“I’ve
been working at this hotel for so long that these mosquitos don’t
bite me anymore. You wouldn’t eat beef or chicken every day,
right? Mosquitos are the same. They’re like, ‘Ntanga, we
already know what she tastes like,’ so now they don’t
bother me.”
“That’s
a lie.”
“I
know! HAHAHA!”
The
first thing one notices when one meets Ntanga is her laugh. It erupts
often. It bellows up from her stomach and is the most uninhibited and
authentic sound a human could make. One would think that this
22-year-old lady with a baby’s laugh had never had a care in
the world, when in truth every jest and jovial exclamation defies
struggles that she has overcome.
The
second thing one notices is the fact that she never stops talking.
Her playful mind comes up with interpretations of the world that are
often bizarre and designed to make her listener laugh. She says that
every time she opens her mouth, her little sister expects to laugh so
if she ever decides to do stand up comedy, she’ll already have
one fan.
I
met Ntanga when I was conducting thesis research on subsistence
farming practices in Limpopo, South Africa. I arrived at the hotel
after a long journey from New York, which included a small bush plane
flight from Johannesburg to Polokwane, then an hour’s drive to
the small town of Limpopo. When I checked into the hotel, the ladies
at the front desk were buzzing. Most of the hotel customers were
locals who stayed during the work week and then returned to their
rural village homes around the town. I was the first young Asian
woman to arrive alone, and Ntanga quickly took me under her wing,
showing a hospitality that I have yet to experience from a hotel
receptionist since.
We
made quite a pair, walking around town. Although we were the same
age, she took her hostess role very seriously, with ironed white
hotel uniform, hair pinned back, and black shoes that stayed shiny
even in the dusty dirt streets. I looked comparatively like I had
crawled out of the desert, with hiking shoes, workout clothes, and a
large hat that attempted to wick away the 120 degree air and beating
sun. She asked about my research and spent the week introducing me to
friends around town who could show me around their rural homes and
garden plots. Ntanga has an effervescent presence. Those who know her
laugh when they see her approaching, and even those who don’t
know her are drawn to her extroverted charisma when she walks down
the street.
Ntanga’s
openness to the world came out of a lot of hardship growing up. She
was born in a small village called Lwamondo in the rural northeast of
South Africa. When she was three years old, her father left her
mother and younger sister Petunia. They moved to another village to
live with her uncle, cousins, and grandmother, and though she lives
with them still and is surrounded by their love, the pain of her
father’s abandonment was always there.
She
attributes her father’s absence to her independence and
outspokenness. She always felt like she had to defend her mother and
little sister, so she became a fearless child who would lead a group
of girls around and “whatever she said went.” She loved
learning English and was not afraid of practicing constantly despite
being considered obnoxious by her peers. She says she did not have a
lot of friends, and whenever she felt her feelings were bottled up,
she would take a pen and start writing.
She
has always seen the world through a writer’s lens, and there is
nothing that makes her happier than writing. “When
you are holding a pen and a paper, there is nothing that can stop
you. You create things by your mind that only you can
explain. You start to see things that no one can. You create life –
save the oppressed and oppress the oppressors.” She attributes
much of her introspection and awareness of others to the absence of
her father and the loneliness that she felt in her childhood.
When
she was 14 and attending her uncle’s funeral, she saw her
father again for the first time since he had left. She forgave him in
an instant. He promised that he would visit her, and for the first
few weekends, she would wake up early to finish her chores and take a
bath so that everything would be clean if that would be the day that
her father visited. He never came. Over the course of the next eight
years, she has seen her father several more times, always at
funerals. Every time he has promised that he will visit, and she
always forgives him even though to this day he does not know where
she lives.
Living
without her father affected her greatly, and she struggled
academically when she was 17 and finishing matric. Though she looks
back on that time as one of her life failures, those years also
motivate her writing and her future dreams. She is currently a
receptionist at Avkhom Hotel in Thohoyandou, South Africa, and
aspires to be a businesswoman and travel agent because she has
noticed that Thohoyandou lacks a travel agency. She wants to give
tourists their dream holiday and share with them the “Eden of
Africa” that she proudly calls home.
Ntanga
is ambitious and does not want the traditional lifestyle of a South
African woman. Most young women her age in the rural areas are having
children now, but she wants a career before having a family because
“being a housewife is not fun and I have seen it.” She
says her mom deserves an Oscar for the struggles that she went
through to take care of their family, and "a
clever person learn from his/her mistakes, but a wise one learns from
other peoples’ mistakes."
For
all her aspirations, she never fails to put her friends and family
first. She prides herself on being a true friend and advisor, and
always strives to make people laugh. When asked what she would want
written on her gravestone, she responds, “I know all of you are
going to follow me.”
Sarah
Jeong is a former policy analyst and aspiring writer based in the
sleepy town of Waikanae, New Zealand. Her pet chickens are named
after the Hamilton musical cast and she spends more time with them
than with humans. She shares a name with a NY Times editor but has
never met her.
(Unless
you
type
the
author's name
in
the subject
line
of the message
we
won't know where to send it.)
Another
story by Sarah
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