A courageous Malawian woman making big life changes to ensure her own happiness, she first left her country of birth to attain financial freedom and then her husband, who tried to rape his stepdaughter. A mother, friend, mentor and sister, she lives in Orange Grove and works in a fruit and vegetable store on Louis Botha Avenue.
LEFT: Mtsunge Katola, a single mother, tightly embracing her daughter outside of her fruit and vegetable store on Louis Botha Avenue on a sunny day. Photo: Jabulile Mbatha.
UPON entering a store selling luscious fruits and vegetables on a sunny weekday, I find a young- looking woman engaged in telling a story to a man leaning close to her, with both his hands clasped tightly on his lap. From the deep stare in his eyes, I am curious to find out what this tale entails. The petite woman with brown, fuzzy hair puts her story on hold and welcomes me with a warm smile, kindly asking what assistance she can provide. I am pleased with the service, retrospectively comparing it with a recent misfortune of a cashier who scanned my products without even looking at me once, refusing to end the conversation I found her having with the cashier opposite us.
The woman, with the body and height of a 20-year-old, takes me through the different price ranges of her mouth-watering products, and instead of the weather small talk we get straight into the hardships of working and living on Louis Botha Avenue. Just like that, I was let in on the life of a single mother, abandoned by her spouse, who migrated for survival.
The planting of the seed
Mtsunge Katola is a Malawian mother who works at a fruit and vegetable store on the west side of Louis Botha Avenue and 7th street. She lives only two streets away from where she works to make a living. There are numerous walk-ins on an hourly basis on the right hand side of her store, where *Salem Kuran, a Pakistani man, owns a supermarket, allowing more people to pass by the fruit and vegetables on display outside her own store.
On the left hand side, a pot-bellied, one eyed Malawian man sells home appliances. A stray black-and-white cat keeps him company through the day as hardly any customers come into the store. Always found outside, he stares and smiles, rocking backwards and forward, and just when I think he will finally utter a word when I look back at him, he shyly walks into his store, only to come out a few minutes later to continue watching us.
Somewhere in the suburbs of Johannesburg lies one of the longest streets joining opposite ends of the city, with a century-long history. We find Louis Botha Avenue, a road that could be north of Pretoria and south of Bloemfontein.
(Left to right) Mtsunge Katola, Alex Khado and Garry Manaka, the entrepreneurs of Louis Botha Avenue hanging outside Katola’s store on a sunny day waiting for customers to help them make a living for themselves. Photo: Jabulile Mbatha
The Groove of Louis Botha Avenue
With a plethora of churches, businesses and eateries, Louis Botha in Orange Grove, Johannesburg, is a place where work and home can easily co-exist. With some describing it as “little Africa”, many have migrated to make a living for themselves.
John Smith, one of the many regular day drinkers is picking up a fresh pineapple with a beer on his left hand from the fruits on display outside Mtsunge Katola’s affordable fruit and vegetable store on Louis Botha Avenue. Photo: Jabulile Mbatha.
This is the same for David Leckison, a 27-year-old man who works at another fruit and vegetable store on Louis Botha Avenue and 6th Street. Almost always found just outside his store, with his pants sagging as he stands, an automatic bounce accompanies his walk. He looks left and right before entering, as if talking outdoors is taboo.
The Malawian-born man relocated to South Africa in 2015 to seek employment and better his family situation. Leckison is the second of three children of Joseph Leckison and Jennifer Izeck, who are back in Malawi surviving on the money sent by their children. “When we first moved to South Africa my brothers and I stayed in Pretoria CBD, but because John and I were not making money we had to move to a place where we could make money”, says Leckison as he refers to Louis Botha Avenue.
Mtsunge Katola is a fruit and vegetable store owner on Louis Botha Avenue who has found a home away from home. She takes us through a journey of her life in Orange Grove and her workplace in Louis Botha Avenue. Video: Jabulile Mbatha
Handshakes and a half embrace take place between Leckison and a tall man, who I hear say, “I really look forward to working with you, my man.” As I find the conversation ending, Leckison folds his arms, revealing a faded tattoo and simultaneously putting his chin up, eyeing me and standing with his legs far apart from each other as he says “Mhh” as a way of greeting back, as he always does.
The friend is known as Dexter Ndlovu , a resident of Orange Grove who shops regularly on Louis Botha Avenue. His relationship with Leckison began on credit. “I regard David as my own brother,” says Ndlovu. “When I did not have enough money, he would allow me to take things on credit; he never expected the money to be paid back. I knew he had a good heart.”
LEFT: (Left to right) Mtsunge Katola allows the guys (Alex Khado and Garry Manaka) to drink and operate their business outside of her fruit and vegetable store on Louis Botha Avenue as it brings in more customers for her. Photo Jabulile Mbatha
Orange Grove is an economic hub with a multiplicity of activities within what is a residential area. Although it experienced a decline in development in the late 1900s, people still find a way to make it work. There is a vast variety of nationalities, races, religions and incomes in the area. It shows even in the infrastructure, from the exclusively Ethiopian churches to the Christian schools, to the Italian eatery and through to the newly developed apartments opposite ancient, shabby ones. The streets are loud with chatter from residents walking from place to place, and from the engines of BMWs and Porsche Cayennes.
A culture of getting sloshed
One late evening in Louis Botha, streets are filled with passers-by rushing back home and many hand signs are flashed in the air by those waiting for almost broken-down taxis to take them back home. A number of uniformed old women slowly drag their feet to wherever home is, walking in silence, too tired to even speak to each other after a day of scrubbing the kitchen floors of their sir and madam.
The taverns fill up with sweaty men in safety boots and tattered PPE clothing wanting to grab one for the road, leaving behind those who have been there since the sun came up.
On a buzzing night just like any other, on the corner of Louis Botha Avenue and 7th Street, Stanley Maseko and Susan Mkhize are among numerous others drinking inpublic, with some still in uniform from their respective work places. The drenching smell of a brewery is detected from a mile away and one of the men sitting in a line shouts to me as I ask what the occasion is.
LEFT:The purchase of vegetables are essential to Mtsunge Katola because it means that she will have enough money to feed her children and take care of other financial needs. Photo: Jabulile Mbatha
“Hey sister, this is Louis Botha and we drink for a living!”
A severely scarred face approaches me with a smile of broken teeth and with deep, sad eyes. This resident of over 20 years shares that his late mother used to work at Hospice Wits and now that she is gone, he is left all alone. “I have made my fair share of mistakes in this lifetime and I do not want to blame it on being motherless, but I do think I wouldn’t have done some of the things I have done if I had a family.” In the crowd of public drinkers, Mkhize interjects, cursing Louis Botha Avenue for being rotten. “There are no jobs here,” she says. “What is the point of having family if we are going to live in poverty? I would rather be alone like you, Stanley.” She explains that Orange Grove hardly has running water, let alone electricity.
Mtsunge Katola is patiently waiting inside of her fruit and vegetable store for customers. She misses her children who are back home taking care of the house. Photo: Jabulile Mbatha
I discover that the electricity crisis is true after several visits to Katola’s store, which becomes as dark as the night when the sun has set. Katola is almost never alone in her store. A man who seems to be fixing wires in the back peeps out to see who has come in as she stands to hug and welcome me. She apologises because her little shop is lit with a single candle, and asks that we sit close to the door so we can use the street light to see each other clearly.
The man, who is constantly emerging from the back of the store, is *Thulani Khumalo. “I have stayed with ‘Mama wa Ishmael’ for years now. I am always in the store because I live in the back, guarding her store during the night. I do this because she saved my life. I can say God blessed me with another mother,” Khumalo says. Many refer to Katola as the mother of her children’s names, as a way of showing respect. She earned this respect by giving Khumalo a chance from a life of homelessness and drug use, by distracting him with maintenance work at the store and the task of guarding it at night.
With the sun setting much later in the evening, and the warm air putting people into shorts and sleeveless shirts, the fruit and vegetable business does better since the season has changed.
LEFT: *Portia Smith embraces Mtsunge Katola with a big smile on her face after Katola agrees to help her with applications for schooling so she can better her future. Photo: Jabulile Mbatha
Although there are a number of fruit and vegetable stores along Louis Botha Avenue, each one caters to a different part of the city, from Orange Grove to Alexandra. Louis Botha Avenue has the potential to generate economic growth as it did in the past; the city of Johannesburg is working on developmental programmes such as the Transit- Oriented Development Programme to alleviate inequalities in this high-density area.
Captured by the storytelling, assisted by continuous hand movements, a mother and her son pick up and analyse the vegetables, almost as if lifting weights. They bring our conversation to a halt. Katola Mtsunge stands up with her warm smile, saying, “How can I help you mama?” It may be this hospitality that makes her more than just a woman selling veggies. When the woman cannot find the last of her needs, she is referred to one of the other stores across the road. Like a mind reader, Katola takes one look at me and answers, “We help each other out. When I don’t have something in store, I refer my customers to someone else who might have it, because after all we are all trying to make a living.”
With the notion that life is better in South Africa, Katola left a country with an unemployment rate of 5.40% for a struggling South Africa with a high jobless rate of 29% to date. “The education in Malawi is good, I must admit, but after I completed high school I struggled to find employment so I moved up here in 2008.”
Xenophobia is defined as “fear or hatred of foreigners or strangers; it is embodied in discriminatory attitudes and behaviour and often culminates in violence, abuses of all types and exhibitions of hate”.
Having lived in Pretoria at first as a domestic worker earning only R800 a month, a place rife with xenophobic attacks, she moved to Louis Botha Avenue feeling underpaid and afraid for her own life. With a breaking voice, Katola says, “I watched my friend being burned to death in Pretoria, knowing there was nothing I could do to help her because I am a foreign national too. The only solution was to move.”
