On the eve of the Greenhouse Food Festival, a wet and grey Friday morning, Mamonosi Mahlophe and her colleague and friend Mamosweu Tsoabi, are picking weeds from their garden. They are preparing for the festival that will provide emerging farmers with the platform to showcase their innovations and produce to private funders, and potentially sell their products.
As the rain worsens, they hurry into the run down, yet architecturally-appealing glasshouse to join another colleague, Dineo Tsoabi. This building houses more of their produce and is expected to be a big attraction for the festival.
With the thundering sounds as a backdrop, the ladies go about their business while discussing the work that still needs to be done. It has been a busy week for them. Amid the rain and preparations for the festival, the ladies held a workshop teaching women how to make what they call the “Wonder Bag”.
On the corner of Klein and Wolmarans streets in downtown Johannesburg, is a place that is home to a shining beacon of the symbiotic relationship that can exist between society and nature. It is a place where lush green vegetables and herbs abound, bees and other small creatures swarm the space, producing honey and pollinating plants; it is a place of hope not only for the people who work there, but also for the surrounding community that relies on its produce.
It is a place where the medicinal properties of the stinging nettle are as valuable as the delicious taste and fresh aroma of the mint being harvested. A place where waste material is not just waste, but a vital resource to create gas, compost and to generate an income.
GREEN LIVING: Mamonosi Mahlophe and Mamosweu Tsoabi clean up the garden in preparation for a food festival at the Greenhouse People’s Environmental Centre. Photo: Mokgethwa Masemola
Serapeng Co-operative
The Greenhouse People’s Environmental Centre has been a place of great pride and hope for people like 24-year-old Mamonosi who, together with three close friends, has formed a company called Serapeng Co-operative.
The women of Serapeng have partnered with Greenhouse and Gender CC, a network of women for climate justice, to establish a number of sustainable and renewable projects that generate food, energy and income.
The ladies of Serapeng manage many different projects at Greenhouse. Their primary work is the harvesting of vegetables and herbs. The food which they produce is used to sustain life at the centre.
The rest is sold to generate an income as the ladies are renting the space from Greenhouse.
In addition, they grow medicinal plants such as rhubarb, whose roots have healing properties for people suffering from muscle aches and pains and comfrey, which is used for cuts and bruises.
But the most fascinating of their harvest, is the stinging nettle. The subtle sting may be a bit of a shock when first touched.
But this is the beauty of the plant, it’s value lies within this sting. The Serapeng ladies say is can cure many ailments including high blood pressure issues. The plant may also be drunk as a tea, which is good for cleansing the blood stream and immune system.
They also produce ointments, cough mixtures, syrups for women, hair and skin-care products which they sell to surrounding communities.
“We also make candles from beeswax which also helps with air pollution because once lit, the flame can change carbon dioxide and release oxygen,” says Mamosweu.
In addition to their garden, the ladies from Serapeng manage a biogas digester plant which produces the gas they need for cooking and for making their products. “We use cow dung to create the methane gas.
Once the gas has formed we use weeds and organic waste to feed into the digester to produce gas,” explains Mamosweu.
GLASS HOME: The beautiful glasshouse which the centre is planning to revamp and extend its use to an entertainment area. Photo: Mokgethwa Masemola
On the day of the Food Festival, the weather has cleared up. It is a beautiful and sunny day with a slight breeze. Today, the ladies work on a Saturday which is unusual for them but a good cause nonetheless. The festival not only gives other farmers a platform to showcase their work. But also allows people to come in and behold the beauty of this place. Tent upon tent is filled with food activists, climate activists and tables of honey, mustard-coloured soap made by bee farmers and even organic tools such as knives.
Serapeng’s commitment to a sustainable way of life and producing of energy speaks to their passion about being conscious of their impact on nature. The ladies refer to themselves as climate change activists at heart.
“We are also engaged in climate change and energy awareness programmes. We go into communities and give talks and screen films that raise awareness about climate change and what causes it. We then introduce renewable energy as a way of solving the climate crisis and rejuvenating the city in a sustainable way. One of the ways in which this can be done is by using our Wonder Bags, which we design. We also design solar cookers which are mostly used by people in rural areas and informal settlements. We use galvanised sheets which can absorb the sunrays,” Mamosweu boasts with visible pride in their work.
The Wonder Bag she speaks of is a simple bag made of cloth which is sown together and stuffed with little pieces of sponges. When complete, the bag saves energy in that one need only, for example, boil one’s rice on the stove until boiling point and then take it off the stove, put it in the bag and let it cook by itself for as long as eight hours. This limits the time that one uses energy.
“A lot of people believe that work is when you go work for someone else. We want to ensure that people know that they have the ability to create work for themselves. There are a lot of women who are employed and when you look at it, once you equip them with skills, they can do things for themselves,” says Mamosweu.
Formative Years
Mamosweu and her sister, Dineo, grew up in Vanderbijlpark, south of Johannesburg, but now live in Vereeniging. Their passion for their work stems from their childhood.
They were raised by two parents who loved nature and farming. “They taught me that farming is what sustains life and how important it is to have your own food garden, to be able to sustain yourself and have your own project rather than always looking for work,” says Dineo.
Like the Tsoabi sisters, Mamonosi also grew up in the Vaal area. She was raised by her grandmother who enjoyed harvesting vegetables and had her own garden.
They would plant food in the garden and whenever they wanted to eat they would just get food from the garden and cook it. “Agriculture is in the blood because I was raised on it,” she says.
It was these formative years that set her on a path of eco-friendly living.
A few years ago, Mamonosi met the Tsoabi sisters and another lady who shared her passion for organic farming. They were attending workshops about farming and climate change.
As it turned out, Dineo and Mamosweu had a piece of land in the Vaal which belonged to their family. They decided to seize the opportunity by turning it into a farm and growing their own produce.
They still grow vegetables on this farm, which is managed full time by the fourth member of Serapeng.
Eventually they were introduced to Greenhouse and two years ago, together with Gender CC, they formed Serapeng Co-operative.
Today, the ladies of Serapeng have expanded their business beyond farming. They produce medicinal products, farm bees, advocate for eco friendliness, generate their own energy and they are now teaching the surrounding community about sustainability and renewability.
