I was struck by the complexity of South African society as I stood in line at Home Affairs. Around me were a number of people who asked where to go, what to do and amidst that, was a lot of chattering. The intercom hailed for a who-and-who to report to the staffroom, while the lady seated opposite us eventually exclaimed, “Next!” I marshalled myself to one of the front desks to her inviting, “Good morning,” followed by “Your ID number please.”

My ID, license and a few other cards fell victim to a thief whose only gain was a couple of rands and who, perhaps, had no intention of disorganizing me to the extent that he or she did. I gave the woman my particulars, answered a few questions, and then returned to where I was instructed to sit. Next to me was a man, and in front of us were two Colored women.

I caught a disturbing whiff from the man next to me. His discomfort suggested that he was aware of his odor. I tried my best to let him feel comfortable and, in a way, to let him know that I knew that life sometimes forces us to lose control of important things that qualify us as functional human beings. I wanted to let him know that it was okay and undoubtedly forgivable to lose interest in or to forget the value society places on good hygiene, especially when one’s life is consumed by more compelling issues than bathing.  

It started getting busier, the queues got longer, and the row I was in moved at a snail’s pace. The Home Affairs we were in was in the township. It was attached to a police station and a few government offices. While eavesdropping on the women’s conversation about their acquaintances, families, and lives, I kept raising my eyebrows at some of the alarming and funny things they said. I could almost picture some of the characters and events they mentioned as individuals I knew and lived with and as things I had witnessed in my neighborhood.

As the morning progressed, a white man and his daughter walked in. They went straight to where they were instructed to sit by the security guard. Heads turned in their direction, and a stillness overcame the room as they settled in. It was obvious that they had sensed the sudden silence and the attention they’d drawn. The daughter looked in our direction while she lent a smile to everyone. Her glance was poised, and her eyes seemed to acknowledge an interested yet unwelcome audience.

It was hard not to look in their direction or to feel the awkwardness their presence caused. I took a moment in clandestine fashion to peek at the entire room. I was not surprised to find everyone’s eyes fixed on the white man. He was very tall and muscular and by no doubt of Afrikaner descent. His focus remained on his phone, and not once did he lift his head unless he had something to say to his daughter.

The activity continued — everyone followed the security’s instructions and listened attentively to the tellers. In moments when my eyes weren’t fixed on my cellphone or I wasn’t listening in on the two women’s conversation, or caught between the two, I sat back, closed my eyes, and allowed my mind to wander off. It was in between these moments that I noticed another white family of four walk in. Unlike everyone, the mother, father, son and daughter walked in brazenly without noticing the security guard at the door. They walked across the room in search of a place to sit.

I sensed that everyone wanted to see if the security guard would confront the family to direct them to where they needed to sit, something she had done quite firmly all morning. We all looked in anticipation while hesitation overtook her before she finally decided to approach the family. The white woman, however, had already left her seat to speak to one of the tellers. “Hello, we’d like to make and renew our passports. Jim here has been chosen to represent South Africa at the Under-16 cricket world competitions in Australia.” She was loud enough for us to hear what she said and for us to look between her and the security guard to see what would unfold. 

To our disappointment no drama transpired. Instead, the security guard waited for the lady to finish until she escorted her and her family to the correct seats. They shared a warm exchange, and everything was back to normal. I sat there waiting to be called to the last post. It was extremely hot, and I had forgotten to bring a bottle of water. The man next to me mumbled that he couldn’t wait any longer, so he took off, and I occupied his seat.

I didn’t know whether to be relieved that I was a step closer to completing the process or to feel sorry for him because he would have to come back again. By the sound of it, his predicament was whether to miss work for a few hours with the risk of his site manager noticing that he was absent or to work without a temporary ID which might see him not get paid at the end of the month. It was a terribly sad story, but I took up his seat with little regret and waited patiently for my turn to be called.

I was finally done. I stepped out of Home Affairs to a buzz of activity. It was unusual for me to be anywhere else but at work. I relished the feeling while I tried to map out my next stop. In the distance, I saw the father and daughter hop into a beautiful huge bakkie with wheels the size of a small modern car. They didn’t say much to each other, but both looked relieved like everyone else that exited the building. 

Kids close-by pointed at their vehicle with great admiration, and adults like me couldn’t resist following it with our eyes until it was out of sight. A dream car of note, I sighed and immediately turned around in view of my surroundings. They weren’t as inspiring or beautiful as what the bakkie had signified in my heart. I lit a cigarette and stood for a while watching people go into the police station, leave Home Affairs and others, like me, hang around.

I left the premises without having figured out why I felt the way I did at Home Affairs. However, when the second white family drove past me, it was then that it occurred to me that despite my daily interactions with countless white people, their presence in today’s setting seemed to take away a lot of what they usually embody in other spaces. In retrospect and to my surprise, I suddenly forgot about the degree of influence, authority, and power they generally assume in the worlds I inhabit, especially when subjected to the security guard’s command.

I pondered on the moment a little more until I realized that the silence and awkwardness that characterized the room was a culmination of the disbelief of seeing white people in the heart of our township and having to come to terms with the possibility that they, too, could endure what has become such a norm in much of our lives. Before then, it was hard to imagine that they could also stand in long queues, sit on skewed and broken chairs, or tolerate having to wait hours on end to get something done, when what often stood as a reflection of their livelihoods was comfort and ease.

I immediately juxtaposed this with the security guard, a black middle-aged woman, who I suppose holds very little authority in society when she exits Home Affairs. Unlike the two white families, with one set to travel overseas and the other with a stunning vehicle, it was difficult to look past her — childlike in her discolored uniform — as someone who could ever experience what the two families espouse. My thinking was eventually interrupted by a long hoot from a passing taxi whose conductor almost convinced me that I had called out to it because in fact, I could have done with a lift.