FEATURED IMAGE: A woman selling at an informal stall. Photo: Supplied
I WAS ONLY 16 years old when I was admitted to hospital because I was not coping with life. Two days later the doctor told me, “You have clinical depression.” I didn’t know what that meant but now, years later, I have learned a lot about my mental illness.
The diagnosis came after I lost my father, uncle and best friend within a year of each other.
I have been on prescription medication for more than a decade. I often feel like I’m losing my mind but I can’t always tell what the source of the feeling is. It’s hard to narrow it down and I never really know whether I’m just overreacting.
The thing is as a man, I have been raised and socialised to be strong and to never show emotions. For years I stopped telling people because they would either laugh at me or tell me to “stop stressing” and “just take things easy”. I would take things easy if only I knew how to. I’m getting better at asking for help and expressing my feelings. It is not always easy because sometimes I don’t know what it is that I need.
I often feel as though there are walls closing in on me from all sides. Those who know me will tell you that I laugh as if everything is fine. I engage in conversations. In other words, I seem perfectly ‘normal’. At any given time, even around people, I feel as far from company as any human being can be. It is on the shores of this lonely island of my own thoughts when I am most vulnerable, which, for me, is most of the time.
An hour before I originally wrote this piece, I was feeling great. I was in good spirits, having just gotten home from having breakfast with my partner. All of the sudden I felt wiped out. I gravitated towards my bed and began to tweet through the feelings because sometimes, that’s all I can master the energy or will to do.
Even after reading this, I know what I will hear: “May God help you”, “you are not alone” and other well-meaning words. I don’t know about God, but I know about strangers who have been kind to me. I know about my mother who prays for me. I know about my sister who would do anything for me. I know about my few friends who indulge my peculiarities. The thing is, I will still feel this way.
My studies have been my coping mechanism for the past couple of months. I also have a very beautiful dog that keeps me busy and makes me appreciate the little things in life.
We need to talk more openly, honestly, and more frequently about mental health. I know it’s not just me because whenever I write or tweet about it people share their stories and support me.
If you are going through what I am going through, seek help. We have organisations such as the South African Depression and Anxiety Group (Sadag) who will walk this journey with you and help you cope. I am following my own advice as I have just made an appointment with Sadag to get counselling and, hopefully, after a decade, I will get to rely less on medication.
In-depth 2019: Louis Botha Louis Botha Avenue’s ‘Little Italy’: What is left of la dolce vita? By: Gemma Gatticchi Amid Louis Botha Avenue’s shift in demographics, a few businesses stand out as relics of the former Italian migrant community that made the area home....
Although South Africa is a food-secure nation, food insecurity plagues townships such as Alexandra. The lack of access to affordable nutritious goods has stunted many low-income households.
In South Africa, stigma and discrimination have mostly been associated with persons living with HIVandtuberculosis, but intheMangolongolo community, Johannesburg, theyare now also causing fear and panic amongcoronavirus survivors.
The unpaved road is riddled with many bumps, like that of an abandoned village. Coming from the R29 Main Reef Road, the narrow lane takes you to the shacks from your right. Itis 3pm and the heat is unbearable. Crowds of people huddle close to each other in small circles, while loudmaskandimusic conceals the sound of the community.
Situated on the outskirts of Johannesburg, Mangolongolo is inhabited by approximately 3000 people.
This community is blighted by lots of challenges, not least among them a range of health issues. The situation is complicated by a rising problem ofdenialism,along with stigma and discriminationwhich have taken hold during thecovid-19 pandemic. In February 2020 the World Health Organisation (WHO) declared thatfear of the pandemic had resulted in stigma and discrimination for those who recovered from the virus. TheUnited Nations (UN)echoed this,noting that stigma and discrimination,exacerbated by covid-19, are major concerns.
The virus man in a small community
For communities such asMangolongolo, however, stigma and discrimination against covid-19 survivors aremade worse by the lack of knowledge and entrenched cultural beliefs. “I will never get the virus and I don’t think I will ever get tested for it. The less I think about coronavirus, the better,” said Blessing Nqiwa (25), a resident ofMangolongolo.
Locals saythere is only one man believed to have had coronavirus in the entire community. They refer to him as ‘Mister Covid’.
“I will call for you the only person I know who was taken by the covid-19 response team,” says a woman in her 60s who sells fatcakes at the main entrance to the community. I can’t help but notice the looks of concern and consciousness from people around. I am shocked to discover that not one of the people who haveformed a ring around me is wearing a facemask.
I am the only one with a mask on. It feelsas if I am an alien on a different planet. I feel I must take the mask off to get a sense of relief.
The streets look busy, with vendors hawking cigarettes, cow heads and other food items. The drains are stocked with garbage. It does not take me long to learn that wearing a facemask is considered strange in this community, even in the thick of the coronavirus. This heightened sense of denialism fuels the disturbing degree of stigma and discrimination.
For one man (Mister Covid), this is particularly concerning. Even though he was taken to a treatment centre to be tested for covid-19, Victor Shezi*(37)tested negative. Shezi’s journey back home was, however, shockingly met with consternation by the people of his community. Afraid of contracting the virus, people shunned him. After he spent a week in the hospital, his community became worried because they thought he might have contracted the virus and could be a potential carrier.
Amid coronavirus pandemic, the world is also dealing with the social stigma of covid-19 survivors during this time. However, the WHO advises people to take effective action to help combat the disease and to avoid fuelling fear and stigma. Photo: Zikhona Klaas.
“I was surprised when I heard that people said I had covid-19,” Shezi says, quirking his eyebrows. “I never thought I’d be considered a threat to the people I live with every day.”But the stigma and discrimination only raised Shezi’s confidence and his awareness about the pandemic.
When he finally comes to meet with me outside the main entrance, I am amazed at his sense of consciousness. While my hand is readied for a handshake on his arrival, it is rejected with an elbow greeting. I feel embarrassed for a moment, but I am impressed by his level ofawareness. He wearsa black BMW customized facemask.Unlike other people, Shezilooks very confident and well informed about safety measures.
“Some people have a problem that I wear a mask and don’t allow anyone to come close to my spaza shop window without a mask,” he says.“I am labelled for this and even called names,but I am unmoved by these names because I know all about the risks of coronavirus, and how to protect myself.”
Shezi got sick in August, during level two of the national coronavirus lockdown. He had a high fever, sore throat and difficulty breathing. He spent a week at the local Johannesburgpublic hospital, Charlotte Maxeke, and was discharged after testing negative. He says even children young enough to be his kids call him names every time they pass by his shop.
He invites me to his home and shows me around his house. It hasa long brown board that divides his spaza shop from his bedroom, which isvery noticeable from the door.The spaza window is so small, only a hand could fit through it. Just outside his house, two women and a man siton a brown bench, sunbathing. I join them.
“I heard that people who have the virus are not supposed to come back to the community because they can be a danger to us,” says Smangele Ntuli (35).“I didn’t want Mister Covid(Shezi)anywhere close to me. Iam already dealing with my own disease. I couldn’t afford to get sick again.”
Shezi could not be saved from the stigma and discrimination even in a public gathering like the one we are having.
“We don’t know who came up with that name,” gigglesWelile Shabangu, a neighbour, whois amused by the question. “It’s probably people from the main entrance: they know everything that happens in this community.
“I panicked for a while when he went to the hospital, but I doubted he had the virus,” he says.
Disease labelling deepened in South Africa
Asurveyby the National Institute of Health says about “20% of people experienced anxiety, fear and thinking too much” as a result of the coronavirus outbreak.
This ties into 2019 researchby BioMed Central, which found that stigma enables varieties of discrimination that ultimately deny people full social acceptance, reduce their opportunities and fuel social inequalities. The research further notes that stigma could reinforce stereotypesofpeople with various health conditions.
Throughout the pandemic, there have been concerns that people with underlying medical conditions are at heightened risk of fatality. This fear is compounded by pre–existing challenges, with reports of increased levels of stigma and discrimination suffered by people living with HIV in countries such as South Africa.
A civil organisation, the African Centre for the Constructive Resolution of Disputes (ACCORD) identifies South Africa as one of the countries with the highest prejudice and discrimination against covid-19 patients. In other parts of the continent, such as Kenya and Ethiopia, stigmatisation has been in relatively verbal and physical form, saysACCORD.
A line of people standing outside the Malvern clinic entrance without masks. Most of the residents in this region, including Mangolongolo community go to this local clinic for WI-FI connection and not for covid related inquiries. Photo: Zikhona Klaas.
In the Mangolongolo community, Shezi is not alone. A family had to relocate a relative who had TB and also contracted the coronavirus. The patient had to be moved away because of the fear of being labelled a virus carrier, says Ntuli.
“We were all afraid when we saw the covid response team wearing full white clothes at our gate,” said Gugu Shabangu, a resident who witnessed Shezi’s departure to hospital. “Things were never the same. He is a businessman around and had customers who bought from him before that.”
Shabangu says many people, some even looking out from their houses, were shocked by what had happened. “I think the attitude of people towards Shezi changed from that day. It started as a joke and never changed,” she says.
A Wits University professor, Lenore Manderson, compares the coronavirus stigma to that ofthe HIV epidemic in South Africa.
“We have seen in our history that denying diseases is either to control behaviour or to control a country as a whole,” she says.
She concludes that stereotypes could fuel the transmission of the disease in communities.The WHO has also reinforced this view by observing that the spread of the virus could be worsened by stigma and discrimination that force people to hide their illness.
