Before I sat down to write this post I was pretty certain of what I wanted to write about today. I had all these thoughts in my head about something that happened during my trip to South Africa. But now that I'm here actually ready to write, I no longer feel the need to write on that subject matter. But since it's the deepest thought I've had all month, I might as well do a little something something about it.Otherwise I'll gab about trite things like my feelings on random couple PDAs in stairwells when I'm trying to get from point A to point B--don't do it.
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After a tour through a museum in Johannesburg, the hubs and I stopped at the adjacent cafe for a nosh and nibble. When ordering my drink, the barista kept referring to me as "sista," which was a recurring theme in South Africa. I was fine with it. The hubs and I sat down and started to chat about what-have-you. But the hubs can sometimes be a bit of a mumbler. So I exclaimed, "What?" as he doesn't seem to know how to speak up. On that note, the barista came over to me and proceeded to tell me that a pretty girl like myself shouldn't say "what".
I'm sure this was a case of "no harm, no foul." But it offended me a bit. I felt like this guy--who doesn't know me--is interjecting himself into my life to say a lady shouldn't do such things. My bra burning side came out. It's a culture of women speak softly
Or perhaps he just felt some connection to me since we both have melanin and felt like we were basically family. The same type of thing happens to me in Jamaica too, where everyone seems to think we're all family and can say whatever. But I'm like, "Dude, I just met you."
I did go to a spa a few days later in Cape Town in which one of the girl's there put her hand all through my natural hair without permission. Usually, it's not cool, but I suppose it's OK though...since she's my "sista" and all.