The role of Greenhouse in the CBD
The Greenhouse People’s Environmental Centre has become a sanctuary, not only for the surrounding community, but also for local informal traders and small businesses.
It is a breath of fresh air in a place where tall, dull and grey buildings line the city sky. It has become a “walk-in demonstration centre [where] people can walk in and they want to know what happens to the centre.
We have international tourists who are curious about it,” says Greenhouse centre manager, Thabisile Mchunu.
Besides Serapeng, the centre is home to Conlinea Health and Wellness Centre, which is an ethno-medical facility. Another project located at Greenhouse is Trashback which was set up to manage Greehhouse’s recycling plant and deal with waste that is brought in by waste re-claimers.
“We have another team called Vuk’uzakhe,” says Thabisile, “which is a group of three young men who come from the Eastern Cape. They are volunteers who are here every day.
Before that, they were a part of the Johannesburg Eco-Guides which was a project financed by the City of Johannesburg.
When the stipend ended, they were very eager to continue working on the site because they see themselves as future farmers if they can obtain bigger land to work from.”
There is also a hothouse which is utilised by Urban Farms who produce compost from earthworms. Their latest project is producing portable geysers.
The centre is working with a young man who is distributing small, portable geysers and has already begun attracting major financial donors. The geysers can be attached to taps and then dispense hot water.
The centre allows peoples to come in as volunteers and acquire skills in sustainable and renewable living.
A number of successful projects have sprung up as a result of the work being done by Greenhouse including several food gardens on roof tops in the CBD. In addition, Greenhouse encourages entrepreneurship as a means of sustainably solving social issues.
The centre is what they call a “plug-in” centre where aspiring business owners can use the Wi-Fi and also get business advice from the centre management.
“By 2025 we won’t have coal anymore”
Greenhouse is somewhat of a utopia of sustainable and renewable living. It reminds us of the good which can come from being conscious of our impact on nature. Unfortunately, like the rain falling down during a season of drought in South Africa, Greenhouse is a rare place to find. In fact, there is no other place like it in the inner city.
The problem, according to Earthlife Africa’s education officer, Thabo Sibeko, is threefold. On the one hand, we have to begin to change our mindsets when it comes to sustainable living.
“We need to develop people’s mind-set. There is a misconception that having a food garden is for the poor of the poorest, which isn’t true,” he says. Secondly, sustainable energy technologies have to be modernised to meet the needs of a busy workforce in the city.
Most people just don’t have time to use cookers that take three times as long to prepare a meal, eco-friendly or not. The biggest problem, however, according to Sibeko, is over-population.
“We have a serious problem in the city with regards to population. We are running out of space, even to walk. Sustainability can add value by firstly dealing with issues of policies about living in the city,” says Sibeko.
The ever increasing number of people moving into the CBD has led to lack of space and the over-use of resources, which are depleting rapidly. According to Sibeko, “We are running out of coal in our country. By 2025 we won’t have coal anymore.”
Unless we can find more sustainable and renewable sources of energy, we run the risk of depleting our natural resources. In densely populated parts of the city such as the CBD, the need for energy is crucial and for many, expensive.
Sibeko is an advocate for sustainable and renewable living in Africa. He spends his working days teaching, lobbying for and building sustainable and renewable methods of generating energy, income and food security. He is currently working on a project called Sustainable Energy and Livelihoods Project which is a collaborative effort between Earthlife Africa and the Department of Agriculture and Rural Development to install biogas digesters in schools around the city.
Earthlife Africa is the lessee of the property on which Greenhouse operates. The property belongs to the City of Johannesburg (CoJ), which has leased it to Earthlife.
Despite all of the challenges, the ladies of Serapeng have chosen to look on the greener side of life. “The things that we face currently, we do not refer to as challenges, we face them head on,” says Dineo. “We learn from it and create a solution for the future. In that way we are able to stand on our own feet. Everything we do here is of our own accord and that also inspires the community to come here to see our work and learn from us.”
The heavy rains that have fallen during this week may have been tragic for some, but here the rain is highly appreciated. Every drop is celebrated. Finally, the produce can be rejuvenated. Much the same way as the ladies of Serapeng rejuvenate their community.
FEATURED IMAGE: An image of a food garden. Photo: Mokgethwa Masemola
The rain relentlessly pours out of the dark grey skies and people scurry away to find shelter away from the rain. In this rush, the two players remain focused on their ongoing chess game.
The wet weather doesn’t deter their focus, you can see it in their eyes that thoughts are swirling about what the next move will be. The minutes pass by, one player wipes the water off his face, picks up his bishop and takes his opponent’s king. The tension is finally broken and it’s only at this moment that they run for cover with the losing player promising that he will redeem himself next time.
Joubert Park is at the heart of the Johannesburg CBD. It has been able to endure as its surroundings have changed. The park is always laced with a hive of activity: a few hawkers selling caps and sun glasses, photographers offering to take your picture and others sleeping on the grass. But at the corner of the park, there are two big chess boards, complete with their almost life-size chess pieces.
GAME ON: The white chess pieces line up during a game. Photo: Zanta Nkumane
Inja Ye Game
“I can tell you one thing, I’m really good at chess, you see,” says Cephas Chawada, 28, who as been playing chess at the park since 2013. Cephas came to Johannesburg from Limpopo in 2009 to look for work. He was pursuing a diploma in accounting when he had to drop out because he couldn’t afford his university fees any longer. He started working as a painter at Cape Wood Projects and would walk through the park but never stopped to play chess.
“I can tell you one thing, I’m really good at chess, you see”
“My friend introduced me to the chess in the park,” he reveals. “Now I play every day,” he says as he takes out his phone to take a call. He speaks to the caller in Venda and quickly ends the call. Cephas’s dark skin makes his washed out yellow t-shirt seem brighter.
Cephas lives in Hillbrow and says that if he doesn’t have a piece job in the morning, he comes straight to the park. “I’m usually here by 1pm,” he says. “I can play all day until 6.” The crowd around the big chess board keeps growing.
“The games played on the big chess board are free. But the games on the small boards can be for money,” he says, pointing to the few green tables in the small area of the park.
“We are hoping to install more chess boards, so we can hold tournaments but the rain stopped us.” he says. Cephas excuses himself and crosses over to the big chess board. When he returns, he apologises, explaining that he had to book his place in line to play. “You challenge someone then wait for your turn.
