The perils of Johannesburg’s Hillbrow
By: Munoda Mararike.
Posted: Friday, April 1, 2011 11:54 am
THEY were all running in mayhem. The whole street was blue from the fire engines beacons. Sirens were blowing in all directions and police spoke through the load speaker. "Move back, move back!" Gunshots were heard as rifles ricocheted in a din of trident blazes.
Ambulances strode over pavements as they forced their way through the advancing crowds. They claimed that it was suicide while others talked of arson and xenophobic attacks.
They said he had been pushed from 5th floor and died on the spot! Locals were not in trepidation, but I was.
So what does it mean to be in Hilbrow?
What does it mean to live on less than $1 a day?
To live where poverty translates to hunger lack of shelter, illness, lack of medical attention?
What harm does it cause when no one talks about calorie intake levels or a balanced diet for starving children who are part of the market stalls, who are part of the grime and squalor?
The malnourished are defined as socio-economic victims rendered to less productive life and more susceptible to disease than those in the neighbouring Sandton! Politicians say that the poor are more vulnerable to events which they cannot control.
The planners say that they are less able to diversify their income sources because of the nature of subsistence of their consumption. Social services say that the poor have no sources of income in the first place.
The police say that Hilbrow suffers from hunger, brutality, violence, debauchery and from ‘all the evils of this modern society’.
On the ground, social workers and ANC party activists narrate that children are at high risk of exploitation and are less likely to become educated.
The disparities and divergence are in sharp contrast with the gated communities of Houghton, Rosebank or Parktown!
I remember that back in Zimbabwe’s Mount Pleasant in the 90s, Shadreck Gutto termed such neighbourhoods ‘little prisons’ or ‘personal islands of ill-begotten wealth’!
Further down the street at the corner of Edith Cavell Street and Goldreich, girls as young at 8 or 9 years line up the street, masking behind gloss red lipsticks, powdered faces and pencilled eyebrows as they brandish keys and small purses in their hands!
The foothill of the nearby Constitution Hill is where ram shackled flats define parameters of Hillbrow’s red light district.
Further down in Clarendon Street there is a fight that has broken between this young pretty girl and a dreadlocked mother possibly in her early 20s.
The crowds have already started swelling as fists fly across while groups heave forward to join in at random.
A mother is visibly rabid as she lashes out uncontrollably, punching and knocking down every man within the vicinity.
Armed police reverse their spanking brand new X5 BMW to a position of safety as they look on as disinterested observers.
‘Hei madodha’, comes a thundering voice of a deep Zulu accent from one of the police officers. ‘We are sick and tired of this family, it is Lebo who has been caught red-handed again in bed with her mother’s boyfriend. I told them that it was a mistake to release her on parole.’
Up the road, in Queen Street, they are displaying their wares for sale. World-Cup artefacts, one or two discoloured vuvuzelas, Bafana Bafana souvenirs, copy-cat CDs of Pastor Charamba, John Chibadura, James Chimombe, Madzibaba, Simon Chimbetu, Steve Makoni and many more.
Lost in proverbial and short-lived interest, I casually rummage my eyes through their lot, catching the attention of rather excited vendors.
One of the boys leans towards an unkempt friend of Rastafarian outlook and whispers "Ah akarara stereki, Dread mubhagurireka iPhone iyo paside pocket yake apo!" I quipped back, "Manje yangu hauitore ndinokuita kanyama".
The guys laugh boisterously having realized that they have given their game away in a frenzy of dry irony.
That marks the beginning of a very long conversation with the boys as we talk about this rainbow nation of "hope and better prospects".
Paraphrased, the conversation went as follows: "Munoziva, time time Mugabe ari bho because he has changed the outlook of the Zimbabwean political economy forever. We Zimbabweans we don’t appreciate that (sic) ..."
"...people here (in South Africa) are trapped in poverty my brother, while white businesses are strengthening their grip onto their economy. Varungu kuno vakajaidzwa, hapana kwavari kuenda".
The deadly pun was strikingly coincidental and subjective. "... Apparently Mandela did nothing for his people who are suffering - apart from protecting white business interests. That is why even Tony Blair has visited Mandela in his Houghton Mansion which is situated just across that park that you see over there (pointing) my brother.
"But Bob avaonesa moto even if he goes, mweya iwoyo hauperi. ...Malema carries the hope of the revolution because igandanga! He is a student of Bob-politics – he is probably the only one in ANC who goes to Harare for the Mugabe classes – that is why he is now a hate figure in South Africa!"
I cautiously withhold my comments in abstract thinking and uncertainty as homeboys went on and on under the curious guise that ndiri mwana wekumusha kwaMukondomi, mubhuku ra Tivafire! The political affiliation of most South African Zimbabwean migrants is no secret!
Later that evening Malema, in his traditional red African shirt, was on the national TV over-labouring a point: "...we cannot sit back while those in power are abusing their positions to benefit their friends and individual families..."
I understood why Malema’s ‘chaos’ was a thorn in the flesh of the Democratic Party (DP) and the ANC.
In an insipid, depressing but mundane chat with one Nicoz Tafirenyika, a friend from the old UZ days that same evening; he was dramatically shocked at my feat, stupidity and bravery of walking across into the slaughter machine and perils of Hillbrow - his parting short ‘unofa Munoda!’
Up the pub on Sam Hancock Street, ANC party cadres were involved in untenable generalizations about the definition of ‘democracy’ and arguing about what constitutes ‘development’.
Animated discussions centred on abstract terms that intoxicated and polluted reality as they drowned in and downed their local Zamalec. ‘Hillbrow is trapped in a vicious circle of poverty and something has got to be done’.
These stereotypical views fused into statements of purpose like ‘something can be done’ – as they collectively agreed. They did not say ‘something should be done’ neither did they agree on what has to be done!
As those blue lights faded into autumn darkness and sirens died of unnatural causes behind me, I learned of one thing: That I should never assume that ‘street people’ as they are called here, know of nothing or don’t know what has got to be done to liberate themselves.
They are aware of the protracted situation they are in. They capture historical knowledge about their struggle from the distant years of Albert Luthuli, to the exploitative nature of Western Deep Level and Kimberly Mines; to the ‘MacDonalization’ of their society at the expense of their sources of income – tuck shops and market stalls.
They accurately read the curved, curled and quivering lips of every politician and councillor because – once again, this is local government election time in South Africa!
*Munoda Mararike writes from University of Witwatersrand in South Africa.
No comments:
Post a Comment