You embark on what you believe to be a life-altering experience in the Orient, untainted by hallucinogens or any other mind-altering substances. Landing on the hot humid shores, you find the climes to be nothing less than frosty from the natives. Eventually you get used to people moving away when you sit next to them on the trains, unsure whether itâ€™s because you are fat. Or black. As one South African eloquently phrased it – â€˜Our blacks smell differentâ€™.
Looking around you realise the term â€˜tokenâ€™ has never been more apt. Darkies are hardly a dime a dozen this far east, even the Nigerians have failed to penetrate the market in their rapidly-spreading-fungus kind of way.
When eventually you do meet fellow people of colour, your heart bounds with unbridled joy, a certain kindred flame kindled. But accompanied with any hints of intimacy comes the disturbing realisation that colour, like the world, is not enough.
An odd hollowness rings around this bizarre coupling of people who have nothing more in common than the levels of melanin in their skin. This has you doubting the entire value system that you have been operating on for the last 20 odd years.
If this is wrong, what other misguided conceptions and fatal fallacies have you been operating on?