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The roars and machete sharpening continued throughout the night; every now and then I heard the screams of poor Africans, gun shots shocked the silence with drums beating around the bush.I crawled under my straw mat and stayed still, part of me wanted to run and help the Africans but a little voice kept whispering “don’t do it, they will eat your porcelain skin and long locks of beautiful pitch black split-end hair for breakfast”.It was a well-known delicacy named bullshit and in the country of Africa it was as a form of greeting.I took the bullshit with both hands and devoured it in front of chief Zumba out of respect.

A rebellious war broke out and I took centre stage.The camouflaged immigration officer at the African International Airport stared at my porcelain skin and long locks of beautiful pitch black split-end hair as he stamped my passport with a machete; he has never seen a white person, I was his first, a humbling privilege.I had one dream: to be fluent in African and teach African to African kids in Africa, the biggest continent in the world where no rivers cuts through.I arrived in a small village called Johannesburg (but the African word for it is, Jozi).I’ve heard the rumours about the violent crimes and congested roads but I chose Jozi as a base for my volunteer work because of its remote beauty and unspoiled beaches.

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