and using it wisely makes sense because one day it will run out for all of us.