Alison Best, a TB HIV Care communication manager, highlights these issues as serious problems for a response to the pandemic, in an article.
“As a result, blaming and shaming will mean that those affected by the disease may find it difficult to seek help or disclose their positive status to others, thereby inhibiting the process of testing, isolation and contacttracing,” Best says.
Meanwhile, the problems of stigma and discrimination during this pandemic stretch beyond infection rates in communities. More than ever, health workers are perhaps at the worst receiving end of the situation.
“We have seen in our history that dining diseases is either to control behaviour or to control a country as a whole “
While they risk their lives to save others, many endup beingostracised in their communities because of the nature of their job and their levels of exposure to infected patients. In Nepal, for example, the Nepali Timesreports that many health workers were even threatened by their neighbours and landlords, who feared they would spread the virus.
Lizzy Poe*,30, a nurse at Johannesburg private hospital, Netcare Garden City,has suffered stigma and discrimination in public transportmany times. “I remember one day I was running to get into a taxi, and I had shortness of breath and started coughing non-stop,” says Poe. “One passenger got out of the taxi with a bad attitude afterwards. I felt bad.”
Poe later tested positive for coronavirus and had to protect her children because of fear, by not telling them she had the virus, as a means of controlling the situation.
For Manderson, social stigma poses a threat of sustaining the spread of the virus. “People will refuse to get tested or reject the behaviours required of them to protect others,” she says.
More education, less stigma
President Cyril Ramaphosahascalled for the condemnation of stigma and discrimination of any form in South Africa.
“Just as we came together to promote acceptance of people living with HIV and stood firm against victimisation, we must show understanding, tolerance, kindness, empathy and compassion for those who are infected with this virus, and for their families,” the president has said.This call is yet to be heeded in communities such asMangolongolo.
Pastor Thembinkosi Zimba, a religious leader at Mangolongolo, explainsthat denialism in the area exists because the community isalready dealing with many social issues.
“Already our people are facing challenges that are threatening their livelihoods. Covid-19 seems like it was not the worst challenge they faced during this lockdown,” he says.
Zimba hosts church cells at the community hall every Wednesday, from 6pm to 7pm. Even though he admits it is difficult to identify or acknowledge discrimination at church because of the religious stance, he believes fighting stigma and discrimination must be a collective effort.
“As a church, we call people who have recovered from the virus and encourage them by preaching the scripture to them,” Zimba notes.
It will take a serious attempt to educate communities that have little or no knowledge about the pandemic. To this effect, the Gauteng provincial governmentuses educationand social mobility to fight stigma and discrimination by targeting people from various backgrounds.
“A ward-based strategy was implemented that involves various government and non-governmental organisationsand that gears towards intensifying the response to the covid-19 pandemic in the province,” says Kwara Kekana, Gauteng Department of Health spokesperson.
The Gauteng department of health deployed over 8 000 trained field workers to screen and test people in the province, in efforts to fight the covid-19 pandemic. Photo: Zikhona Klaas.
At a community level, the provincial governmenthas intensified public health awarenessabout the virus through community radio stations, at taxi ranks and during grant collection days, Kekana says.
Shezi, even though he did not have the virus, is slowly getting used to being called ‘Mister Covid’. He spends most of his time with his close friends and hopeshe might be reintegrated into his community once again.
His best friend is deeply worried about him being called ‘Mister Covid’. Shezi struggled to find his feet after returning from the hospitalbut received supportfrom his close friend, Brenda Mhlanga.
“I would have been infected if he had the virus,” says 32-year-old Mhlanga.“I cooked his meals and ensured that his business was taken care of. It just happened that he got sick with flu at the wrong time.”
He has been a resident inthe Mangolongolo community for nine years and now sells essential goods in his spaza shop.
“People will always speak badly of you,” he says. “I don’t owe anyone an explanation, so Iwill just keep quiet until they forget completely. Hopefully, after this pandemic,” he concludes, his face shining with a smile.
FEATURED IMAGE: Amid coronavirus pandemic, the world is also dealing with the social stigma of covid-19 survivors during this time. However, the WHO advises people to take effective action to help combat the disease and to avoid fuelling fear and stigma. Photo Zikhona Klaas.
In contrast to the avenue’s larger businesses, its informal economy represents a different kind of entrepreneur who works on the pavement, looking desperately at the fast-moving traffic as a means to glean a livelihood.
Among the three hair-cutting stations in the shade of large trees in front of the Balfour Alexandra Football Club, a barber wearing a Highlands Park football jersey and yellow MTN cap wields a buzzing razor with skill as he shaves a customer’s head.
A few minutes later, Chucks Odigbo lifts a shard of mirror from a table stocked with a bottle of methylated spirits, combs, oil and razors that run on a large rechargeable battery.
Regular customer Sipho Mhlangu looks into the mirror to appraise his bald head and neatly clipped moustache. He blows a kiss in the air and exclaims: “This guy is cutting like mwah!”
Odigbo, who used to play for the nearby Balfour Park Football Club, has spent the past 16 years surviving as a barber on the pavement of Louis Botha Avenue in Johannesburg.
The barber, who is from Nigeria, grooms men and women and charges customers between R20 and R40, depending on the style of the cut and the labour involved.
“Because of the difficulty in this modern time, we make it so that the price will not push you away from looking the way you want to look,” says Odigbo.
Although it might seem strange that Odigbo positions his business so close to other barbers, he explains that they gather together to create competition.
“When we are three or four, it makes me take my business seriously,” he says.
Odigbo is one of many informal traders who rely on the pedestrian traffic of Louis Botha for their means of survival.
LEFT: Chucks Odigbo is a barber who makes his living on the pavement of Louis Botha Avenue. He shares insight on his craft and his customers explain why they choose to come to him over a formal salon. Video: Ortal Hadad
Scraping for money as an underdog of the economy
According to a Statistics South Africa (Stats SA) 2017 survey of employers and the self-employed, such informal traders are classified as workers not registered for tax, who generally work in small enterprises. They include street traders who are individuals that sell goods or services on a public road, as stated in City of Johannesburg Metropolitan Municipality street-trading bylaws.
Dave Fisher, city councillor for Ward 74, which covers Orchards, Highlands North and Bramley, says that with the change of political dispensation he has noticed more informal traders on Louis Botha Avenue.
“In apartheid days it was a white street,” says Fisher. “If you did not have a [permit in your] passbook, you were not allowed to be there.”
He emphasises that the sector is still relevant, in contrast to the wealthier suburbs that surround the 9,2km-long street.
“They might not make a contribution to the fiscus of the country, but those people are putting food on tables, they are educating children, they are clothing children,” he says.
Outside a storage unit, Cash 4 Scrap, a 40-year-old man sits on the pavement. He is wearing a crumpled grey and white striped shirt and cream trousers smeared with grease marks from the morning’s work. Amid the smells of metal and oil, mobile mechanic Justice Motaung has his ears tuned to the blasting hooters of the cars and combis speeding past on the busy street.
“If people are driving their own cars and they won’t start, then sometimes I can help them and get something in return from them,” says Motaung.
LEFT: Mobile mechanic Justice Motaung tries to save money by searching for tools and parts at Cash 4 Scrap. Photo: Ortal Hadad
He relies on Louis Botha’s notorious motor traffic to provide his client base, although many of his customers, from areas including Orange Grove, Norwood and Houghton, hail from his 12 years of employment at an alarm-fitting car company, Car Fanatics.
Since the company closed down four years ago, Motaung has been working on the street, practising the trade he learned at home in the Free State from his grandfather and father, both of whom were mechanics.
Motaung says he found himself attracted to Louis Botha Avenue in 2004 by its bustle, after he had failed to find work in the Free State.
Considering that he has no car, customers or friends often have to fetch him from the scrapyard for his services.
Depending on the amount of labour and what car parts he must buy, Motaung’s fees vary, but his base charge is R350 or more.
“I do not have the money to buy myself the tools,” says the mechanic. “If I am short of some tools, I have to borrow from the 24/7 pawn shop.”
While Motaung makes about R3 500 to R4 000 a month, he is not able to save because his money goes to the running costs of his business, rent for his cottage room and his 13-year-old daughter, who stays with his ex-wife in the Free State.
Nonetheless, Motaung earns more than Stats SA’s 2019 lower-boundary poverty line of R810, which measures the income needed for minimum daily food and some household items.
Small incomes lead to savvy saving
Back at Balfour Park, Odigbo earns roughly the same as Motaung at about R4 000 a month. Almost two thirds of this goes towards renting a room in Kew as well as business costs that include charging his battery daily and buying methylated spirits every two to three days and oil for his equipment once a month. Since he also supports a 15-year-old daughter, Odigbo is lucky if he can save R500 a month. He has learned to strategise his spending based on his daily profit.
“If I need to buy bread today and I know it will last me three days, then I will buy the bread today and tomorrow I will buy sugar,” says the barber.
In Orange Grove a shoe repairman, Etward Lenkwale, is no different in being savvy with his money.
Lenkwale works on the parking lot of a closed-down art gallery, The PurpleDragonfly, where his only advertisement is a white sign reading “Shoe repairs done here”, and his name and contact number. Those who require his services will find him, from Monday to Saturday, sitting beside lilac walls that are bedecked with wild ivy. A mound of footwear including broken sandals, takkies and a pair of golf shoes is piled up at his feet while he works on fixing a grey and orange boot.
Besides the R500 that Lenkwale gives to his family, the rest of his R4 000-R5 000 monthly income goes on expenses such as 250MB of data for R10 and food throughout the week, including half a loaf of bread for R7.