If you win, you stay,” he says. “I’ve had a good day where I won five games in a row,” he proudly exclaims. Some days he says they play for money but only on the tables. “I’ve made 200 bucks on a good day,” he reveals “Some play for five rands. You can bet whatever you have.”
“If you win, you stay”
This is how he sometimes makes a “few bucks”. It’s the big chess board that is utilised to teach anyone who wants to learn the game. Maybe the giant chess pieces make it easier to visualise the game. “We teach each other. So if you want to learn, any of the guys can show you,” he says. Even though he started playing chess at school, playing in the park is how he got better at it.
ABANDONED: The new large chess boards that aren’t being utilised due to lack of chess pieces. Photo: Zanta Nkumane
A Whites Only Game
“Chess was a white people game,” he says. The tables with chess boards on them are a legacy of South Africa’s apartheid past. Black people were not allowed into the park thus preventing them from having access to the game. “When the new government took over, people just continued using them,” Cephas says. “But it was the white government, not this one that put the tables here.”
According to an article published in 2013 in the Mail & Guardian Thought Leader, the giant chess pieces were donated by Johannesburg Development Agency as “part of their social investment programme”.
The wear and tear on the chess pieces is evident, the paint is starting to peel. One of the pieces has been completely stripped of paint, and it stands naked with its soggy wooden frame exposed. The pieces spend their days and nights exposed to the elements since they are kept outside, on the board.
“But it was the white government, not this one that put the tables here.”
Therefore, the peeling is understandable. But Cephas says since receiving the large chess pieces, there hasn’t been any other help the chess players have received from the government or the corporate sector. “Government doesn’t help us. We have to do everything ourselves” he says. “Government should help us because this park is owned by the city.” Since they are hoping to get more chess boards, he says it would be great if government helped them out and worked with them. “If they help us, maybe we can keep the chess pieces in the clinic over there [points to a clinic inside the park].” Cephas’s passion is obvious as he speaks about the potential of the game. “We could teach more people how to play,” he says.
The crowd watching the current game keeps growing and their commentary on the game is even louder. “This place is well known. You can ask anybody about Joubert Park and they will say ‘where they play chess’. It’s like a culture now,” Cephas says.
The two players tell the crowd to keep it down. “I can’t think clearly,” one of the players shouts. The crowd quiets down. With each giant chess piece moved, the players take a step back to internalise the consequence of the move. It’s a dance that Cephas knows well. He performs every day. “Saturday is the busiest day since people aren’t at work. That’s when I come in early so I can play more games,” he says. “The line gets long.”
A Game That Changes Lives
ZUGZWANG: That moment when every move will lead to a disadvantage, a feeling familiar at Joubert Park. Photo: Zanta Nkumane
Cephas reveals that they have some players who are currently teaching children in surrounding schools how to play chess. He believes that children can benefit from learning how to play the game as it helps one to think and strategise.
“If you are good at chess, you are good at numbers in school,” he says. He points to a group of children running around in the park, “You see, the kids are roaming around. If we had more boards we could teach them.”
This is his belief, that chess can help keep young people occupied, thus protecting them from drugs and criminal activity. “This thing of ukuganga (naughtiness) is gone from your head,” he says. His friend, David Kondowe agrees.
“This thing of ukuganga (naughtiness) is gone from your head,”
“Chess can change lives,” he says. Kondowe is Cephas’s friend, whom he met at the park, while playing chess. Kondowe is one of the players going to the surrounding schools and teaching students how to play chess. “I like teaching the kids,” he says. “It helps keep them busy.”
THE DAIZERS: The Dazzling Daizer and his team that were actually extras on the Disney movie, The Queen Of Katwe. Photo: Zanta Nkumane
Family Bonds
Cephas and David have been friends for years now, who share a common passion for chess. This is testament to the brotherhood that forms among the players. “I’ve made so many friends here, even people from Zambia and Malawi,” Cephas says.
“This game brings people together.” When one looks around, from the big board to the games being played on the tables, it’s clear that these guys are friends from the banter that is exchanged between players: they tease each other like siblings. “Everyone is equal. Everything is fair here,” Cephas says.
He emphasises the fact that the people who play chess in the park can come from different backgrounds including former CEOs, but in the park, they are all the same.
“I’ve made so many friends here, even people from Zambia and Malawi”
“No one is treated better because of status,” he reveals. “We just treat each other with respect,” he says. “Yeyi wena Cephas, woza uzodlala. [Hey Cephas, come play]” a man in a blue shirt shouts as he moves the large chess pieces back into starting position. Cephas’ turn to play has come. He tells the man that he will play later, because he is busy at the moment.
“I can tell you one thing, I know I’ll win, so it’s fine. We can finish here,” he says. Throughout the interview, many people greet Cephas and he returns their greetings with a wave and nod.
“We are one big family,” he says with a smile that is incited by some nostalgic memory. “If I am stressed, I come here and play. I talk to these guys then I feel better,” he says, “We all know each other by name.”
Cephas bends down, takes off one of his aqua striped flops, dusts off a smudge of dirt and throws it back on the ground and sticks his foot back in. “We try help each other in whatever way we can if we are in trouble,” he says.
Staying Power
Since Joubert Park is located within the CBD, a place considered unsafe, riddled with crime and burgeoning with high human traffic, the little corner where these men play chess has become a small haven and relief for Cephas and his friends.
“It’s a safe space,” he says. He further states that anyone is welcome to come play. “It’s free to anyone,” he says.
“It’s free to anyone”
He says that sometimes people come to the park to relax and end up playing chess. It is Cephas’s and David’s hope that they can get access to more boards so they can host a mini-tournament in the park that would be open to everyone.
“We have tried to ask Joburg Metro [Council] for more chess boards,” he says. Cephas hopes they can get flyers to advertise the tournament, and his vision for the day is to have people playing throughout the park and people walking by can just come, sit down and play, and then carry on with their day. “I really hope we can do this,” he says.
Chess may be just another board game for some, but here at Joubert Park the game is becoming a way of life for some. The game has enabled people to connect, socialise and spark friendships. In this little corner of the park, checkmates, stalemates and zugzwangs are a constant feature.
