The Beggar wears Prada

Recently a friend of mine told me a story of how she was involved in a smash-and-grab. Her story was so funny that I felt I needed to blog about it. Now, in no way do I endorse 'smash-and-grabs,' however, her story is unique and for this fact, it deserved a blog.

She was driving towards Gateway shopping Center with a line of traffic in front of her. Forced to stop at a robot, a beggar approached her car asking for money. She standardly told him she had no money before seeing his eyes pressed against her window and white teeth in a grin of triumph. The shattering of the window left her passenger seat covered in shards of glass, which subsequently fell onto her handbag. Both the beggar and her grabbed for the handbag at the same time, with her being the triumphant one having wrestled it out of his reach and into her lap. Before she was able to rejoice in the fact that she had won her own bag in this wrestling match between the beggar, a knife was pressed against the back of her neck.

"Let go," the dark voice boomed in her car.

Instead of simply letting go, like we are taught to do in such situations, she answered back, "Take what you want, just leave me my bag."

The knife pressed deeper into her skin, while the beggar slurred, "Let go."

Once more she persisted in her request of leaving the bag, finally after the knife pressed even deeper into her skin she released the bag and watched with horror as the beggar leaned in her car and proceeded to go through the contents of her handbag in front of her.

"Just take what you want and leave my bag!" she requested for the last time.

The Beggar only responded with, "Shut up!"

Finally the beggar left her car, carrying her most prized possession - her handbag.

Once he was a few meters away, and the robot still hadn't changed yet, she got out of her car in a craze over her bag.

Screaming and shouting after the beggar who had robbed her, she takes off her high heeled shoe and throws it at the man, landing a square blow to his head. Dazed and confused, the beggar bent down to retrieve the item that had accosted him. In this period, she throws her second shoe at the beggar, who (after showing the street his plumber's crack) picks up both shoes, smiles in triumph and places the shoes in the handbag. The beggar simply scored more items.

So from where I am sitting, I honestly don't know who is more innovative - my friend or the beggar. My friend still wanted to go back after the incident to retrieve her bag and to this day, I don't know whether to call her 'brave' or 'stupid,' either way, the element of crime in South Africa doesn't rule her life.

Imprints

For the last few days I have been wondering about what sort of imprints we leave on the world. Are these imprints lasting and do they represent us accordingly? Now, I'm not talking about the large gestures or the records amounting to our existence, but rather the more subtle ones.

Of course there are the obvious ones that relate to dental records, movie tickets, school attendance and bank accounts. But how do such things represent a person? How can you characterize a human being by there recorded existence? The answer is simple - you can't.

The subtle reminders of someone’s existence are what imprint the world more than any hard factual report. When a person dies we do not hold onto their bank account records as a form of comfort, rather, we treasure their favourite tea cup and hold silly non-consequential things close. How many lost items of mine are floating around in the world, holding my scent or the memory of it belonging to me?

I have lost countless Handbags, purses, wallets, watches and ear-rings each holding their own story relating to me, coasting along in the world with a specific story. When i was younger I cost my parents thousands in teddy-bear replacements. Casting back and wondering where one of my lost jerseys landed – in a township, a junk shop, or simply someone’s closet? It is with this notion in mind that I often find myself wondering into second hand stores, whether it’s for books, clothing or furniture, I find myself picking and choosing pieces that I imagine to have more than a surface story to it. Where do these items come from? Why has it ended up here? Are they broke or was it just lost? Why wouldn’t they need this anymore? Is the person still alive? These items are fragments of a larger story, and through them, there is some form of a reminder of that person left on the world. It is through these simplistic material items of mine, floating around in the world that I leave a type of mark on it. And furthermore, it is slightly consoling to know that if my house (with all my worldly possessions), burnt down tomorrow, there are still pieces of me, floating around in the world.

Flipping through my parent’s photo-albums, I found myself looking not at photos of them, but rather at the photos of the strangers that they encountered at different parties and events. How many photos of random people were in their album? And how many people across the globe had random photos of me, either in passing or from an event or party? Would I be shelved in someone’s photo album I hardly know? Would their children one-day scrutinise my unfamiliar face? And then, to look at it even further, how many ‘holiday-makers’ or tourists’ photo’s am I in, oblivious in the background, part of the scenery? These seemingly random photos floating around the world, are another example of how we imprint upon the world without even intending to.

This brings me to the conclusion that one can never be erased from the world, and although we may never be the next Dickens or Dahl, it is almost comforting to know that somewhere in the future, in some seemingly distant part of the world, there will be a photo of me in someone’s album I don’t know. In this way, I am reminded that my imprint upon the world is not an isolated one, but rather one that will spread across the globe despite the lack of grand gestures and the creating of masterpieces. These imprints, I believe, are more lasting than any blog or facebook page. They hold a specific story that cannot be repeated through technology. The very fact that they are materialistic, makes the imprint that much more tangible.

Bitch Fibre

As a previous business owner and mature student, I like think that I have my ‘bitch fibre’ of DNA sufficiently suppressed. This thought lead to the question of what makes high school girls particularly bitchy? Was I that bad in high school? Am I that bad now? I went to an all-girls school, and perhaps understand the element of bitchiness better than most. If the following event is any level of measurement, my ‘bitch fibre’ will be rearing its ugly head even when I’m eighty.

I was recently at a model UN Conference with various schools, with our team assisting and stepping in to represent Nigeria due to the lack of students. We specifically tackled the situation in the Ivory Coast, debating the best resolution.

I watched as the various schools streamed in, all-boys schools, all-girls schools and then the co-ed ones. Ivory Coast positioned themselves opposite us and so the debate commenced. The tension between the boys trying to show their intellectual superiority and the girls trying to do the same only detracted from the debate itself. The note passing pertaining to the resolution consisted more along the lines of “I think you are cute,” more than anything else.

I found myself in a predicament with Russia not knowing what their VETO was, Ivory Coast signing two contradicting resolutions and the concept of Democracy falling in the grey area of understanding. To make matters worse, one of the girls on the Ivory Coast team was particularly bitchy. Now, I would like to say that my mature edge allowed me to handle the situation in a mature manner, but the truth is – it didn’t.

After criticising Ivory Coast for their bad form in signing two contradicting resolutions, this girl walked up to my table and asked:
“Are you still angry that we signed two resolutions?” She sneered at me as she spoke.
“Angry? I’m not angry, I just think the fact that they contradict one another is concerning.” I reply, trying to maintain my calm.
“Well we are allowed to, you know!” she snaps in response.
“I know,” I reply, trying to keep my bitch fibre from rearing its ugly head, “It just shows ignorance on your part.”
Changing the subject entirely, she asks me if this is my first model UN conference I have attended. Choosing to reply honestly, I admit that it is and watch as her eyes reflect the wheels of the cog turning.
“That explains it,” she sneers down at me as she speaks.
At this stage there was no supressing the bitch fibre, for she could not be supressed.
“Is there a reason you are being so catty?” I asked bluntly (who said I can’t be age appropriate?)
Smiling sweetly, as if in victory she replied, “No, not at all.”
Leaning back in my chair I responded, “Must just be your personality then.”

I wish I could say that I have left my bitchy days behind me, but something about being in that environment and spoken to in that way called on my bitchy side and evoked her. Based on this, I can only assume that this will continue to occur until I am eighty, making the checks and balances even more difficult to maintain as I get older. I truly don’t know where men gain the courage to brave the chilly waters of women.