The mood was somber in my neighborhood, like it always is in the afternoons, with the birds chirping peacefully. There are seldom sounds of human voices, which I longed for, for the better part of my life. The sound of human voices is the integral part of “Black Cape Town”. The only sound in my neighborhood was that of cars passing at full speed, wheels squeezing and horns hooting.

I passed three houses before being led to my parents’ house. I walked, thinking about the statement my teacher made. It haunted me not to know whether I’d been living in a facade or whether this was the reality that I just failed so hard to understand.

The third house from my family’s house was a huge white house with an automated gate and electric fence. It had a line of greens next to the driveway. In the driveway were three cars. The house had a huge glass door to the entrance of it. The other side was a pass way, along the beautiful lawn, to the swimming pool. Next to the pool was a brick-built braai stand.

The second house looked not that much different from our house. It was equally huge and had two cars on its driveway. The verandah had beautiful ‘Sunday afternoon lunch’ chairs and table that looked not that different from ours. Unlike our house, it had two garages.

The more I thought about it the more I realised how different this world might be to that my teacher referred to, the one that has its inhabitants wishing they could be on this side of the city.

So the day came when I went to see the other side of Cape Town. Trains were always filled with bodies. In these trains crime was high. The security was not up to scratch. At least, it’s not up to par with what I’m accustomed to in my home: electric fences, alarm systems, burglar-barred doors and windows.

The state of these trains made my blood boil. I just couldn’t understand how human beings travelled in such a state. I just couldn’t understand it, not until I got to know more about the other side of Cape Town. I’ve learned that there is black transport and white transport like there are black schools and white schools. Differences between the two couldn’t have been more obvious. The trains are old and as though they might break or stop working completely. Their schools are under-resourced, with little to no books to read. The classrooms are as old as the trains.

My attention was captured by the coloured guys who were selling ice on the train. Isn’t this illegal? I asked myself. It probably is but to these people it means survival. If there aren’t enough incentives to make ends meet, some people become creative about it – something that the “White Cape Town” never taught me.

I arrived on my first day at the school and the principal allowed me to work with his learners. As the days went by I got to learn more myself than I taught them. I got to learn how I had been lied to my entire life. I learned how oblivious and naive I’d been all my life to actually believe we were all one, when the conditions in this side of Cape Town were the direct opposite of what I grew up with.

At church, we were surrounded by all white people who enjoyed being in “White Cape Town” as much as we did if not more than we did.

We prayed to God with one eye open and the other closed – one eye open to our privileges and wealth not to lose our sight. And the same time with the other eye closed to the conditions that those in the other side of the city experienced.

I learned how my stay in “White Cape Town” was marked by constant denial of my blackness. I learned how hard I tried to be one of them in order to assimilate, how I imitated their accent for they wouldn’t accept me with mine. I had to learn their culture and made myself forget mine, and how I had to prove to the next white girl I dated that I’m less black than I was the last time.

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Tell us what you think: Do you think being rich can make you forget your skin colour?