RIGHT: Etward Lenkwale repairs a boot at his post on the parking lot of The Purple Dragonfly, a shut-down art gallery. Photo: Ortal Hadad
Lenkwale saves on rent because he shares a one-room shack in Protea South, Soweto, with his Aunt Dibuseng Senthebane and his sister, Lineo. He spends R68 on transport and often stays inside the closed art gallery throughout the week to save time.
He charges for repairs according to what needs to be fixed. A foot sole costs R170, whereas a helium sole costs R140. His prices fluctuate because to fix the shoes he has to buy material and tools, including cotton, needles and soles, in town.
ABOVE: The advertising sign that is placed on the wall beside Lenkwale’s working post. Photo: Ortal Hadad
While he was previously employed in Norwood and Soweto, in 2017 Lenkwale chose to come to Louis Botha Avenue and start repairing shoes on his own, with the motivation to earn more money.
“Here I am happy because this work is too much money. In Lesotho there is no money, no nothing,” says the shoe repairer, who was persuaded by his aunt to move to South Africa in 2007.
Like Lenkwale, many migrants have tried to find better means of survival on the swarming street.
Migrant traders: Is the grass greener on the other side?
Odigbo came to South Africa in 2002 “to look for a greener pasture”, but he faced reality. “Then it was like survival of the fittest when you did not have an ID,” says the barber, who resorted to cutting hair when he could not find a job.
In Bramley another Nigerian migrant, Felix Okeke, found himself in burned pastures when his clothing merchandise was looted during the xenophobic attacks in Alexandra in August. Although Okeke still resides in Alexandra, he is now afraid to run his business in the shop that belongs to his brother, Uche.
Instead he sits on a broken, red-upholstered chair alongside what is left of his business: a single overflowing rack and a bag of clothes in front of his brother’s tyre shop on Louis Botha. The over-packed rack and overflowing bag make it difficult to discern each clothing item, however, although a light blue pair of shorts and a grey suit with an H&M label stand out.
Although Okeke has set prices for his clothing, he will give a discount if a customer cannot afford the full price.
“I will tell the customer, those jeans or trousers are R60. They will say they have only R40, and I will sell just to make a living,” he says.
Okeke orders stock twice a month from his cousin, Abuchi, who lives in London. The cost equates to Okeke’s monthly income of R8 000, so he pays his cousin only half so that he has enough money for his own expenses.
Okeke’s rent is R2 500 and he sends R500 to his six-year-old daughter who lives with her mother in Witbank, Mpumalanga. The rest of his money goes to groceries and his account in Nigeria.
He hopes to return to Nigeria in the near future. “I am not happy here; it is not my home,” he says.
On the street’s corner with Short Road, a 46-year-old man has called Louis Botha home since 2013. Amadeus Ncube, who is impossible to miss in his royal blue construction jacket, sits beside a large sheet of wood held up by empty crates. One of the black crates conceals the brown heel lift Ncube wears on his right foot as a result of being born with one leg shorter than the other. Plastic-wrapped potatoes and tomatoes and bunches of bananas, which Ncube buys from the Johannesburg City Deep market for R1 500 on a weekly basis, lie atop the wooden sheet.
Ncube wants to earn enough to feed his family in Zimbabwe and his wife, Fortunate, who is a domestic worker. Considering he makes a profit of only about R1 000 a month by selling vegetables, however, the former construction worker also relies on carpentry jobs and his wife’s income to get by.
ABOVE: Felix Okeke’s crammed clothing rack on Louis Botha Avenue replaces his shopfront in Alexandra which was looted during xenophobic attacks earlier this year. Photo: Ortal HadadAmadeus Ncube unpacks his boxes of tomatoes in order to put them into plastic bags to sell for the day. Photo: Ortal Hadad
Keeping faith while facing challenges
Aside from struggling to survive on small profits, informal traders risk police raids if they do not adhere to the Johannesburg Metropolitan Municipality’s street trading bylaws. Prohibitions include trading on government property, next to ATMs or in spaces that could block traffic.
Motaung has had tools confiscated and customers’ cars towed away by the Metro Police, because he often works directly on the street, potentially obstructing oncoming vehicles.
Ward councillor Fisher raises environmental concerns. “Oil gets spilled on the road and goes into the water drains, and it clogs up with dust in the sand,” he says. “Part of the challenge is how to preserve the entrepreneurial side, yet provide the right facilities.”
Fisher says the City of Johannesburg has tried to address this by developing centres such as the Alexandra Automotive Hub, where facilities are provided for mechanics.
Odigbo, Okeke and Ncube have all suffered fines and impoundment by Metro Police who allege they are trading in prohibited areas.
Johannesburg Metro Police Department spokesperson Wayne Minnaar says informal traders will not be arrested. Instead, traders’ goods will be confiscated and they will receive receipts indicating what has been taken. To get their goods back, traders have to go to the Metro Police Department and pay a fine of R3 130 for non-perishables or about R1 000 for perishable goods.
“Sometimes we find street traders cross the line by selling illegal goods such as drugs,” says Minnaar. “They will be arrested for possession of the drugs.”
Despite these challenges, the informal workers of Louis Botha Avenue still dream of better days ahead.
“I will leave once I can get together enough money to open a shop,” says Motaung, who has not lost hope of returning to the Free State.
Similarly, Lenkwale gives his sister money to save so that one day he can open his own shoe repair shop.
Odigbo, though, has higher aspirations: “You never know! If one of my clients becomes a president, he will employ me and then I will be working under the presidency,” he says. He grins in the shade of his work station, razor ready, waiting for his next customer.
ABOVE: Sipho Mhlangu peers into a shard of mirror to appraise the work of Chucks Odigbo, a street barber who works on the pavement of Louis Botha Avenue. Photo: Ortal Hadad
FEATURED IMAGE: Mobile mechanic checking a vehicle. Photo: Supplied
If we were to draw inspiration from spiritual books, we would learn that the hand that gives is more blessed than the hand that receives. On Louis Botha A venue, however, sometimes it is giving inspired by experience, yet without expectation, which contributes to changing lives.
Second-hand shops along Louis Botha Avenue are not uncommon, yet there is one that stands out from the rest. Situated on the west side of the avenue, the Hospice Wits shop does more than sell pre-owned items at a fraction of the price. The shop is an epitome of the saying, ‘One man’s trash is another one’s treasure’. The sales of this said treasure contribute towards sustaining an organisation that ensures that those suffering from terminal illnesses are as comfortable as possible in their final days.
Hospice Wits is a child’s paradise of fun and entertainment, a reader’s central hub of information and, judging by the rose-scented incense burning in the furniture department, a home owner’s one-stop shop for basic essentials.
The toy store within the Hospice Wits shop provides children with a sense of education as well as entertainment. Photo: Molebogeng Mokoka
Merely describing those who shop there as customers may even seem like down-play, especially considering the role they play towards giving back to the community, abiding by the motto, ‘No end to caring’ as displayed boldly on the corridors of the shop.
The Hospice Wits shop forms part of a series of charity shops in the Johannesburg region aimed at raising funds for Hospice Wits, a facility in Houghton that provides palliative care to terminally ill patients.
‘The aim is to make the lives of terminally ill people as comfortable as possible before they pass on. In some cases a patient may not want to move into the hospice itself, so there is a team of nurses that visit the patient’s home to check on them,’ said 34-year-old Lebogang Thelele, head of the furniture, toys and clothing department.
According to the Hospice Wits website, ‘The Hospice Association of the Witwatersrand was started in September 1979 by a Johannesburg couple, Stan and Sherley Henen, who first responded to a need in their community for hospice care.
‘The Gordon Waddell House on 2nd avenue was donated to Hospice Wits, and in 1983 the property on 1st Avenue was purchased. It became known as Greendale House and was converted into a six-bed in-patient unit.’
The facility has since grown to provide services to a greater number of patients, and today it has more than 125 full-time staff members including doctors, nurses, social workers and psychologists.
But how does a charity shop manage to occupy an entire block of land?
According to a document released, titled Spacial Transformations and Identities in New Immigrant Spaces, by Wits University’s School of Architecture and Planning, ‘Orange Grove and Norwood developed in the early 20th century. Economic and demographic shifts in the CBD in the 1970s and 1980s affected Louis Botha Avenue and Orange Grove experienced a decline.
‘The decline of the area around Louis Botha Avenue during the 1980s made rental affordable for black South Africans, foreign residents and business owners.’
Jeffery Shabala, who has been managing the shop for the past three years, said that the Hospice, which has been in existence on Louis Botha for about 20 years, is run independently.
BELOW: Hospice Wits shop along Louis Botha Avenue is not just a charity shop which aims to raise money for Hospice Wits itself. It has become a second-home to some of its employees. Faheema Essop, Busisiwe Mavondo and Princess Nonjijij share experiences within their own family, which inspired them to work at Hospice Wits shop.
‘We don’t pay rent because we own this block. Before moving here, the hospice was located close to where the [Inland] pharmacy was. This block was occupied by a liquor store, I think it was called Liquor Boys, a dry cleaners, and there was also a car park,’ he said.
The decline not only made it easier to purchase property in those days, it has also permeated the current state of the area around Louis Botha.
This could be seen in protests that erupted there in April this year. According to a news report by the SABC, residents of Orange Grove took to the streets of Louis Botha, demanding that outgoing Joburg Mayor Herman Mashaba address issues of poor service delivery, provide housing for poor families and convert unused government buildings into accommodation.
Despite not having to pay rent, the charity shop still needs to be able to pay creditors, employees and maintenance.
