NIVASHNI NAIR

If you’re from Pietermaritzburg, the Royal Show is a highlight on your social calendar.

I have fond memories of attending almost every year — childhood memories of sticky toffee apples and funfair rides. And then teenage memories of attending the capital city’s most anticipated event without parental supervision.

Even as an adult who now lives in Durban, I still look forward to attending the Royal Show every year.

However, one memory haunts me. I just cannot shake it off.

I was seven years old.

My parents had saved for months to take my two siblings and me to the Royal Show. It was a luxury for a single-income home.

We were sitting in the segregated main area when my ball rolled into the 'Whites Only' section.

I desperately wanted a ball.

When my parents told me they would buy me a ball at the Royal Show, I counted down the days until we would attend.

I finally got my ball. Boy, was I excited. It was pink with shimmery silver lines on it.

We were sitting in the segregated main area when my ball rolled into the “Whites Only” section.

We couldn’t ask for it to be returned. I couldn’t understand why.

Why was my father, who I at seven years old believed was the strongest man in the world, not asking for my ball back?

Why was he so afraid of the security guards who stood between the segregated areas?

Why was my mother so nervous? Why did she want us to leave quietly?

But I didn’t want to go. I wanted my ball.

But all I could do was watch a group of children, who had now said my ball was their own, play with it in the “Whites Only” section while I sobbed.

I cried until there were no more tears. I didn’t even want to go on the rides in the funfair.

I simply wept.

I now know why my father was afraid, why my mother was nervous and why no one batted an eyelid when my ball was not returned to me.

I am now in my forties but the pain of that day is still raw.

I now know why my father was afraid, why my mother was nervous and why no one batted an eyelid when my ball was not returned to me.

I lost just a ball but imagine how those who lost parents, siblings, children and loved ones during apartheid might feel when they see displays of the old SA flag.

Trauma is real and, unless you experienced the hardships, pain and suffering of apartheid, you can’t argue to keep symbols of it.

Even in our democracy as we enjoy freedom, we continue to carry that pain, so when I read that some want to wave symbols of the most painful time in our lives, I can’t help but feel like that seven-year-old girl — lost, angry, confused and heartbroken.