Chess has become a huge part of the park’s identity, creating a space in which people get to flex their mental muscles. With plans to increase the number of tables, it seems chess will survive through the years just as Joubert Park has. https://www.youtube.com/embed/0g0VNeu-q3E
FEATURED IMAGE:ZUGZWANG: That moment when every move will lead to a disadvantage, a feeling familiar at Joubert Park. Photo: Zanta Nkumane
Take a walk downtown Joburg and you’re sure to find someone who will remind you that you need a bit of aesthetic assistance. It could be the lady that approaches you with her hair extensions to remind you of your bad hair day, the brother selling slim-fit tights to point out that your potbelly is visible to all, the mama selling potions to help you recover that lost lover or the creams to help you get that extra “va-voom”. Regardless of your insecurity, the message from Joburg’s medical economy is clear: everyone falls short of something; they’re here to help you find it, then fix it.
Poster poster on the Joburg street pole, who is the fairest of them all? Well, of course it is she with the fair skin who flaunts her enlarged breasts, bums and thighs or he whose ‘package’ has done well with some extra help.
“If you’re going to ask me all of these questions, you’re going to have to sit here and ask me while I work, I’m busy,” says Lilly as she signals forward to her next customer. She is standing behind the counter table of her cosmetic stand, situated in a shop owned by other traders where she rents a small corner.
The view from her stand is busy; she sits across from the Noord market in Joburg where thousands of people pass through on their way to the taxi rank. Lilly is a stern woman. She’s always busy but she enjoys chatting. The traders across from her sit under the scorching sun. Many of them are seated on the floor or along the pavement, trying desperately to escape the blistering heat.
Lilly doesn’t have these problems. She sits on a stool with her containers laid out in front of her and a roof over her head. It hasn’t always been this way for her. She used to sit along the pavement outside of her shop and sell her facial creams for years before she could afford to be here.
Lilly doesn’t have these problems. She sits on a stool with her containers laid out in front of her and a roof over her head. It hasn’t always been this way for her. She used to sit along the pavement outside of her shop and sell her facial creams for years before she could afford to be here.
“The metros used to chase us away and then I found a place on another side of town but business fell there so I came back here,” she says. Lilly says she fought for her trading corner in this shop owned by Pakistanis; she describes herself as a fighter.
The metro police regularly come into this side of town to raid the stalls of the informal traders all around Lilly’s store.
She recalls how she quickly she used to pack up her stock when she heard that they would be coming. Sometimes, she managed to make it in time but at the times that she didn’t, they would take her stock. Now she enjoys the benefits of having a stall.
No more panic and running, business is uninterrupted.
A woman, dressed in orange crop pants and a floral shirt, stops in front of her counter, picks up Carolight facial whitening cream and smells it. “How much?” the woman asks.
“Sikesty rand,” says Lilly as she stands, stopping the woman from dipping her finger into the cream. The customer sighs in discouragement.
“How much you have sisi?” Lilly asks in an attempt to negotiate. The lady reveals that she only has fifteen rand. “Will you give me for fifteen?” she asks. Lilly retreats back into her stool. “No, next time sisi”.
Lilly sees characters like orange-pants-mama daily.
People are always trying to bargain with her. She’s open to bargaining but refuses to be exploited because she has leverage; her creams can’t be found on retail shelves.
What’s in the cream?
”The government here doesn’t want them because they have hydroquinone,” says Lilly of her products, looking morose but sounding unbothered.
The creams are not sold in South African retail stores because they have been banned from trade by the government. Lilly imports them from other African countries including Mozambique, Congo and Ghana. The creams arrive by bus, train and ship. Lilly has many suppliers across the African continent, she cannot limit her supply chain to one distributor because the products come at different times and from different places.
The other prevailing ingredient in Lilly’s creams is mercury. A study conducted by the World Health Organisation in 2011 found that 35% of women in South Africa use skin lightening products, on a regular basis, that contain mercury.
Hydroquinone is a skin lightning agent that hampers the production of melanin for one’s skin. It is used to remove dark spots and reduce skin pigmentation.
Medical experts warn against the use of these chemicals for daily usage creams. “Those chemicals are damaging and can cause scarring, leading to stretch marks, low resistance to infections and irreversible damage to pigmentation,” scolds head of dermatology department at the University of Kwa-Zulu Natal and President of the African Women’s Dermatology Society Professor Ncoza Dlova.
Regulation and legislation
A woman comes to the counter to buy cream. She tells Lilly that her cream is almost finished and she has seen the dark marks under eyes go away. They exchange pleasantries, then the lady points to Carolight and nods. Lilly stands from her chair and disappears into the back of the shop for a few minutes before re-appearing with a sealed box of the cream. The woman pays and sets off.
The containers displayed on Lilly’s counter are all empty.
“They can’t take what they can’t see,” she says of the Metro police who occasionally raid the shops when they have permits. Although Lilly has immunity from her stock being impounded under the bylaws that prohibit trading in undesignated areas on the streets like she used to, she still faces trouble when the authorities are allowed to enter shops because her products are banned.
So she keeps her trading stock away from the eyes of authorities and goes to fetch them as she makes her sales. This way, she loses nothing by her containers being confiscated.
Lilly is pleased with this. She explains it with a sparkle of cunning genius in her eyes, flaunting the satisfaction of outsmarting the regulation systems. This method is not unique to Lilly, Martha around the corner, “Aunty” on Wanderers street and Annie outside Park Station all admit to using the same system.
Officials from the Johannesburg Metro Police Department (JMPD) say they cannot do much about this since it is not in their authority to search warehouses. A JMPD official explains that they are instructed to confiscate goods which are in plain sight. They do not have the authority to search warehouses or store rooms, furthermore, they are not trained to identify the legality of the goods but the legality of the trader.
Therefore, their business is to only confiscate goods from the trader if he/she has no license to sell, not to focus on whether the goods are banned or not.
The creams are popular among young black women, especially those familiar with them from their home countries. “This thing is like a peanut in my home country, it’s easy to find,” Lilly says of the facial creams.
The instruction is to apply to the face and neck twice daily and results will be visible in a month.
The best results are achieved if the user sticks to one product, “don’t mix,” she says sternly as she holds the containers up to illustrate. At the price of R60, Lilly makes a profit of R10 for each unit of cream that she sells.
Her highest sales period is “at the end of the month,” but says her gains are negligible after paying school tuition for her three children aged ten, eight and four years old and then buying food.
