Sixteen years and a bit of education later, those years seem so preposterous. The feared Communists, for whom we waited in vain, were the African National Congress. They were making door-to-door visits in our area, which was an IFP bastion, and so in an effort to secure our votes, the IFP ran a very successful propaganda campaign against the ANC. So successful was their propaganda, that they have never lost the majority vote in that part of KZN.

I have never experienced apartheid in any form. I don’t even know what a dompas looks like. I grew up in a world where the ANC was the enemy, for crying out loud! I grew up amongst white people. Some of my best and most loyal of friends are white. I never ever got the feeling that I was supposed to be inferior to anyone. And even in school, when the other black kids used to mumble about ‘discrimination’, I had no idea what they were on about. I have an academic knowledge of what racism is, but I’ve never emotionally identified with the notion. I’m a black South African, but certainly not “formerly disadvantaged.”

This presents me with a dilemma. A few weeks ago, a white friend of mine called me ‘boy’ on my blog. I took it as a joke, made a snappy comeback and thought no more of it. Apparently the word ‘boy’ is laden with racial connotations, and another blogger rose to my defence and viciously attacked my friend for daring to insult me. I was flabbergasted. In the ensuing debate some bloggers lambasted me for refusing to take offence at this obvious racial slur. But the plain truth is that I certainly didn’t feel like an affront had been committed, chiefly because I knew my friend wouldn’t do such a thing. But I also didn’t feel racially slighted because I didn’t grow up under apartheid, have never been told that I am less than anyone else because of my skin colour and have never been discriminated against for being black. I have no experience of apartheid, petty or otherwise.

Apparently this is very difficult for older black people to understand. They don’t understand why I don’t read into every word that comes out of a white person, they don’t understand why I see nothing wrong with relationships across “colour lines” and they especially don’t understand why I think they are wrong for being so suspicious and sensitive. Don’t get me wrong. I’m in no way diminishing people who went through the horrors of apartheid. I am very proud to be a black South African, partly because of our struggle heritage. And I’m not saying that racism is now completely dead in South Africa. But I certainly don’t accept that I should now carry the pain of an apartheid past simply because of my skin colour. It is very painful for me when I experience “discrimination” from my own people, because I’m too young to have gone through apartheid.

Isn’t this what the struggle was all about? Isn’t that why Nelson Mandela spent all those years in prison, so that one day there can be people in South Africa who have no painful memories of apartheid?

Let me start off by setting the record straight. My exposure to Afrikaans was very short, yet extremely odd. The government, in all its wisdom, decided that teaching Afrikaans to black children was counter-productive or against the spirit of the National Democratic Revolution or something. They gave some oily reason, and just like that, I stopped learning die taal in Grade 7. But I remember very well the few years of exposure that I had.

There was Meneer Van Rooyen in Grade 4. Massive, slow and sunburnt, he would have made a formidable prop or hooker, if he wasn’t such a softy at heart. He had a particularly soft spot for Israel, and would give us free periods if someone piped up, “Meneer Van Rooyen, ek het lief vir Israel!” He cried like a baby whenever the Palestinians killed someone in Israel. He also had an awful habit of stalking through the class with a large ruler in his hands, yelling “die punt!” Yes, I learned all about the uses of the full stop in my Afrikaans lessons. Another favourite of his was “Hoof letters!” He left the school after an ugly incident involving a supporter of Yasser Arafat.

In Grade 5 and 6 it was Mevrou Ogterop. She was my own 9th circle of hell. I got more detention hours from her than from all my other teachers combined. I think it’s because I refused to take her seriously. She was short, old and very shaky. She never spoke normally. She was of the you-must-shout-for-the-children-to-understand-you disposition, which really didn’t endear her to her pupils at all. She taught us silly Boer march songs about Oom Paulus Kruger en die rooinekke. In a moment of sadism, someone appointed her to teach us art. Mevrou Ogterop knew as much about art as I do about the bedroom habits of the Archbishop of Canterbury. I spent the last hour of every Thursday painting big, fluffy clouds on paper plates and absolutely hated it.

My last Afrikaans teacher was a bucket of fun. She was pushing 50, still unmarried and had an amazing gold tooth that sparkled whenever she smiled. She would waft into the class every morning, smelling of chamomile tea and scented candles singing, “Is dit julle wat die wind, is dit julle wat die wind, is dit julle wat die wind laat waai?” To which we had to reply, “Ag, nee!” I have no idea what that song was in aid of. Someone recently pointed out to me that her song might have been a snide reference to breaking wind. Being the mad teens that we were, we quickly substituted that “ag, nee!” for a suitable expletive. Thank goodness no one ever told our teacher. My last Afrikaans teacher made me love talking in Afrikaans. Instead of doing stupid exercises in our books, she made us plant a vegetable garden so we could learn the names of all the veggies, tools and farming practices. We would also sit in a big circle on a lawn somewhere, and she would tell us the most amazing stories… in Afrikaans. Then the government put an end to all that.

Due to the fact that as friends we exclusively spoke either English or Zulu, die taal slowly faded from my memory. I can barely speak it now, let alone read or write it. But there are some things which are best done in Afrikaans. There is nothing like a well placed Afrikaans swear word to spice up your sentences. It lends you the air of quirkiness and eccentricity. Most importantly, it makes you sound so South African, and I absolutely love that about Afrikaans.

I was born in 1988. I was not even two years of when Mandela walked out of prison. I have no recollection of the CODESA negotiations, nor the riots of 1993, nor even of the 1994 elections. For me, that pivotal year was only so in the sense that it was my first year at school. The earliest recollection of a major event that I have is that of the death of Princess Diana. I have no familiarity with the events that continue to define us as a country. And yes – I too have been guilty of apathy when it comes to our history and heritage, like so many of my generation.

At the same time, the sense of belonging to South Africa is very strong. I sing as loudly as anyone when the national anthem is sung, and my chest swells with as much pride as anybody’s when the Springbokke, Proteas and Bafana Bafana are victorious in sport. I engage in raucous debates with foreigners about the virtues of South Africa. I look down upon at Chinese products, and beam happily when biltong is served. But is that what being South African is all about?

The truth is, I have yet to fully appreciate what being a citizen of this amazing country means. I have only recently been introduced to the writings of South Africans, having grown up on a stiff diet of British literature. South African film is another aspect that I have only recently encountered. I have never been to places like Limpopo Province and the Garden Route. There is still so much to see, hear and talk about! I am young and in love with this land! To those who have gone before me, teach me what it is to be a South African. Give me that sense of familiarity and belonging. Tell me what happened in Soweto, Sharpeville and all the other townships where blood was spilled in the name of freedom. Cry as you recount the horrors of political imprisonment. Let us laugh together as you describe your first pair of school shoes. Break open that six-pack and remind me of how we won the 1995 rugby world cup. Describe for me the back breaking labours that your fathers faced as they crossed the mighty Drakensberg in ox wagons. Paint for me a picture of old Johannesburg – I want to feel the excitement of that place, when it was still a true mining town. Teach me how to make pap en vleis. What goes into a potjiekos, I want to know?! How does one sing the praises of mighty Zulu kings of yore? I want to know all these things. It is no longer enough for me to be a citizen of a bygone era.

I want to know and fully belong to this country.