We recently came across this heartfelt and brilliantly relatable piece on Facebook and knew it deserved to be shared with more South Africans. With the writer’s kind permission, we’re republishing it here.
Through humour, honesty and plenty of unmistakably South African expressions, it captures the reality of building a new life in Ireland, from battling the weather and navigating unfamiliar systems to missing home, finding community and eventually discovering that somewhere new can also begin to feel like home.
If you’re living abroad, planning a move or simply wondering what the experience is really like, we think you’ll enjoy this refreshingly honest read.
My little experience. Hope you enjoy the read…
Dear South African, Welcome to Ireland
They’ll tell you,
“Ag, Ireland is beautiful.”
Rolling green hills,
friendly people,
a better life.
What they don’t tell you…
Is that green comes with grey.
Not just a little grey.
I’m talking fifty-seven shades of “Ag no man…”
You’ll start celebrating blue skies
like you’ve won the Lotto.
Until someone says…
“Jis, it’s freezing today.”
You look outside.
“Freezing? But the sun’s out!”
Then you step outside.
That wind doesn’t blow.
It bliksems you.
Cuts through your jacket, your jersey, your soul…
and suddenly you understand why Irish people keep saying, “It’s a grand day.”
Because if the rain stopped for twenty minutes,
that’s basically summer.
Back home, buying meat for a braai?
Easy.
Here?
You walk into Tesco looking for flatties, thick-cut chops, sosaties, braai wors…
Instead you’re standing there asking,
“Where’s… the rest of the cow?”
One little tray of something called “diced beef.”
No, my bru…
You wanted to feed twelve people.
Not make stew for two.
The first winter?
Shoo…
Nobody prepares you.
You haven’t figured out the heating.
You’re sitting in the lounge with two blankets, three hoodies, and an attitude.
Watching YouTube:
“How to turn on Irish radiators.”
Then comes the car.
You proudly buy one off Facebook Marketplace.
You feel like you’ve made it.
Until somebody casually asks,
“When’s your NCT?”
Your what?
Now you’re Googling at two in the morning, convinced they’ll confiscate your car, your firstborn, and your dignity.
Then…
Blue lights behind you.
Garda.
You nearly confess to crimes you haven’t committed.
Turns out…
You didn’t know insurance wasn’t optional.
Now?
Every Garda car you pass…
You sit up straight.
Hands at ten and two.
Radio off.
Volume down.
You suddenly become the safest driver in Europe.
School starts.
You’re expecting school fees that’ll make you cry.
Then they ask for…
Fifty euro.
For the whole year.
“Admin fee.”
Insurance.
Excursions.
Odds and ends.
Fifty.
Euro.
You’re standing there thinking,
“Nee man… where’s the rest of the invoice?”
Back home we’d pay that before first break.
Here?
School is basically free.
Then your laaitie brings home average marks.
Normally you’d stress.
Then you remember…
“Ag shame… he’ll probably earn more than I did after varsity anyway.”
Because somehow…
The oke stacking shelves at Lidl gets promoted every year, and before long you’re wondering why half the country bothered with university.
Then comes petrol.
Nobody fills it for you.
You’re standing there…
Looking around.
“Must I… do it?”
Then the machine lets you pump first.
You panic.
“Wait… they TRUST me?”
In South Africa we’d have had three attendants, a windshield wash, and someone checking your oil before you’d even found your wallet.
Your first trip to Aldi.
The cashier scans at Mach 7.
You’re still unpacking frozen peas while your groceries are already halfway to Cork.
You start sweating.
Throwing random tins into bags.
People behind you waiting.
Your dignity left somewhere between aisle four and the frozen pizzas.
Then…
You see butter for €1.29.
Chicken on special.
Bread cheaper than bottled water.
You stare at the shelf wondering if you’ve converted the price wrong
“Surely not…”
And somewhere in all of that…
The loneliness sneaks in.
Because everyone you love is twelve thousand kilometres away.
Birthdays happen.
Braais happen.
Jan’s wedding.
Your cousin’s baby.
You miss it all.
You start wondering if moving here was the biggest mistake you’ve ever made.
Then…
Some Aunty back homes friend’s child’s cousin’s neighbour that also lives in Ireland reaches out and says,
“We’re having a braai Saturday. Come along.”
You don’t know a single person there.
By the end of the day…
You’ve got six WhatsApp groups, three new aunties, someone sending you biltong from home, and enough laughter to keep your heart full for another month.
Winter comes again.
Someone warns you about black ice.
You laugh.
“Ice is ice.”
No.
Black ice is invisible.
One second you’re driving.
The next…
Your car is auditioning for Tokyo Drift towards a ditch.
You survive.
Barely.
Now every frosty morning you drive like your grandmother’s balancing soup on the dashboard.
The showers?
Electric.
The immersion?
A national debate.
The bins?
Need a PhD.
The weather app?
A professional liar.
Ireland will frustrate you.
She’ll freeze you.
Confuse you.
Humble you.
She’ll make you miss South Africa with every fibre of your being.
But…
She’ll also teach your children in good schools without bankrupting you.
She’ll give you safety you stop noticing.
Neighbours who wave.
Roads that lead somewhere beautiful.
Work that can build a life.
A place where strangers become family.
And one day…
Without even realising it…
You’ll complain about the weather, drink tea while looking out at the rain,
say,
“Ah sure, it’ll be grand,”
and smile…
Because somewhere between the grey skies, the Garda stops, the self-service petrol pumps, the Aldi checkout Olympics, and those unexpected braais…
Ireland quietly became home.
So bite it out, boet.
The first year is survival.
The second is understanding.
The third…
You catch yourself defending Ireland to people back home.
And that’s when you know…
She’s got you.
And, truth be told…
She’s worth every single grey sky.