Lilly knows her products very well. She was fifteen years old when she started using the cream herself.
At 36 years’ old now, she still swears by the cream she started using sixteen years ago to even and lighten her skin.
She’s proud of how she’s always been able to sell the product by example “they just look at my face and buy,” she says of how she convinces customers to purchase. She has been making her livelihood from her beauty products since she arrived in South Africa from DRC in 2000.
Lilly recalls being one of few traders selling facial lightening creams when she arrived in South Africa 16 years ago.
The market has changed and Joburg’s cosmetic economy has since attracted many more sellers who aim to make a living off people’s desire for beauty and social acceptance.
A young boy hands out flyers in the middle of Wanderers street in Joburg’s CBD. “*Chief Luke, fresh from the mountains,” it reads.
After four rings, a man picks up the phone. It’s Chief Luke. He speaks in a friendly and gentle tone. Luke is both a manufacturer and retailer for his product. He has been making and selling cosmetic products for “a long time”.
“There are no side effects to my products,” he says proudly. His offerings vary from penis, hips and bum enlargement creams to potions for retrieving your lost lover.
Chief Luke mixes his products to conform to the standard size. “12 Centimeters is the standard size for a penis,” he says as he describes the specifications around which he makes his mixtures. His penis enlargement cream is sold in a tub weighing five grams and guarantees results within 17 days. The instruction is to apply the cream twice a day for the 17-day-period and see results. “The cream is permanent,” he says.
Confidence oozes out of the Tanzanian craftsman over the telephone as he speaks about the successes of his products. He has never received negative feedback from any of his clients. He mixes his creams using loco medicine- a mixture of trees, leaves and grassroots. The herbs are sourced from all around Africa and he says his creams are applicable to men of all ages.
The bum and hip enlargement creams, much like the penis enlargement cream, have permanent effects. The 17-day results period applies equally and the R700-R750 cream can also be used for breast enlargements.
“You cannot get a large penis from rubbing cream, any qualified doctor knows that there is no such thing. They are playing at the ignorance of the people,” says an irritated Dlova.
But, Luke’s certainty in the success of his product tells a different tale. He must be an industry leader in his field. Although there are hundreds of posters shouting “PENIS ENLARGEMENT. HIPS AND BUMS ENLARGEMENT” all around town, many of the numbers lead to one of two people: Luke or the man who seems to be his greatest competitor, Frank.
Frank is much less friendly. Much like Luke, his magic lies too in his creams. The Congolese man offers his creams at a standard rate of R450 and guarantees results within seven days with identical instructions to Luke’s.
Although widely advertised, endless follow up calls to the cellphone numbers attached to the posters pasted on street lamps and “danger boxes” all around the city show that the medical economy for cosmetic procedures in Joburg is tiny. Perhaps run by no more than five practitioners. Most of them charge a standard R100 consultation fee before purchasing the product and few will give you the correct name.
It’s difficult for them to talk about their businesses. They don’t trust anyone and the value of their trade is in its secrecy.
ALWAYS READY: The Johannesburg metro police department is an active part of Joburg’s market life. The officials are mandated to ensure that all vendors and traders comply with by-laws and take action against offenders. COMPETITION:Skin lightening creams have become popular in Joburg’s market places. Shown here are some of Lilly’s competitors.
The art of the trade
It’s 4.30pm and Lilly is almost headed home to her husband and children in Ridge Park towards the south of Johannesburg. Although exhausted, she must hurry home to prepare food for her husband and children. He doesn’t like to arrive home before her.
“God willing, tomorrow is another day.”
Although different in their contexts, Lilly, Luke and Frank have come in pursuit of success in Joburg’s concrete jungle and tomorrow is indeed another day to make it happen – this is Joburg, you will always find someone with a profitable insecurity.
*Names have been changed.
FEATURED IMAGE: Creams for aesthetic assistance. Photo: Nozipho Mpanza
“You should see bab’uSithole’s hands; they are like this,” Mam’Sipho says and pauses from plaiting her customer who is sitting on a red plastic chair in the middle of Kerk street, to emphaise the point by curling her fingers.
Bab’uSithole is the Zulu man who started the street hairdressing business on corner Eloff Street and Kerk Street back in 1993. This is where Mam’Sipho does hair. Bab’uSithole does not do hair anymore, Mam’Sipho says. He is on pension.
“The way I see it, he has arthritis but he mistook it for a stroke. That’s what he said. I spoke to him and I said ‘no this is not stroke; stroke is not like this. If it was a stroke, you wouldn’t be able to control your fingers’. But you know South Africans, they earn grant for disability and all that,” she says with a mock twang and laughs.
The queen of Kerk Street
Mam’Sipho laughs a lot and flashes a dazzling smile every time she speaks. She is big and bubbly with inquisitive, piercing eyes. She is originally from Zimbabwe but came to South Africa in 1990 or ’91 – she is not too sure. She started working on Kerk Street in 1993 and has been here ever since.
“I have six kids. I did it six times,” she says and laughs, again. Mam’Sipho is 47 years’ old. Age has barely touched her face. She has given birth to six children, two (a boy and a girl) of which are still in primary school. The two visit her every day on their home from school. “The other one is standing there,” she says, picking out her daughter, 9, who is squeezing her way through a mash of people crowding Kerk and Von Brandis Street. She has on a blue tunic and a navy jersey.
Her brother, 11, drags his feet slovenly behind her. The boy’s name is Ramsey but the Kerk street hawkers call him Popo. The girl is Fezile. Through the milling crowd of traders and buyers and the cluster of goods a man calls out to Mam’Sipho upon spotting her “two little ones” as she calls them.
“Mamazala!” the man shouts, lumbering towards her chair where she is still tending to her customer. “Yebo mkhwenyana!” she calls back. “Do you see how big your boy Popo is?” the man says in a hoarse voice. “He needs to exercise. He is even bigger than me?” “Ah Mkhenyana, bigger than you?” “He has a big mkhaba. What size does he wear? I’m sure his trousers are tailored now?” the man says, catching his breath.
“Who? Bobo?” Mam’Sipho laughs. “Vele, it is so, I ordered these ones from Indians. You see yourself that he is shaped like an Indian.” Mam’Sipho has a candour about her that seems to attract vendors and customers to her like moths to a lightbulb. This effect has been good for her business.
