mine

The majority of last Friday night was nothing but laughter. It started off at the Gaborone Dam (as most Friday nights now do), with drinks on the sun-warmed rocks at the water’s edge, the hard sloping surfaces still radiating heat as dusk fell. It was Caitlin and the Penn Nursing students’ last night in Gabs, and the mood was slightly festive as a result. Khwayze, Ngozi, Mex, and Labo had joined our international exchange student crew, and in addition to Brianna’s spontaneous trimming of Daniel’s hair, (the strands were then burnt for fire,) rock adventuring, and mock photo shoots, a good amount of alcohol helped to keep the night bright.

After the sun had dropped into the cradling dip of the distant hills, we called some cabs and shifted the party to 25 degrees, an Indian restaurant at River Walk. The group population exploded as we merged with another bunch of exchange students, and sat down to feast at a twenty person, taffy-stretched table. People were up and down, in and out, bouncing around the restaurant and patio to smoke and chatter and engage in the type of hilarity specific to youth and unspecific to circumstance. Between bites of sweat-inducing curry and the flurry of glasses that shifted and lifted and landed in kaleidoscope patterns, everyone let loose.

It was only natural then, when the bill had been paid (an adventure in itself) and the stomachs massaged, to move on to the clubs. After quick stops at UB and Mexyland, where various revelers peeled off to deposit their bones in a bed, those that remained drove to Lizard Lounge. It seemed quiet for a Friday night (at least according to Mex,) but we were all itching to keep the hours flowing, so we entered anyways. Daniel and I were escorted inside for free, thanks to Mex’s smooth talking, and immediately the shutterbug half of our duo began to click and snap like castanets. Daniel had brought his professional camera along to do some publicity work for one of Mex’s clients, DJ ONKZ, who was playing at the club and for whom Daniel has been making cover art.

With everyone jiving in the green glow of the patterned lights, red lazers wiggling between bent backs and swinging arms, the atmosphere was thick and pulsing and entirely expected. The crew I rolled in with (Seb, Anna, Daniel, Mex, Ngozi, Kwayze, Labo, Brianna, Celene, and Franka) stuck close together, and despite a few aggressive men and the rebukes they necessitated, I didn’t feel threatened or unsafe. We all shifted between lounge area and dance floor, and Daniel continued to work the room with his third eye.

However, sometime in the swirl of the post-midnight darkness, as I eyes-closed my way across the terrain of rhythmic mountains, I felt Daniel’s hand on my shoulder and turned to see a panicked look in his eyes. “My camera’s gone,” he exhaled, and immediately dashed towards the bouncers at the exit, head twisting to scan the faces around him. The word spread like wildfire from one mouth to the next, and we all mobilized immediately. The panic of loss and violation and fear and anger welled up in everyone and it was evident in our sharp movements and frantic inquiries. The manager blocked all exits and told the guards to check everyone who left, and Brianna (a one woman wonder) began to interrogate everyone she encountered. Mex, Seb, and others dashed into the parking lot to find out if anyone had seen anything, and Anna, Ngozi, Kwayze, Daniel and I continued to scan the club and hover, with eyes wide, around the exiting patrons.

As if the horror of what had just happened wasn’t enough, things began to deteriorate within the club itself. It was around 3 am, and by this point the majority of the people inside were sufficiently intoxicated. While most who attempted to leave were only mildly annoyed by the bouncers’ pat-down policy, a few men got belligerent. In two or three cases, the bouncers began to smack them with open hands, pulling out nightsticks and beating them across the back. The exit space was dense and as each wave of violence hit, panic would ripple back through the crowd, shifting the amoeba of packed bodies away from the epicenter of the commotion. Occasionally, after someone was pushed outside and the doors were re-barred, we could hear the dreadful shattering of bottles hurled against the thick wood. The constant, violent banging from within a locked closet where two handcuffed men had been shoved, was also unnerving, and I found myself paralyzed with morose anxiety, flitting between Daniel and the safer interior of the club. I realize I’m lucky to have never before witnessed such physical violence, and this first bitter taste left me shaken. The sound of hard wood colliding with a man’s flesh, and the thwack of palm meeting face had me choking on my own passivity. The impulse to lash out with fist, to throw yourself at the prospect of blood and pain and bone crunching blows, is something that I will never understand.

To top the experience off, a succession of men attempted to latch onto me and dance as I stood against the wall near the exit, waiting for any sign of the camera. One in particular roughly grabbed my hips and began to shake me, leering drunkenly, until Seb quickly stepped in and pushed him off. The disgust and revulsion that I felt in that moment are unparalleled in my emotional memory – too great to prompt action or outcry, just silent loathing.

