Out of Touch

It’s October, lying in bed, 3am in Mexico City, 11am SA time and unable to sleep. I’ve spent the past few hours staring at the ceiling and for the last 30 minutes I’ve been listening. Listening to the familiar pleasant beats of South Africa’s legendary reggae stars music as it seeps in under the door. Usually upbeat and soulful, somewhat inspiration music, I am saddened as hearing it right now reminds me that just a few hours ago I found about the death of Lucky Dube.
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It occurred at the weekend, the weekend that South Africa was to be celebrating its title as the rugby world champions. A weekend that was to be filled with nothing but anxiety, camaraderie, sportsmanship and patriotism, instead had mourning added in the list.

I continue to listen to the soft music stealing my attention and keeping me from my sleep, letting my thoughts wander and securing one in particular that has been playing in my head; I am out of touch with home. A whole week, it took me a week to find out that Lucky Dube’s life was taken, a week to learn that South Africa was in mourning, a week after my country began to weep, I finally caught on.

My eyes are still wide open and not getting heavy as I wish they would, my mind is racing and there is a sharp pain burning in my heart. My only comfort lies in the instruments, the rhythm, the beat, the energy and voice creeping into the room, music belonging to a man I’d never met, a man who didn’t even know me, but knew our home. A place I’m appreciating more and more each day I am away.

I lie here wondering what else I am not aware of, with all that I absorb daily around the world I can never forget where I come from and where my heart lies. Time away is worth every second and I wouldn’t trade this journey for anything, but I still wonder about the happenings of daily life back home. It’s strange.

I’m going to sleep now, may my dreams be filled with all the sights, sounds and scents I miss so dearly.

Rest in peace Lucky Dube, rest in peace comrade. Mzansi I cry with you.