On average she make about R800.00 a day, although she is quick to say that when days are good she takes home a lot more. With her hairdressing business she has been able to buy a house in Zimbabwe and pay the R5300 monthly rent for her two-bedroom flat on Plein and Joubert street.
THE BEST HAIRDRESSER IN TOWN:Mam’uSipho (blue top) is the block leader of Kerk Street and her chair is always busy with the young women who come from near and far to get their hair styled by her. Photo: Lwandile Fikeni
Taking a stand against the authorities
However, things have not always run so swiftly on Kerk Street. Bab’uShezi can attest to that. He is part of the original trio – Bab’uSithole, Mam’Sipho, and then him – who started the hairdressing business on the narrow street. Like Bab’uSithole, he also hails from KwaZulu-Natal. His bone of contention has to do with the formal vending stalls that were built in 2010 – for the Fifa World Cup – which were intended to formalise their business.
Clouds quickly gather above the city’s blue sky as Bab’uShezi speaks. “These new stalls were built while I was working here,” he says in isiZulu, his face a lump of grief. “Here they took our IDs to create these structures for us but when they were complete they turned on us and installed migrants in our place. “
The City of Johannesburg announced that hairdressers were forbidden from the new flea market, Bab’uShezi says. They even made us cards and then they came back and confiscated them. That’s when they introduced these new people, he says with visible contempt at the hawkers shielded in the shade.
“We don’t know how these people got their stalls – whether they bought them or not,” he continues, shaking his head and working the hooked needle in his hands around the balding spot of his customer, who’s asked for a weave.
“We hear that this might be the case,” he says grumpily. “R10 000 is the price being thrown around. These were our stands and we were kicked out. That’s why we’re here on the side of the street. They wanted to chase us off this area. I’m the one who fought for this place the most.”
On this last score a twitch of angry satisfaction flickers across his face. Bab’Shezi is a very proud man. He is short and wears a greying goatee, his signature spottie (bucket hat) hangs down one side of his head as he speaks. His hands work mechanically, drawing the threaded needle in and out of his customer’s loose coif of damaged hair. Bab’uShezi doesn’t know how old he is but he says he was born in 1964.
“When was it when they wanted to forcibly remove us from here?” he turns round and asks another hairdresser close by.
“It was that time when they were cleaning up the city,” the woman says with a sigh.
“Yes, that time,” he retorts.
CLICK TO VIEW GALLERY: Kerk Street is a crowded strip in the inner city which has been demarcated for hawkers. While the hawkers have been granted permits to operate in this area, the hairdressers are still being chased away from time to time by JMPD. Photo: Lwandile Fikeni
“I can’t remember very well,” the woman says. “This was during the world cup. That time when they didn’t want any hawkers selling on the side of the road.”
They have contempt for us hairdressers, Bab’uShezi says, dialling up his own contempt at the way the city and its Metro police treat him and his colleagues.
“They say we aren’t needed here. Now that we’re inching closer to december…” “They also came here three months ago,” the woman cuts him.
“Yes, three months,” Bab’uShezi adds. “So that’s the kind of life we live here.”
Bab’uShezi says he has collected the names of the elderly hairdressers who work on Kerk Street and took them to a lawyer “who was helping us; his name was Mantanga, and he took our case to the high court.
In the end they ended up sending us back here, in the street, to continue with our work. But they returned us here, and not inside the stalls. We never got the stalls back. They kicked us out!”
When it rains there is nowhere for Bab’uShezi, Mam’Sipho and their swish of hairdressers to find shelter. They hide beneath the covering of JetMart and sometimes, while they’re there, Metro police come and confiscate their equipment.
And that equipment is never returned.
Unleashing Vimba against tsotsi’s downtown
Kerk Street is a cacophony of cars and taxis and cops comingling with the rush of bodies passing through this section of downtown Johannesburg. Against the steel fence of the South Gauteng High Court on Von Brandis Street. just off Kerk, loiters a group of young men – tsotsi’s – who are attracted by the booming hair business here.
“Tsotsi’s don’t attack us,” says Mam’Sipho with an assuring smile. “They will attack a random stranger. Us, we’re more like a police siren. We are the ones that started this vimba thing.”
Vimba means ‘catch him’. It is an infamous yell, a siren that has become synonymous with hawkers downtown. You often hear it when a tsotsi is on the run after snatching an item on sale at one the hawkers’ stalls. The yell alerts hawkers and bystanders alike and has led to many a vigilante mob that delivers raw justice on the pavements of inner city Johannesburg.
“So tsotsi’s,” Mam’Sipho continues, “they know that when they are here and they start to do these wrong things we just say ‘vimba’ and they get caught.”
“When you ask the Metro police what they are doing they tell you that you are not wanted here,” Bab’uShezi says, angrily. “And the irony is that we were here first. The oldest practitioners here are Sipho and I.
All these other people” – he gestures to the sellers in the stalls – “they found us here. Now we live this wretched life where we are harassed constantly by Metro police.
That’s how we end up fighting. It’s not that we’re fighting them [the other hawkers] but we do so in order to come back here and to do our work.”
Different hairstyles for individual needs
Hairdressers on Kerk Street have mulptiplied since Bab’uSithole, Mam’Sipho and Bab’uShezi began all those years ago – and so have styles. Styles depend on what’s in, Mam’Sipho says while weaving an intricate design on one of her old customers’ crown.
“Most people ask for the style that’s the in-style,” she says, eyes fixed on the young woman’s head. “There was a time when there was the razor cut; there was a time when this style came in (she gestures with her eyes to the young woman whose hair she is plaiting), it is called Pontofina. So it depends on what’s in fashion – it’s like clothes. It’s like a label.
That’s how it is with hair. But there are styles that never go out of fashion like amasingili (singles/braids).”
The young woman being plaited by Mam’Sipho’s studious hands is Simphiwe Maseko. She is a student at the University of Johannesburg. She’s been coming to sit in Mam’Sipho’s chair since 2014, since she started going to varsity.
“I was passing here, actually, and I saw her doing hair and I was like, no, this is nice, then I asked her if I could come do my hair with her and then she was like, you can come, it’s fine, then I came.
She did my hair and I was happy. That’s when I started coming more often.
