Avocados, Kindness, and the Power of Presence

When I was 19, I was living in Pretoria North, sharing a house with a mix of colleagues and trainees, all working together under the same roof. It was chaotic, energising, and full of lessons about life, business, and people. I was a sales trainer by day, but more importantly, I was a student of human behaviour 24/7. There was no shortage of personalities to study, and I’d soon learned that Pretoria was a city of stark contrasts, with a social atmosphere that felt tense in ways I couldn’t fully comprehend. As a young guy with an idealistic view of the world, I didn’t yet understand the weight of those tensions. But what I did understand was that I could control how I showed up.

Behind our house stood a massive avocado tree. When I say massive, I mean it belonged in a documentary on giant plants. The trunk was so thick that even my 6'4" frame couldn’t wrap my arms halfway around it. Its canopy reached towards the sky like a green umbrella, and that year, it bore fruit like the tree was giving back to the earth tenfold. There were avocados everywhere— waiting to be plucked.

One day, I decided to harvest a few. A few, of course, quickly turned into two full boxes—the ones that take up to 24 cartons of cigarettes, and both packed to the brim with ripe fruit. When I finished, the tree looked untouched. We had more than enough avocados to feed our entire household and then some.

The next morning, just after sunrise, I slipped outside for some fresh air. The yard was still, almost eerily quiet, with the crispness of early morning hanging in the air. As I walked towards the tree, I saw her. A woman, standing beneath it, her hands reaching up to gather the fruit. She was focused, her movements deliberate but laced with a tension that told a different story. There was purpose in her actions, but also an undercurrent of unease, like she was prepared for something to go wrong.

And then it happened. Our eyes met.

Her body went rigid, her shoulders stiffened, and a flash of fear flickered across her face. I could feel it—her anxiety hit me like a slap in the face. She was bracing herself for a confrontation. The kind that would come from someone who felt entitled to the tree, entitled to stop her.

But that wasn’t me, and will never be me.

Instead of reacting with anger or frustration, I did something simple: I smiled. It wasn’t a forced smile; it was one that reflected the empathy I felt in that moment. A smile that said, “I see you. I understand. And I’m not here to make things harder for you.”

Her gaze softened, and the rigidness in her posture began to melt away, replaced by the faintest glimmer of relief. She hesitated for a moment, unsure whether to trust my intentions. But when I spoke, my voice was calm and kind.

“Good morning.”

She responded in Setswana, her voice tentative, “Dumelang.”

I asked her why she was picking the avocados. She told me, in the most matter-of-fact way, that she sold the fruit on the streets to support her children. These avocados would help her make enough money to feed her family.

Her words hit me hard—this wasn’t about greed, or even convenience. It was survival. Every avocado she picked had a purpose, and every fruit she collected represented a chance to make it through another day.

I found myself smiling again, this time with a sense of awe. I told her, warmly, that it was absolutely fine. The tree wasn’t just ours—it was far too abundant for any one household to claim. Her relief was immediate. Her entire demeanour shifted in that instant. The fear, the guardedness, the tension—gone. She looked at me like she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Her face softened, and in that moment, we shared something unspoken. She looked at me like I was giving her the world, when in truth, I was just giving her a few avocados.

And then, as we talked, she told me her name.

“Witness,” she said.

The name landed with a quiet weight. Witness. It was fitting, somehow. She bore witness to life’s struggles and persisted anyway. She was a witness to the small kindnesses that could still exist between people, even when walls seemed so high.

If someone else had found her under that tree that morning, the story might have ended differently. But I’m grateful it was me. Because, in that brief, unexpected meeting, Witness reminded me of something that day: kindness costs nothing, but it means everything. Her determination to provide for her family wasn’t something to scold—it was something to admire. It was a lesson I’d never forget: that sometimes, the most powerful thing we can do is be the one to defuse the tension, to offer something that feels like a lifeline to someone who’s just trying to get by.

Lessons from the Tree

1. What’s abundant is meant to be shared: That tree could’ve fed an entire neighbourhood without ever looking picked. It emphasised to me that when you’re surrounded by abundance, you don’t need to hoard—it’s far more rewarding to share.
2. Lead with compassion: The woman expected conflict, but she was met with kindness. Compassion can soften even the hardest situations, making space for connection where there might have been tension.
3. Not everything needs to be “enforced”: We live in a world where it’s easy to fall into the trap of authority—defending rules just because they’re there. But some rules don’t matter as much as the people affected by them.
4. Small actions can have big ripples: A smile, a conversation, a single moment of understanding—that’s all it took to change the tone of the day. We often underestimate the power of those small, human acts.
5. You can’t fix the world, but you can influence your part of it: I couldn’t change Pretoria’s strained dynamics, but in that moment, I could embody the world I wanted to live in. That’s where change starts—with us.