Shabalala said, ‘Besides selling the items to the public, we also engage in donor drives to generate income. We have also leased some of the space within the shops.’
One of these leased spaces is occupied by a nail bar owned by 35-year-old Xoli Nkosi.
LEFT: It’s not unfamiliar to walk inside Hospice Wits shop and be seranaded by good music. For sale is wide collection of music, movies and games for the whole family. Photo: Molebogeng Mokoka
‘I enjoy working in this space,’ she said. ‘Even though I am renting, I have a good relationship with the people who work here.’ Among those to whom Nkosi refers are Busisiwe Mavondo, Faheema Essop and Princess Nonjiji.
Collectively, these three women are described as the pillars that keep the shop running, going beyond the call of duty to ensure unity among colleagues.
Sitting inside the coffee shop at 2pm on a Tuesday afternoon, Mavondo adjusts her spectacles, keeping an eye on the boutique store located directly opposite. She single-handedly manages the boutique.
‘I have been working inside the Hospice Wits shop for six years. I first heard about the shop when I came here as a customer.
‘I started out as a volunteer, since I was a housewife and had a lot of time on my hands. Since then I have been able to work in every one of these shops, except the bookstore,’ she said.
Listening to the top-of-the-hour news on 702, Mavondo says helping the less fortunate had always been something she wanted to do. She hopes to one day go to her home town of Nkandla, Kwa-Zulu Natal, to start her own charity shop there.
‘I currently stay in Bramley. Sometimes when I am here at work I see an item that may help one of my neighbours. I then buy it for them, because working here has given me the power to help.
‘I once heard about an initiative that helps young girls with dresses in time for their matric dance and thought it would be a great idea if I did this for my community back home.
‘In the past, things such as a matric dance were not that important, but they are today. If I can start a boutique similar to this one, I can help young girls enjoy their matric dance. All I need is funding,’ she said.
The boutique contains various racks on which clothes ranging from wedding dresses to formal dresses are displayed, as well as jewellery.
‘Sometimes people come here and buy from the boutique in bulk. We have filmmakers coming here to buy clothes as costumes.
‘We do not get involved in what the customer does with the items once they own them, but I believe in extending a helping hand, so it would be interesting if the items were donated after being used,’ she said.
Mavondo’s 30-year-old son also works in the retail sector.
‘I raised my children to help others when they can. My son collects second-hand clothing and sells it for a living.
‘Sometimes he comes here and donates the items he collected. He even comes to buy clothes for himself,’ she said.
Busisiwe Mavondo shows off her outfit, comprised entirely of items she bought inside Hospice Wits shop. Photo: Molebogeng Mokoka
According to an article by Susan Horne titled The Charity Shop: Purpose and Change, General William Booth, founder of the Salvation Army, wrote in his book, ‘There was a large amount of wastage of goods in “well-to-do” homes that could be channeled into supplying the “submerged” with employment.
‘Category 1 covers those charity shops that sell only donated goods. Category 2 comprises shops that, in addition to selling donated goods, sell a percentage of new bought-in goods. Category 3 shops sell only bought-in, new goods’.
Situated west of Louis Botha, the Hospice Wits shop could be classified as category 2, since some of the items sold inside are new.
Before it hits the shelves
Everything that comes through to the shop has to first pass by the eyes of Faheema Essop.
Essop, 34, has been working at the shop for the past nine years.
‘I came to know about the hospice itself when my grandmother was ill. During her last days, nurses from the hospice came to our house to check on her and make sure she was as comfortable as possible.‘
Seeing the nurses care for my grandmother made me see that there are people out there who are willing to help others, even during the final chapters of their lives. That is what inspired me to come here,’ she said.
Essop works in the donations section of the shop, where people drop off goods or where the goods are delivered after being collected from donors.
‘We have different people coming in regularly to donate clothes. Not everything we get is usable, but we never turn people away because they have good intentions.
‘I would describe this place [the hospice] as my first home. I spend more time with my colleagues than I do with my family. I am here from eight o’ clock in the morning until around five in the afternoon, from Monday to Saturday.
‘Our work goes beyond collecting items. If one of our colleagues needs help with something, we try to assist them in the best possible way. We not only make it easy for strangers to give to our organisation, we also help each other out as colleagues,’ said Essop.
The force being long-standing relations
Nonjiji has been employed at Hospice Wits for 13 years and is one of the employees who have been there longest.
The 53-year-old retail assistant is described as peaceful, straightforward and respectful by her colleague, Trevor Makwesa, who is one of the heads of department.
RIGHT: All donated items are first brought to the attention of Faheema before they are sorted and displayd in the different shops. Photo: Molebogeng Mokoka
‘I know everyone who works in this shop because I have been here for so long. It’s not easy when everyone comes to you asking for help.
‘Sometimes my colleagues have disagreements and come to me for advice,’ said Nonjiji. ‘The toughest thing is that people have different personalities, so I have to solve the problem and make sure that the two work well together in the future.’
Despite this, she said these were not the only challenges.
‘Over the years, the amount of donations we have been receiving has gone down. In the past this whole corridor [pointing outside] used to be filled with clothes and toys, but it’s not the same anymore.
‘We also used to get donations from big companies, but not anymore. I think that maybe people are selling their things on the internet and getting money for them instead of donating them for free, I can’t say for sure. But I can tell you that it is not the same as it was,’ she said.
Despite Nonjiji’s concern that the shop is not generating enough donations and support as it did in the past, there are some customers that frequently visit and have formed relationships with the staff.
ABOVE: Hospice Wits shop sells a wide variety of antique items, books, jewellery and clothing and furniture. Photos: Molebogeng Mokoka
One of them is Lydia Daka, a 46-year-old woman from Berea who has been visiting the shop since 2005.
‘In the beginning I used to come here to buy chairs and tables,’ says Daka, ‘but these days I either come here to read or buy books when I have money. ‘I know most of the people who work here and they are always willing to help. At least when I am buying from this shop I know I am contributing to a good cause,’ she says, holding up a copy of Right Body For Your Health.
The library feel of the bookstore lies not only in the setup, but also in the musty scent of old pieces of paper piled up together. Hospice Wits on Louis Botha tells a story that goes beyond donations and fundraising.
It tells the story of people who witnessed transformation and decay over the years, where factors such as poverty lurk in the corners.
Mavondo, Nonjiji and Essop’s involvement is not only inspired by previous experience within the family, but the three women also instill in their colleagues the notion of healthy working relationships that benefit the greater community, proving that the concept of family may sometimes go beyond blood relations.
FEATURED IMAGE: A graphic showing people and the word Charity, Photo: Supplied
Amid Louis Botha Avenue’s shift in demographics, a few businesses stand out as relics of the former Italian migrant community that made the area home.
When you hear “Buongiorno!” from Samson Muvhali, you know you have arrived in Johannesburg’s slice of what was once dubbed “Little Italy”.
For many years, Italian immigrants made Louis Botha Avenue the hub to meet, shop, dine and reminisce about their motherland. Now a Tshivenḓa-speaking security guard’s workplace, Super Sconto, is among the few reminders of the area’s “Little Italy” accolade.
Super Sconto, which translates as “super discount”, sits on the bustling thoroughfare that extends from Hillbrow to the edge of Sandton. Instead of functioning as another food store it acts as a time capsule of a bygone era, filled with an importer’s paradise of goods.
LEFT: Samson Muvhali, the Super Sconto security guard who has worked at the food centre since 2010. Photo: Gemma Gatticchi
A boom in migration sparks a community
Like many Italians in the area, the store’s general manager, Roberto Casti (66), has an immigration story of his own. The man, wearing a red Lacoste shirt and watch with a strap to match, explains that he was born from Neapolitan and Sicilian parents into an Italian colony in Eritrea, northeast Africa, after which he ventured down to South Africa in 1980 to look for greener pastures.
“The only place that could give us an opportunity was South Africa; that is why I came here,” Casti says, carrying an Italian accent untouched by his life in Africa.
Louis Botha was flooded with Italian immigrants when a dynamite factory in Avigliana, a town north of Italy, hit dire straits in 1894 and subsequently closed down. Dr Anita Virga, an Italian lecturer at the University of the Witwatersrand, says the closure, coupled with the later effects of World War II and severe unemployment, led to many skilled workers being transferred to the Modderfontein Dynamite Factory on the Pretoria Main Road.
“The first person usually arrives and calls the others, saying ‘Come here, there is an opportunity’,” she says.
Virga, who moved to Johannesburg from Turin, Italy, six years ago, explains that after the war Italy remained physically and psychologically destroyed, forcing Italian citizens to venture out and find work.
A four-minute walk southeast of Super Sconto takes you to Marco Pecci (MP) Mirror & Glass. The owner and namesake ended up in the area due to similar circumstances.
Pecci tells the story of his parents who were forced to leave Marche, Italy, in the Sixties when employment in their home country hit a dismal low. Following the numerous success stories of fellow Italians they migrated to Johannesburg, eventually establishing their glass workshop on Louis Botha in 1991.
This being said, the same influx of Italian influence in the form of delicatessens, shoe shops and jewellery stores which lined the avenue has since vanished. Now Super Sconto and MP Mirror & Glass are among the only Italian-owned work spaces left on Louis Botha.
Bringing ‘Little Italy’ back to Louis Botha
A mechanical engineer by trade, general manager Casti did not realise his heritage would play such a major role in his future until he met Franco Pisapia, who established Super Sconto in 1996.
Over the past 23 years Super Sconto has changed almost as much as the avenue it calls home. The store had humble beginnings, operated by only four staff members including Casti himself. The food centre functioned humbly on a single floor, juggling a deli, coffee bar and kitchen all within an arm’s length of each other.