My first hairstyle was a straight back. It was these same braids but straight back,” she says pointing to the style Mam’Sipho is currently weaving on her head.
Maseko hasn’t had her hair done elsewhere ever since that first day in Mam’Sipho’s chair.
“When I wanna do my hair I just come here,” she adds. “Mam’Sipho is good at what she does; that’s all I can say.”
A glimmer of hope for women in the city
The dangerous elements, which are so ubiquitous as to be the very air one breathes in downtown, have not succeeded in deterring both clients and hairdressers.
Zandile Zwane, an inner city resident, moved into Kerk Street in 2006. Before then, she was a student at one of the computer colleges in town.
“I found out that computers are not my thing, but i had a talent for doing hair but I wasn’t that perfect,” she says.
When she used to pass Kerk Street on her way to her computer course she would stop and ask the elderly men who crochet hair with a needle to teach her how to do it.
“I asked how much it was to train me,” she says with cool smile. “They said it’s R100.00 for each style. They mainly use a needle but they were going to teach me all the styles.”
After her brief training she went back home and practised. She already had a certificate in hairdressing but she didn’t know how to plait and crochet hair. After she was confident she could plait and crochet hair she took up a spot next to Mam’Sipho and has been on Kerk Street ever since.
“So, because I had a small child,” Zwane adds, “I thought it better to come here and do hair. I can come here anytime I like. It’s better than being a house wife. I don’t have to wake up early and come here. I’m able to make food for my kids in the morning and then come here, to the street, and then knock off whenever I like and go back to my children. So I saw it was more convenient, plus, I have a talent for it. It’s something I’ve always enjoyed and loved.”
There’s always a silver lining
The clouds above the city turn a dark grey colour and are pregnant with rain. Few moments pass before the first spittle begins to wet the street. The hairdressers usher their clients to the JetMart canopy.
Soon the rain starts pouring vehemently as the population of Kerk Street runs for cover. Mam’Sipho maintains a jubilant smile even as the rain washes down, turning small rivulets slowly into rivers of waste along the gutters of Eloff and Von Brandis Street. Bab’uShezi looks up at the sky as if quietly cursing God for all the inconvenience.
He casts his eyes back to shock of hair before him, and with his hooked needle begins to weave away.
FEATURED IMAGE:CLICK TO VIEW GALLERY: Kerk Street is a crowded strip in the inner city which has been demarcated for hawkers. While the hawkers have been granted permits to operate in this area, the hairdressers are still being chased away from time to time by JMPD. Photo: Lwandile Fikeni
Welcome to the Johannesburg CBD where money is what sustains many livelihoods and the nature of sex work is both implied and explicit. For many, sex work might be regarded as a morally degrading activity in society but for some of the men and women involved in this business trade, agency is what regulates their services.
“I became a sex worker because I wanted a Carvela for my matric dance but could not afford it,” says 28-year-old Lindiwe who is still an active sex worker. Lindiwe says she had always dreamt of owning the pair of shoes and a friend of hers recommended sex work. The young woman laughs as she explains how she gave into peer pressure, thinking that would be her last time working as a sex worker.
“I had plans of continuing with my studies but I managed to buy myself shoes and once I was in the field, I met successful women and some of them were mothers who were earning a living through sex and I decided to stay,” she says.
Lindiwe is one of many men and women who are fighting for the decriminalisation of sex work in South Africa as they believe that their work is just like any other occupation. She says in as much as she would appreciate the freedom of movement, it’s the police harassment and the stigma in society that she wants to see gone.
“The police will take me from just standing at a corner and not tell me why they are arresting me. It’s tough because others don’t want bribes but ask for sexual favours and if we refuse then we are kept in cells or wrong statements are handed in,” she says.
Lindiwe says she’s spent nights in holding cells three times during her career, and while she has gotten used to being taken by cops, no two days are the same. “I just pay the bribe sometimes because I can’t be losing business,” she adds.
Sisonke Media Liaison Officer Katlego Rasebitse says sex workers want to be law-abiding citizens, but the laws in the country make it difficult for them.
“Some of our members are part of brothels but have seen underage children being used as sex workers. We know this is not right but are afraid to report now because when we do, the police end up harassing everyone,” says Rasebitse.
“We also have a strict policy of advocating for safe sex because we know that HIV/Aids is a serious thing. All we want is to be allowed to do our work because we are not criminals,” he says.
Lindiwe says sex work is her choice of work and she wishes that people would respect this choice and not pity her. Another sex worker, a friend of hers, shouts, “We are not a charity case, we can drive our own cars and build our own homes with the money we make, so I wish they would leave us alone because we are not prostitutes.”
The two laugh and Lindiwe justifies why she doesn’t like being called a <em>magosha,</em> “I work according to a structure and rates like any other person who renders services. Prostitutes settle for anything given in exchange for sex because they are desperate.”
Lindiwe says she is married and her husband is a former regular client. Her small eyes get bigger as she beams over how he approached the marriage subject. “He obviously had been watching me for a while and he asked if I would leave my job if he married me and provided for me,” says Lindiwe, who then takes a speech pause.
“This was a serious proposal but I said no!” chuckles the sex worker whilst rocking on her chair. Her friend says, “But here you are married to him right now, isn’t it?” Lindiwe answers confidently saying, “Of course! He found me making my own money and he just had to understand that I love what I do, and it’s just work.”
Lindiwe says it’s life changing situations such as these that prove just how much she loves her job. “If something better came along then maybe I would take it because growth is an important thing but for now, I’m happy.” she says.
She says society will never understand the many roles that sex workers are forced to play. “I end up being a friend and counsellor because most of these men are depressed,” she says.
“We have regular clients that we have formed friendships with, and we’ll often refer them to marriage counsellors because we are also tired of seeing single mothers. Their wives must also understand that we are all sexual beings and this thing of having sex once a month doesn’t work,” says Lindiwe.
The story of sex work is the same but the people in the field are all different, says Primrose who is a 44-year-old mother of four children aged between 23 and 10 years old. Primrose was born and raised in Zimbabwe but moved to South Africa in 2007.
Primrose used to work as a housekeeper at a hotel in the area before deciding to get into sex work. “Getting a job was so easy for me when I got to South Africa and I also got free accommodation, so when I lost all of this, looking again was difficult.”
