Once upon a time, the world moved at a gentler pace. Or perhaps we simply moved through it differently. I remember those dusty township streets, where we wandered barefoot with reckless abandon, unaware of danger, oblivious to status, unshackled by expectation. The days stretched longer then, filled with small wonders and unspoken joys. We stole peaches and guavas from the old woman’s garden not out of malice, but as a rite of passage. The thrill was not in the fruit but in the chase, in the laughter that followed when someone nearly got caught. We did not own much, yet we carried the world in our eyes.

Hear me out, I am not glorifying the past. I know well that behind those carefree afternoons were families battling demons we could not name, struggling to put food on the table or keep the roof from caving in. Life in the township came with its fair share of grief and grinding hardship. But side by side with the hardship existed a rawness, a simplicity, and above all, a sense of shared humanity.

These memories return to me now, uninvited but welcome, like relatives who drop by without phoning ahead. I find myself asking why that spirit of openness has become so scarce. Somewhere along the line, we started fortifying everything our houses, our time and crucially our hearts. Security gates replaced hedges. Burglar bars framed every window. Conversations became guarded. Smiles became rationed.

It would be easy to blame crime, or politics, or the economy. Perhaps all of them play a part. But I sense something deeper. Perhaps what we built to keep danger out has also kept something sacred in. Maybe the fences we erected to protect ourselves from harm also protect us from intimacy, from the discomfort of being truly known.

I am not one to offer a definitive explanation. Human beings are far too complex for neat conclusions. But what I can do is look inward. I can ask myself hard questions, not for the sake of nostalgia, but in pursuit of something meaningful. Why did we feel safe then, even without locks on every door? Why did joy seem easier, even without entertainment systems or Wi-Fi? Why did connection come naturally, even among people who had very little?

I remember how neighbours used to gather under the shade of a tree or at the edge of someone’s veranda to talk about nothing and everything. Gossip flowed freely, yes, but so did advice, comfort, and borrowed sugar. The children played until dusk without supervision. You knew that someone, anyone, would shout if something went wrong. We belonged to each other in ways we did not question.

Now we live more neatly, perhaps more efficiently, but also more separately. We plan our lives with calendars and task lists, ticking off interactions like chores. Eye contact is rarer. Genuine pauses in conversation, those moments of silence where understanding lingers, are almost extinct. We scroll instead of speak, and when we do speak, we often hold back the most vulnerable parts.

Of course, the world has changed. And some of those changes have brought undeniable good. More people now have running water, electricity, and education. Children dream bigger. Women walk taller. Opportunities exist that were once the stuff of fantasy. But in gaining much, have we lost something too?

There is a kind of emotional austerity that has crept into modern life. We speak often of self-care, yet we seldom extend that care outward. We speak of healing, yet so few are willing to sit long enough with their own wounds, let alone those of others. We praise independence, yet silently yearn to be held.

I find myself thinking about the language of walls. The walls around our homes serve a clear purpose, but what about the emotional ones? The ones built from disappointment, betrayal and unmet expectations. Each hurt adds a brick, each silence adds cement. And before we know it, we have fashioned our own isolation.

Sometimes, those walls appear in places we least expect.

Sometime ago, I did something small and thoughtful or so I thought, something I believed would be received with warmth. It was not extravagant or imposing. It came from an organic place, shaped by conversations shared, laughter exchanged, and silences that spoke louder than words. There had been no explicit request, no formal expectation. I simply acted from a place of sincerity, assuming, perhaps too comfortably, that we were close. That our relationship had reached a depth where gestures no longer required permission, only intention.

But I was mistaken.

What I saw as a gentle overture was interpreted as intrusion. What I thought reflected growing closeness was perceived as disturbance. That experience has stayed with me, not out of shame, but because it revealed just how fragile human interaction can be. How even pure intentions can be misunderstood. How quickly connection can collapse under the weight of assumption.

There is a certain heartbreak in being misread. Not the sharp sting of betrayal, nor the dull ache of absence, but something quieter. A confusion. A questioning. Did I overstep? Did I romanticise the bond? Was I too eager to believe in mutual sentiment?

In a world that rewards guardedness, acts of tenderness are easily misjudged. We are told to wait, to be certain, to ask before offering. But some of us still believe in unscripted care. We still believe in acting from feeling. That was me then, hopeful, open, and perhaps a little naïve.

I do not regret what I did. What I offered came from a true place. But I now understand that kindness, too, needs context. Not everyone sees gestures through the same lens. Sometimes, what you intend as a bridge may be received as a breach.

So I have learnt not every connection unfolds in the same way. Some remain brief, others grow slowly, and a few become enduring. But value is not tied to longevity or intensity. A passing exchange can carry surprising weight, and even so-called surface-level bonds can offer daily comfort, joy, and understanding. Rather than ranking our relationships, it serves us better to remain open to each for what it offers. The wisdom is not in predicting the course of a connection, but in embracing its presence while it lasts, and letting its end, if it comes, shape us without hardening us.

Most importantly, I learnt that misunderstanding does not undo the integrity of an act. Even when kindness is rejected, it remains a quiet courage. In a hardened world, to care without a guarantee is still something beautiful.

I say this not as theory, but as someone whose life has been held together by the unexpected tenderness of people who owed me nothing. My adoptive parents in Botswana offered me a home not once, but again and again across borders, across seasons, and across the unspoken ache of separation. And what humbles me most is not just the hospitality, but the cost behind it. My adoptive mother, advanced in age and walking through the shadows of her own declining health, moved heaven and earth to prepare a room for me. She had every reason to rest, every excuse to say “not this time”, yet she chose love instead. Quietly, without fanfare, she rearranged her life to make space for mine.

It is difficult to explain what that does to someone. In a world that often demands performance before acceptance, this kind of love freely given, undeserved, and unwavering undoes you. It strips away the armour. It teaches you to receive without apology. It leaves you breathless with the realisation that you matter, not because of what you do, but simply because you exist.

I wish to carry her kindness like a second skin. And more than anything, I want to live in a world where that kind of love is not the exception, but the rhythm of our lives. A world where doors remain open, not just physically, but emotionally. Where the unfamiliar is not feared, but welcomed. Where we do not measure connection by blood or obligation, but by how willing we are to let someone in.

Perhaps this is what the township spirit once taught us that closeness does not demand perfection, only presence. That community is not built by agreement, but by attention. That humanity thrives where vulnerability is met with care, not suspicion.

I do not wish to live in the past. But I do wish to carry the best of it into the present. To live in a world where a cup of sugar or a bowl of mealie meal is still shared, where affection is given freely, and where people are more curious than cautious with each other. Where we still know how to belong, not just to a place, but to each other.

We must not only guard our homes, we must tend to our hearts. We must remember that trust is not naïve, kindness is not weakness, and vulnerability is not a liability. We must choose connection, again and again, even when the world urges us to retreat.

So yes, once upon a time the world felt simpler. Not easier, not better in every way, but more human. And maybe, just maybe, that humanity is something we can reclaim, not by returning to the past, but by learning where to let the light in.