After a long tense period of searching and waiting and cross-fingered, cross-toed, cross-souled hoping, we piled into a cab and left the club. Exhausted and weighed down by disbelief, there was nevertheless the sense of true camaraderie and group injustice. Daniel said it best, in that if it takes an event like this to showcase the beauty and merit of friendship, then in a way we’re all lucky. The comforting arms of Anna, Ngozi, and Brianna, not to mention the genuine concern of everyone present, were incredible.

To add insult to injury, it turned out that my keys were stolen as well (they were in a pocket of Daniel’s camera bag since I hadn’t brought a purse out.) However, this inconvenience was more in the vein of dark humor, as there is nothing that a thief can do with my keys, except unlock the imaginary door that keeps out fear. Congratulations sir, you have made me feel vulnerable.

As a result of the loss of my keys, I was locked out of my room (bereft of phone, money, clothing, medication, etc.) until Sunday afternoon. I found out the hard way that the University of Botswana does not have a master key for the dorms (or, if they do, it is in S. Africa with an employee on leave – this was never cleared up) and cannot quickly or easily get yours replaced. Successive phone calls and desperate pleas for help will not do much good, because it seems that no precautions are taken for emergencies that occur on the weekends. FYI, if you plan on having a problem, schedule it for before 4:30 on Friday afternoon.

Thus, these words bring me to the word: possession. Daniel’s camera is one of his most cherished means of communication, and tool for creative production. It is valuable both monetarily and sentimentally, and its loss is an incredible blow. However, it is not a limb, a life, or an irreplaceable item, and we all recognize that. So what stings so much?

Perhaps is it the fact that someone, with disregard to Daniel’s feelings and circumstance, decided to deprive him of something that mattered a lot. To place your needs over those of another, particularly a complete stranger, has always struck me as particularly callous. Yes, the thief may have a family to feed, ARV’s to buy, etc. However, it is also just as likely that he stole Daniel’s prized possession so that he could in turn purchase something equally prized for himself. How is this justified? Are we right to mourn the absence of an inanimate object? How could we not? What is worth mourning?

Even before this incident, I had been meditating a lot on the nature of possession. Coming here, I’ve found myself lacking a lot of tangible, material conveniences. I no longer “possess” a washer/dryer, a printer, a bag of yarn and knitting needles, a house with a staircase, a dog, a car, a pile of sketchpads, a bookcase of books. Being away from these things that I tend to call “mine,” has made me realize that unless it’s inside of me, it’s as much my possession as it is not.

This has been a hard mental adjustment, and it has really forced me to examine the extent of my materialism. Living on a campus like Penn, it has been easy to leave my consumer habits unchecked – in fact, the environment encourages excess spending and a blind eye to true need. Over the past three months I have realized that there are aspects of this upper-class “American” culture that I really miss – the comfort, the fun, the ease, the care-free bubble. I would be lying if I said that I was truly willing to give up these things, because they add a certain cushion to life that can be quite nice. However, I believe I have come to more easily differentiate between personal desire and necessity, and this is a good thing. I have also come to realize that my definition of “self” has been greatly influenced by what I have perceived as uniquely “mine.” It is becoming much more important to me to think about what I am beyond the traits and tangibles I can display, because each day makes it more apparent that most of these are transient.

Perhaps, in the end, the only thing I can justifiably claim any true, consistent possession over – if I choose to - are the meditations, musings, and spontaneous flows of emotion that run through my head. And yet, when I finally close my eyes for the night, I think I’m more content to offer these forth to the ones I love, than to hold them all to myself. I’m as much the product of a group effort – a continuous flow of influence and nurturing – as I am the product of my own will and wishes, and these dual forces within me deserve recognition. As I have been blessed with the most spectacular people, I am happy to feel the pinch of their gentle molding. Clay is clay is clay, but the shapes it can make are more than the material itself can imagine. Although I still fear relinquishing my possessions, and myself, I’m slowly starting to realize that the less I’m afraid of losing, the more I can enjoy what I have. It seems that my continuous anxiety about losing an object, or a piece of me, always striving to maintain my “identity” through the objects or traits I have determined it by – it all just stops me from allowing more influences to affect me. At this moment, it is only the communal possession of connection, the other end of a bond, a group ownership of emotion and friendship and trust that I am most grateful for, and grateful that it can’t be stolen or lost or forgotten.