“We were also renting part of our premises to Standard Bank. When their lease expired, we took over and 12 years ago we revamped,” Casti says.
It is Monday morning at Super Sconto and for the general manager breakfast consists of cappuccino and small talk before the real bustle begins. He does his rounds in what still looks like a newly renovated store, passing between aisles of imported products and racks of liquor on the ground floor.
A tiled staircase separates the two storeys and leads him into the spacious restaurant, complete with a designated smoking area and a deli stacked with fresh meats.
“It’s nothing fancy. It’s all very simple, like old Italian tradition. We start with the sauces early in the morning and whatever is on the blackboard is the menu of the day,” says Casti.
Roberto Casti starts his morning at Super Sconto, his place of work for the past 23 years. Photo: Gemma Gatticchi
Come lunchtime the restaurant is packed, but a hush settles over customers who delve into their meals, engrossed in Italian goodness.
The only thing breaking the silence is muffled conversation from downstairs, starting with questions such as “Quanto costa?” meaning “How much is it?” rising from the ground floor. Upon further inspection these questions are directed not only at the staff of Italian descent, but also at the African workers like Muvhali (49) who have picked up on Italian lingo since working at Super Sconto.
“I have worked there since 2010 … so I learn new words from customers every day,” the security guard says.
A traditional component of the store that remains unchanged is its family element. Pisapia’s daughter, Chiara (20), who has left Johannesburg to pursue her studies in financial sciences, finds herself being drawn back to Super Sconto on a weekly basis. The vibrant yellow pasta and strong smell of espresso in the air do wonders to jog her memory of a place that has become more of a home than a business.
Fetching one of these recollections, a dark-haired and jovial Chiara says, “I would always sit on Roberto’s lap while he would offload the container, and once all the products were offloaded we would all play hide-and-seek in the basement between the high boxes and tins of products.”
Employees and customers take us through the history of Super Sconto, the now renowned Italian food centre with humble beginnings in the unlikeliest of places. Video: Gemma Gatticchi
Back at Pecci’s house of glass the space is not ideal for child’s play. At first glance the store seems empty of human presence, until the lean and grey-haired 47-year-old pops up from behind a desk crowded with tools and newspapers.
The self-proclaimed “one man show” explains that many Italian businesses on Louis Botha closed down because they were dependent on the same community that left “Little Italy”.
Peering into his workshop, it is difficult to avoid your reflection. Mirrors lean against almost every inch of the inner store walls, making space for a giant glass-cutting table that dominates the space.
Pecci disregards the idea of following fellow Italians out of the area.
“There were also many banks here, and when they closed due to crime many people moved, but I am pretty happy where I am. I am really not worried about the crime because I do not have anything people want to steal,” he says.
Looking at his store from the outside, it is clear that he means what he says. While others choose to plaster their transparent walls with newspapers, barricading their contents from passers-by, Pecci’s glass store acts as a glorified window into his work space and life.
Marco Pecci cuts a mirror for a customer in his workshop on Louis Botha Avenue. Photo: Gemma GatticchiMarco Pecci specialises in window repairs, sandblasting, bevelling and glass furniture. Many of his current customers once formed part of Louis Botha Avenue’s “Little Italy”. Photo: Gemma Gatticchi
While the entrances of neighbouring stores like Pecci’s sit tightly on the pavement bordering the avenue, Super Sconto is fenced off, with an adequate amount of parking to accommodate customers who no longer reside in and around Louis Botha.
Today the Italian food centre acts as a drawcard, bringing customers back into an area they have since forgotten about, but the attraction is not limited to the Italian community. The current members of Louis Botha often indulge in what the last of “Little Italy” has to offer.
Felix Mpofu, a Louis Botha worker and resident, towers above his colleagues at Skyblue Security Systems, situated conveniently next door to Super Sconto. They all huddle to share their experience of the store.
“It’s fantastic and the service is good. Everyone is always friendly, and they have so many different items. I really cannot complain because I am more than welcome when I am there,” Mpofu says.
According to its website, by 2019 and 27 staff members later, Super Sconto has grown to be the biggest Italian retail store in South Africa.
“We’ve got customers in Cape Town and Durban. Some of the retailers shop here. We’ve got restaurants that we are supplying too,” Casti says.
This being said, there is a wealth of Italian stores that failed to adapt to the avenue’s shift in economy and demographics.
LEFT: Deli assistant, Rosina Senwamadi slices and packages mortadella for a customer in the popular Super Sconto deli. Photo: Gemma Gatticchi
A mark that remains
On 226 Louis Botha Avenue, what is now a vacant building was once Ponte Vecchio Jewellers, owned by Annarita Ravenna (75). A keen Ravenna explains that in 1951 her family moved from Florence, Italy, to South Africa when her father was offered a job at what was then Iscor, a steel company now known as Mittal Steel South Africa.
The Ravenna family used the only trade they knew to start a business on Louis Botha and make a living.
“My father’s brothers were jewellers from Florence, but he was a fitter and turner and the wish of having a jewellery shop was always within him.
“We chose Orange Grove because of its Italian community. Even the Italian Consulate moved to Houghton to be closer to the community,” says Ravenna, who helped to establish Ponte Vecchio Jewellers in 1968.
The jewellery store prided itself on manufacturing, remodelling, repairing and importing jewellery from Italy, employing many locals to add their charm to the store before it closed its doors in 1996.
RIGHT: Thomas Mpfuni waits for customers next to his snack station on Louis Botha Avenue where he has been working since 2010. Photo: Gemma Gatticchi
“Some Italians moved away, but I think it was because their offspring married and moved away, mainly to Bedfordview because of the Italian Club being there. I don’t think that there is another ‘Little Italy’ anywhere else in Johannesburg,” says Ravenna, who has since moved back to Italy.
Wilson Mapheto (68) worked at the Italian jewellery store and now runs a jewellery workshop of his own on the south-east end of Louis Botha, hidden from view by a chipped white wall and two drooping trees.
“Believe it or not, Ponte Vecchio Jewellers brought me to where I am today. Even now I am still part of the Ponte Vecchio family,” says Mapheto.
Today the once glamorous home for gold, silver and pearls looks more like the garage of an abandoned house where the flashy window decorations have been traded in for random strokes of graffiti.
Thomas Mpfuni (64), another Louis Botha resident, now uses the pavement in front of the defaced building to make a living in his own way, selling an assortment of chips and popcorn.
The mute man, referred to as “uncle” by customers and passers-by, greets you with a smile as warm as the sultry Monday afternoon sun. He sits modestly, with nothing but one chair and several boxes as a makeshift table. Mpfuni packs his goods out neatly, grouping the same products together and laying them out in solitaire fashion.
BELOW: A homestyle ciabatta sandwich made with blue cheese at Super Sconto. The sandwiches are a quick and popular dish at the Italian food centre. Photo: Gemma Gatticchi
The man who proudly dons his Zion Christian Church hat and badge has been sitting at his unofficial spot every day since 2010. Mpfuni provides for his family, who live next door in the equally dilapidated Margaret Court apartment block.
He is a popular stop for many on their way to work. Those who buy from Mpfuni know how to communicate with him, often using hand gestures to make small talk and establish a price for a desired product.
The same history of determination to make a living runs rampant along the avenue through the likes of Casti, Pecci and Mpfuni too. It is this determination that brings a strange attraction to the area.
When a store becomes a personal landmark
Now, instead of functioning as a makeshift country or vessel to an Italian motherland, Louis Botha and its surrounding areas operate more as a point of reference for those who are hungry for days gone by.
“Many Italians still go to places like [Super Sconto] to have lunch … When I really need something that reminds me of Italy, then I go there, so it is more a sentimental attachment than really a need,” Virga says.
As the sliding doors open for the last customer to exit, you are sent off with a final shout of “Arrivederci!” from Muvhali, as the deafening commotion of Louis Botha consumes the solace and air-conditioning that came with entering Super Sconto.
By leaving the store, the area’s “Little Italy” is reduced once more, only now instead of four walls it is confined to a plastic bag, ready to be taken with you to the place you call home.
Dave Garlick frequents the food centre for its range of Italian coffees and chocolates. Above he inspects a box of Sperlari, an Italian chocolate brand. Photo: Gemma Gatticchi
FEATURED IMAGE: A women rolling dough for baking. Photo: Supplied
In a land foreign to your own, where do you turn? Who do you call? Where do you belong?
HURRYING across the streets to assemble inside various buildings and shop-like structures on Louis Botha Avenue on a Sunday morning are families of African migrants. They are making their way to their respective houses of worship. There is something distinctive about the way they navigate their way on the street; a magnetic pulling that makes the movement routine, effortless, easy and natural. Almost as if they are instinctively being called… home.
Belonging: A woman and her two children linger outside, waiting for their church service to begin. Photo: Sisanda Mbolekwa
The men are in crisply ironed buttoned up shirts and the women are adorned in long, layered dresses that just about sweep the pavement as they sashay by. Behind them are children frantically trying to keep up with the pace of the adults, as fast as their little legs can carry them. With a quick glance to left and right they hurry past speeding Toyota minibuses and overloaded taxis in the road, and with a brisk walk they step onto the pavement.
Just a metre or two from where the pavement meets the two-door entrance are four elderly men in suits. They stand arranged, pamphlets in hand, interacting with the passers-by on Louis Botha. Almost in sync, they monotonously mutter the words “come in my sister”, “join us my brother” to the pedestrians walking past, and their wrinkled faces light up with a “God bless you” as soon as their invitations to join the service are accepted.
