Jaimie's South African Adventure

Abigail Washington discusses how she persisted through the fear of becoming a teenager mother and has continued to push herself outside of her comfort zone.

Live on YouTube, Spotify and Apple Podcasts

The driver’s name was Sipho, which I later learned means “gift” in Xhosa, one of 11 official languages in South Africa at the time. Sipho greeted me with a big smile, took my carry-on bag and led me outside.

The morning sun was already high in the sky and burned my eyes. I was carrying a long black wool coat, which had protected me from London’s harsh February temperatures. But I was in the southern hemisphere now and it was peak summer. The coat looked as ridiculous and out of place as I felt.

“Let’s go get your bags,” Sipho said as he led me to a sleek silver Mercedes. “Do you have the papers?” I handed him a stack of crumpled yellow sheets that I had been carrying since I sent my luggage ahead a week earlier. He took them with one hand and with the other opened the rear car door. I had never been met by a driver before but I assumed he wanted me to sit in the back seat, so I pushed the coat in and slid in next to it.

Sipho took the driver’s seat — on the right side of the car — and pulled out on to the left side of the road. Fifteen minutes later we arrived at the cargo section of the airport. It was teeming with men and women shouting, pointing and hauling large crates, boxes and suitcases.

As soon as the car stopped, I opened my door. Sipho came around and held it open for me anyway. “Bring your passport,” he said with another smile. As he led me through the crowd, he spoke to various people, and it seemed to me that he wasn’t always speaking the same language. He’d effortlessly switch depending on who he was speaking to.

“Are you speaking different languages, Sipho?”

He laughed a little. “Yea, Zulu and Xhosa,” he said.

I had heard of Zulu but not Xhosa. “Are you Zulu?”

“No, Xhosa,” Sipho said.

“Oh, so you speak both languages? That’s really cool.”

Sipho stopped. “I speak Xhosa, Zulu, English and a little Afrikaans,” he said, ticking them off on his fingers.

I felt like such a stupid American, speaking only English. “So how do you know which language to speak when you meet someone?”

“You just know,” Sipho said as we arrived at the warehouse.

“But how?

“You just do,” he said laughing.

I clearly had a lot to learn about South Africa.

With my two mammoth black suitcases in the trunk of the car, Sipho and I set out for the home of my host in a fancy suburb of Johannesburg called Sandton. As we drove along a modern highway, I rested my head on the window and looked out at the land, which stretched nearly uninterrupted to the horizon.

There was the odd industrial-looking building, but otherwise, it was reddish earth and brown grass for miles. I was here. I was really here. Now what, I thought as hills dotted with short, stubby trees came into view. After about 15 minutes, we pulled off the highway and drove along two-lane roads lined with the occasional gas station and office block.

Soon, the barren earth gave way to patches of green shrubs, tall palm trees and modern office buildings. Groups of Black men and women carrying multiple bags stood near intersections, next to long lines of minivans. I later learned that these were unofficial buses called minibus taxis — and they were unregulated, overcrowded and extremely dangerous. The drivers were often drunk or high and drove recklessly at high speeds to increase their trips and maximize their profit.

The further along we drove, the more our surroundings reminded me of south Florida, with short office buildings and gleaming glass towers surrounded by lush green landscaping. As we turned off the main road into a residential neighborhood, the gardens became even more lush and the road was lined with tall graceful trees. Large mansions stood behind tall white walls with metal gates and I thought of the articles I’d read about South Africa’s high crime rate.

At the end of the road Sipho pulled up to a large green gate and opened it with a remote. He pulled the car around a circular driveway and stopped in front of a one-story white stucco house with an commanding dark wood door. A woman in an orange dress and white apron stood holding the hand of a little boy. They both stared at me as I got out of the car. Then they smiled.

“I’m Maggie,” the woman said, “and this is my son Godfrey.” I held out my hand. “Nice to meet you both, I’m so happy to be here.” Maggie took my hand in the tips of her fingers while Godfrey buried his head in his mother’s side.

As Sipho was getting my bags from the trunk he said something to Maggie.

“Are you speaking Zulu or the other one?” I asked, not knowing how to pronounce Xhosa, which begins with a unique clicking sound.

Maggie and Godfrey tried to suppress laughs and looked at Sipho.

“Xhosa,” he said.

“Let me show you to your room, Miss Jaimie,” Maggie said as she started walking towards the house.

“You can just call me Jaimie,” I said, embarrassed.

“Alright Miss Jaimie,” she said and opened the front door.