Pastor Blessing Oggini of Mountain of Fire and Miracles Ministries ushers congregants inside the makeshift room he has converted into a church, into what he calls a session of blessing and salvation. Bible in hand, he hands out purple flyers detailing information about the church and its daily services, while casually having conversations with members of the church and hugging them as they enter.
As the congregants make their way to the neatly placed rows of plastic chairs, from two of the four corners of the room come the sounds of a euphoric melody carried by a commanding voice booming from the speakers. As the singer jolts from side to side in sync with the rhythm, microphone in hand, he continues to lead the worship and praise from behind the glass podium stationed in front of the room.
Pastor Oggini (second from left) stands with church elders outside the Mountain of Fire and Miracle Ministries branch in Louis Botha Avenue. Photo: Sisanda MbolekwaAn elderly woman stands outside the New Eternal Covenant Church after the Sunday service has ended.Photo: Sisanda Mbolekwa
Brother Jonathan, as he is fondly referred to, belts out the phrase, “This is the day of joy, the day of joy, that the Lord has made”, and the congregation responds in harmony. As the pastor ascends onto the stage from the front row, Jonathan Jise hands over the microphone to symbolise that the time for song has come to an end and he has prepared the congregation for the sermon.
“My role in the church is an important one, and everyone has a space in the house of the Lord,” says Jise. With a look around the room, he adds that everyone is here because of some reason or other.
“We did not come because we simply love the church. When you face difficulty in a foreign country you have no option but to turn to what feels normal: what you grew up with and were raised on from a young age, and that is the church and faith in God,” he says with glistening eyes and a piercing stare, so as to relay his heartfelt relationship with the institution enclosed by the four walls that make up the room we sit in.
Stretched across approximately 9km of tar, is Louis Botha Avenue – one of the city of Johannesburg’s major streets. Known as an area where immigrants and migrants have settled in, historically the neighbourhood had been populated by people of Italian descent, and as a result had been dubbed “Little Italy”. Now that is but a distant past commemorated only by the remnants of an Italian deli called Super Sconto and an abandoned building that used to be an Italian machinery shop. Looking at the pedestrians on the street and the bodies that have made Orange Grove their home, it is evident that the area continues to be an immigrant hub, however, but now of African descent.
The simplified narration of African migration is ordinarily one that sees desperate and vulnerable refugees fleeing from conflict, war and collapsing economies to try to make a living in a country foreign to their own. This industrial narrative exists and is vividly visual on the street, with the avenue being overpopulated by not so adequately spaced out corner shops, congested fruit and vegetable stores, tailoring services, upholstery businesses and – surprisingly – a high number of Christian religious places of worship. In this street alone, one will come across more than 15 boards of bright and colourful signage advertising church branches and services behind doors that seem abandoned on any odd day during the week, but that definitely comes alive on a Sunday morning.
The decision to open a branch of Mountain of Fire and Miracles Ministries in Louis Botha was one that was necessary, as Pastor Oginni describes it: “The people of Orange Grove are suffering, living under undesirable circumstances, and are in need of healing. Our ministry is here by virtue of calling, to help the despondent people of God in this area and restore their faith in times of adversity,” says the pastor.
“We opened this specific branch this year, but our church has existed on the African continent and in South Africa for years,” he says.
With the first branch having been opened in Nigeria in 1975 by Dr Daniel Olukoya, their mission statement of “propagating the gospel of the Lord Jesus Christ all over the world” is one that is evident through their expansion to regions such as Europe, the United States, Canada, Africa and Asia – boasting visibility on every continent.
Adewumni Eze, a young man in a black leather jacket who walked in through the gates of the church, says he did so seeking deliverance and a spiritual breakthrough. Initially hesitant to open up to a relative stranger like myself, he reveals that he owes his life to the church.
“When I first came to South Africa, things were very hard for me. I was hopeless and helpless. I did not know how to survive all by myself and I was becoming more desperate by the day.”
This feeling was brought about by the fact that even as a master of science graduate he struggled to find employment in this country, subjecting him to survival in poverty stricken circumstances, sleeping on the streets and not knowing where his next meal was going to come from as every door he knocked on asking for employment was shut in his face.
“When I was homeless in Orange Grove, I was at my lowest. The church opened its doors for me, gave me a mattress to sleep on and food to eat. I was scared that I would always be treated like a stranger, because I am a foreigner. I lived in fear. I was then prayed for by the pastor, who gave me hope that by placing my trust in God, He would help me overcome my challenges.”
Through his journey with the church, he developed a relationship and fellowship and now not only lives at the church, but is an active participant and assistant in the mission.
“Nothing can harm me now in the house of the Lord,” Adewumni says as he looks around the room, smiling as he reflects on the impact the church has had on his life.
Pastor Blessing Oginni stands next to his podium, where he delivers a sermon every Sunday at Mountain of Fire and Miracle Ministries. Photo: Sisanda Mbolekwa
Adewumni’s testimony provides a glimpse into the level of hostility directed at foreign nationals. A competitive city such as Johannesburg exposes migrants to vulnerability, as would any unfamiliar surroundings. Among migrants there is an air of desperation, eagerly seeking opportunities to make the means of survival for one more day. And there is wariness of the potential threat of intolerance and violence that their presence may bring about. It is as almost as though one can capture the change in dynamic simply from watching the transition from the brisk and hurried walk on the pavement to the gentle settling into seats once they are inside the church. There is a sense of feeling comfortable when they collectively come into the presence of fellow believers in the house of God, where there is “space” for them.
There are three observed trends of behaviour in relation to migrants and religion, according to a scholar by the name of Orobator, in a journal titled ‘Refugees and Poverty’ (2005). Firstly there are migrants who have persevered in their faith in the midst of trials and tribulation; secondly there are those who have abandoned their faith; and thirdly there are those who have newly identified God as their only comfort and solace in exile. The latter is the interweaving theme along Louis Botha Avenue and its many churches, clustered not so far from each other.
The flaking paint on the walls that enclose the buildings where the religious gatherings are held sheds a little light on the deterioration of the avenue. Despite the many hubs of worship and upliftment in the churches located on the pavements of Louis Botha, the tale of the once highly revered avenue is now a sad one. What was once conceptualised in 2014 to serve as a game changer in the transport sector as a prominent transit corridor is seen as many to have been affected by urban decay that characterises many other neighbourhoods in the city.
There have been issues that have been sites of contention over the intended nature and current state of the avenue. There are the alleged driving of unroadworthy taxis overflowing with unsuspecting commuters, coupled with the non-completion of the Rea Vaya project, to mention just two. Following recent protest action in April 2019 when the residents of suburbs surrounding Louis Botha ordered the mayor of the city to conduct a clean-up of all the alleged illegal businesses and hijacked buildings, it seems there is yet to appear a consolidated view of migrants, their livelihoods and incorporation into the area.
“When a stranger resides with you in your land, you shall not wrong him. The stranger who resides with you shall be to you as one of your citizens; you shall love him as yourself, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt” (Lev. 19:33-34).
The Bible says that one day the divisions between citizen and stranger will be erased, when the Promised Land will be assigned for ourselves and the strangers who dwell among us. Some deem the efforts at supposed restoration to be xenophobic-related, as a result of placing the blame for decay on foreign nationals. Some view it as law enforcement. What it fundamentally means is that Louis Botha is yet to get rid of the underlying tension among locals and migrants.
Despite the intricate dynamic between the migrants and the locals, the church remains a place to turn to. Not only for those who have found solace within its doors, but in the community as well. Stacked in the corner of Pastor Oginni’s office is a heap of groceries and non-perishable food items and snacks. He explains that the tinned cans, boxes of milk and rice, among other items, are the church’s monthly collection of donations in the form of food and clothing towards its outreach program – for an orphanage in Orange Grove supported by the church.
“Our mission is to not only help those who come through our doors looking for a breakthrough, but also to share our blessings with the community and people of Orange Grove,” the pastor says. The congregants visibly do not have much, but are committed to sharing the little that they do have. “Both in the spiritual and physical realm, this call to unity in the face of division is what brings the community together,” The pastor says.
Pastor Oggini ascends the podium yet again to convene everyone to kneel for the closing prayer. The booming voice emerges yet again from the speakers to reassure the congregants that “all will be well”. The men pick up their Bibles and stand up tall, while the women hoist their children onto their backs and secure them with a towel.
He raises his arms and the congregants close their eyes to signal the end of the prayer. Everyone in the room shakes hands and exchanges goodbyes as they leave the house of the Lord. As the doors open for their exit, the sound of the hooting taxis rushing by remind them of their return to reality.
The atmosphere is one of hope: hope for survival, hope for restoration. Hope that their lives will take a turn for the better. Hope that their prayers will be heard. Bible in hand, like soldiers, they are armed. Ready to face the hustle and bustle of Louis Botha Avenue.
FEATURED IMAGE: Men of God: Pastor Oggini (second from left) stands with church elders outside the Mountain of Fire and Miracle Ministries branch in Louis Botha Avenue.
The identity of Melville has shifted significantly since the land was proclaimed in 1896. The suburb is currently a bohemian area filled with hipsters, entrepreneurs and bargain hunters, while thrifting has been in Melville for the past 20 years.
The ‘Melville strip’, 7th Street, is home to some of the trendiest restaurants in Johannesburg with the odd thrift store sandwiched in-between. Thrift stores have remained a constant throughout the evolving Melville area.
IF YOU turn left off 7th Street, and venture two shops down on 4th Avenue, you will find Bounty Hunters Charity Shop. The shop has been around for the past two decades, keeping the idea of thrifting in style. Two weeks after it opened the shop took on a whole new venture and doubled as a cat shelter.
THRIFT: The entrance of Bounty Hunters Charity shop on 4th Avenue in Melville.
Gail Millard, the store owner, has been in the thrift shop business for 22 years. Gail started her first thrift shop, Hope Charity, in 1996 on 2nd Avenue. The store was going strong, with 20 different charities involved in providing stock in return for profits.
After six years, in 2002, Gail was forced to find a new place to house her business as the space had become too small. This was due to the high level of stock that Gail receives daily, “I have received donations every day for the past 22 years, so it doesn’t matter how fast I am selling stock, there is always more coming.
Her new establishment was on 4th Avenue, above May’s Chemist. Gail stayed on 4th Avenue for 11 years until 2013, when the same problem of space eventually arose again.
Gail unflatteringly describes herself as a “barren spinster”. “I have no husband and no children. These cats that you see here are my children and this place is my whole life. I am here 365 days a year. It never stops.”
The 65-year-old looks exhausted when she eventually looks up from the boxes of books that she is unpacking. Her strawberry blonde hair is cropped quite short to make it easier to handle, her glasses sitting comfortably as if they have been part of her face with its smile lines, for years.
Her standard attire of a light blue top fits well on her medium-sized frame. It is as regular as her oldest customer. Gail says that it is a crazy time right now at the thrift store as a book shop down the road has closed and is sending all its stock to Bounty Hunters. “I have been working non-stop, that’s why my hair looks like this and I haven’t slept a wink,” she says, as she starts to clean one of the two cages that house four newly found kittens.
There is no break, Gail never stops. She is either unpacking or pricing stock, feeding a kitten or catching up with a customer.
Upon entering Bounty Hunters, the feeling of overwhelming chaos instantly hits you. Should you pick up the book on the floor, fold the blouse on the table or straighten the pictures piled on top of each other? If you suffer from obsessive compulsive disorder, I would highly recommend that you back track and find your nearest Woolies with its order.
CAT LADY: Gail Millard, a cat lover and thrift shop owner. CHAOS: The first floor of Bounty Hunters Charity Shop is cluttered with donations.
Crossing the threshold thrusts you into madness. There is a narrow walkway to the first floor that has a range of items littering the tables along the way, books, picture frames and baskets. Up four steps and you are on the first floor and bam! The smell hits you.
The smell is somewhere near a cross between a vet’s rooms and a petting zoo, which is unconventional for a charity shop. Your eyes can’t instantly place where the smell comes from because all that’s visible are clothes: jackets, shirts, pants and more jackets hanging on multiple rails that hang from the ceiling all along the first floor.
WATCH: A video about Bounty Hunters Charity Shop and their regular and first-time customer experiences.
Towards the middle of the store there is an overflowing food bowl with an even larger water bowl next to it. This is strange for a thrift shop because they aren’t for sale. A quick turn around and it all clicks! Sleeping peacefully on a few crates of books is a cat, a caramel, white and black spotted one that is fast asleep.
There are quite a few cats, a black Halloween cat sleeping on a box of unopened stock. A grey and white spotted one cleaning herself on a set of picture frames perched high above the rest.
There is a staircase to the left of the store that takes you to the second floor, which houses less chaos. There are shelves that are crammed full with many different books of every genre under the sun.
Glasses, plates and other crockery are also neatly on display. At the far end of the second floor there are four litter boxes for the cats to avoid any accidents in the store. Gail’s thrift stores and cats have been in Melville for 22 years.
COMFY: A grey and white cat has her bed on a desk to catch the afternoon sun.
Gail lovingly cuddles the grey and white cat that was atop the picture frames on the second floor, as she narrates the story of the first cat at Bounty Hunters.
She scratches her head trying to remember every detail, “Almost two years from the day we opened, I had an elderly lady come in with a truck load of donations – she had lived in a mansion of a house for years and was now downsizing. It took her two truck trips to bring everything, but she couldn’t find a home for her cat.
So naturally by the second load, I couldn’t let her just put the cat down, so I told her I would take the cat too.” Gail orchestrated an adoption to a suitable family within two weeks.
Bounty Hunters currently has 50 to 60 cats residing on the property, all having been brought to Gail. The cats are found either in the Melville or Westdene area. “Anybody in the area knows what I do here so any rescue missions or cats left in dustbins are brought here,” adds Gail. Gail only accepts cats from either Melville or Westdene otherwise she says she would end up with hundreds of cats.
“I’m of the opinion that if you can help in some way then you should, so that is why I do this. The Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals (SPCA) are overrun and cannot handle the large number of strays and abandoned cats so I do my part,” she adds.
Some people have a problem with the initiative, it being an unorthodox way of running an informal cat shelter, says Gail. “The customers generally only complain about the cats when they don’t get a discount on the stock.” Gail adds as she rushes around the store to help a customer.
Gail usually brushes such characters off but on other days she verbally lays into them, “If I haven’t taken my meds and then I can really fly off the handle,” She laughs as she realises that she may not have taken her meds that morning.
She contributes to various outreach programmes that work off the thrift shop. One programme involves assisting other charities, which send stock to Bounty Hunters which is marked with each charity’s code and when the stock is sold the profits are sent back to the charity.
Gail started with 20 charities but she says due to a high level of theft between the drivers of the charities and her ex-employees she has cut down the number of charities to three.
Most of the profits from sold stock currently goes to the upkeep of the cats in the form of food and vets’ bills. Individuals that donate to the store decide who they would like the profits donated to; either they select one of the three charities, or they select for their profits to be donated to caring for the cats at Bounty Hunters.
SALE: A display of small items priced between R1 and R5 on the second floor of Bounty Hunters.
In addition, Gail assists individuals that help with the cat shelter project. An elderly woman in Westdene fosters four cats for the project, and receives a discount on cat food. Gail normally sells her cat food for R160 but she only charges the woman R5. This allows her to continue fostering the cats.
Lynne Millard, Gail’s sister, also helps with the cat sheltering project. Lynne works as a masseuse in the Westdene area and is also an animal lover. According to Gail, “Lynne can book her appointments when she wants to so she has time to help me, especially with kittens as we both know how to bottle feed.”
Lynne also fosters some of the cats until Gail can find them adequate homes. “If I am struggling to find a home she will take them on so it gives me a bit more time,” Gail says.
Bounty Hunters sees a variety of people every day. An Indian man, dressed in a light blue shirt and smart black pants piles R5 books into a basket. A middle-aged white man picks out an evening jacket.
Pierre Roestorf, 65, retired from the South African Broadcasting Corporation after a colourful 30 years as a lighting director at the broadcaster. He has regularly visited Gail’s various stores for the past 22 years.
“I always pass by here as there are interesting things here. Just yesterday, I bought a six-pack of beautiful crystal glasses. All I do is spare five minutes on my daily stroll to check if anything new has come in,” he says.
Although it may seem to be all sunshine and rainbows in the Melville community, there are mixed opinions in Melville about the work that Gail does.
The Animals Protection Act states that only two cats can reside on a commercial property. However, according to Gail, the Animal Anti-Cruelty League and the SPCA have visited Bounty Hunters and have commended her for the work she is doing for cats in Melville.
“Obviously many people have phoned to report me but the people at the SPCA have always been quite grateful for what I do here. It helps them a lot and, quite frankly, it’s the least I can do,” Gail says.
There are two restaurants that flank Bounty Hunters – Mootee and The Melville Grill Lounge. Peter Good, the Mootee owner, says that initially he was a bit skeptical about the cats, especially having them so close to his restaurant.
MEOW: A Halloween cat that’s resident at the Bounty Hunters thrift shop in Melville. Photo: Elizabeth-Jane Ringrose.
“We had our worries early on but Gail was great, she put up extra barricading along the wall that’s closest to the charity store. She also comes past every second day to check if there aren’t any accidents, and if there are, she cleans them up.” The 27-year-old adds that the cats have really helped with rodents. “There are no rats or mice problems, thankfully.
“We’re all quite pet friendly around here, I have my pup, Iggy, that stays with me during the day, so it’s not really a problem for me,” Good adds as he finishes wiping down the bar just before opening for the day.
In contrast, the manager at The Melville Grill Lounge says that the thought of having 60 cats in an area right next door is very worrisome. “It is very bad to me. I know a lot of people support it and it is good to save the cats, but I worry about my business. There haven’t been any problems with the cats on my property, so I haven’t done anything.” he adds.
Melville has a small community feel of people helping the next person. Some of the residents and shop owners of Melville feel strongly that the work that Gail does is commendable.
Peter Harris, owner of Sunbury Place, a guest house on Sunbury Avenue along the outskirts of Melville, says that the cats are a prominent topic in the area.
“The cats are quite topical – people either like it or they don’t. To me I think it’s fine, [Gail has] always had a lot of cats and she clearly takes good care of all of them, so I don’t see a problem,” he says.
“After living in the area for 15 years, I’ve realised that it’s Melville, things are done differently around here which is what makes this place special,” Harris adds. The famous Seventh Strip has become quite pet-orientated, according to some shop owners on the Strip.
Elmien le Grange, the owner of Our House, a furniture refurbishing store on 7th Street, says that the Melville community is quite pet conscious.
“We often have people come and browse with their dogs mainly. There are a few regulars that come and get their coffee with their dogs. I am just meeting the pet community feel that Melville already has,” she adds.
It’s clear that as long as Gail Millard is around, Bounty Hunters will continue to be a home for stray and abandoned cats as well as a great place to find a bargain.
FEATURED IMAGE: Gail Millard, a cat lover and thrift shop owner. Photo: Elizabeth-Jane Ringrose.
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