She says she had spent years working at the hotel and had failed to acquire new skills while she was there and, as a result, she thought she was not employable. “Luckily for me, I knew some women who worked at the hotel as sex workers and they all looked decent and respectable, so I didn’t see it as a bad thing to do,” she said.
Primrose says although the CBD is her ‘home’, she has learnt to move from one place to the other. “We call it seasonal movement because we know where the money is. Sometimes, I’ll go as far as Witbank during the week then come back again on weekends.”
The flamboyant mother boasts about her rights as a sex worker, saying she is more than just a sex worker now as she is a peer educator to other workers. “We teach them how to practice safe sex and also how to express that they are sex workers when they get to spaces such as clinics.”
Primrose says most of the sex workers she knows have been harassed by nurses in clinics. “They will tell me to bring my partner when I had just told them I am a sex worker. It doesn’t make sense, but I now know how to deal with them,” she says.
Mpho Ramashala who is a counsellor that has worked with some sex workers at the Hillbrow Clinic says that she sees many types of workers but their frustration as health caregivers comes when some workers are not honest about what they do.
“Talking to them tends to be difficult because they are not always honest, and with treatments such as PrEP, we find that oftentimes, it is not given to the right people,” says Ramashala.
Pre-Exposure Prophylaxis (PrEP) is medication given to people who think they might be at high risk of getting the HIV/Aids virus. Ramashala says different people use it differently but she’s aware that some sex workers use it because of the high risk they face.
Primrose says part of her job is to make sure that sex workers understand these medical processes and join focus groups which help many workers feel empowered. “I empower other women and I feel empowered because I have learnt how to write and tell stories through newsletters that we circulate,” says Primrose.
She says her biggest concern is always about taking care of herself. “I always avoid drinking too much alcohol because I need to look good,” says the woman whilst fixing the positioning of her hoop earrings, exposing her natural and unmanicured long nails.
She coils her legs on the grass as she’s seated and says “I always wanted to be an air hostess when I was a child, even my brother used to call me air hostess and I loved that name,” says Primrose.
This sentence is later followed by a consoling, “But I am in this industry because I want my children to be professionals one day. I want them to have the best education.” Primrose says her children think that she’s a peer educator that helps other women but don’t know that she too, is a sex worker.
The fact that her children link her to only one profession does not bother her. She says, “People think sex workers are dumb, immoral and dirty, but that’s not true. We are parents, we are also human beings and deserve respect.”
Primrose says she hopes that sex work is decriminalised because it would make things easier for them and also assist in having discussions around the work they do. The poised woman says she would love to be viewed as just Primrose who provides for her family and not a sex worker.
“We do normal things, I’m a domestic and like doing laundry and cleaning. I’d rather not have anything in my fridge but stay in a clean environment,” she says before breaking into giggles. Primrose says sex workers all have their different mechanisms of dealing with things, and cleaning has always been hers.
“I will even chase my boyfriend away and not respond to emails until I am done and I think my house is clean,” she says. Just like Lindiwe, Primrose also met her boyfriend of seven years on the job. She says he has always been supportive of her decision to stay in the field of sex work.
Primrose says she has learnt to be content with her job but wishes that many of the younger girls in the field knew about the various projects that can earn them extra money on the side.
“If you are not leaning on something else then sex work can be so hard but it’s also funny how the men we do business with prefer independent women who do other things on the side,” she says.
When asked how much her rates are, Primrose jauntingly responds with “Look, I cannot respond to that but just know that it is enough for me and my extended family.”
Both Lindiwe and Primrose have coexisted with what are considered social ills and degrading activities in society but for them, there is nothing degrading about sex work as this remains their choice of occupation. “I am not my work and I am a human being before I am a sex worker,” says Primrose.
FEATURED IMAGE: Condoms distributed at public toilets. Photo: Ayanda Mgeda
There’s a man seated on an empty ledge in the inner city of Johannesburg, he’s a black man, next to him, his friend or colleague, a white man, they having heated debate.
In front of them, a woman. She stands resolute, one arm raised, holding firmly, a bottle with a burning wick. She’s carrying a baby on her back too, bound by a blanket. She’s a mother, a fighter, a leader.
Her right arm raised higher, holding a statement demanding for all of the city to read “Democracy is Dialogue”. She is bold and bronze monument, a symbol of the South African liberation.
Behind her, the words “Libri Thesaurus Anmi” (Books are the treasure house of the mind) are etched into the stone of a building, the Johannesburg City Library, another symbol of South Africa’s democracy.
GRAND DESIGN:The Reference Library is a vast space to explore, holding a range of texts from historical records, to practical handbooks, scientific treaties, literature and contemporary knowledge. The librarian’s desk is long, but the library itself is grand in design. White spherical globes hang from the carved and coffered Italianesque ceilings, while young and old adults indulge in knowledge below.
In the Beyers Naude Square of the Johannesburg inner city, you can see people from all walks of life. A skater passes a homeless man, while a girl and her friend in their school uniforms walk up the 21 steps towards the grand and intricately designed doors of the Johannesburg City Library.
As you enter, a young man behind a counter is the first to welcome you. The lighting is dull and insufficient. The pace is slow, a contrast to the buzzing outside. People inside are either filling their water bottles from the water cooler, looking down from the balcony on the first floor or walking slowly into a section of the library to start studying. It’s exam period, the library has more activity than usual.
The man behind the counter waits to receive your belongings and issues you a worn out card with a number marked on it. While you wait there’s a squeaking escalator on the left, that’s hard not to miss but also easy to get used to.
The Johannesburg City Library (JCL) was opened to all races in 1974, in an attempt to overcome the spatial divide between races. Over time it became a symbol of knowledge, transformation and democracy.
Taking us on a backward journey Des Patel, who worked as a librarian in the 80s, said the library was commonly used recreationally for children and adults. “People would go there to read for pleasure,” she said. Despite being open to all races, Patel said sections of the library were still very racially segregated, the facilities were used differently.
“One thing I do highlight is that people of colour would come into the library and they had this hunger for knowledge and facts – they would take out non-fictional books mostly, while white people indulged in fictional books.”
Through knowledge it was possible for young activists and leaders to inform themselves on the liberation and find ways to transform their society.
Two decades later and living in Johannesburg, in a so-called “new South Africa”, sees many people grappling with the idea of being truly African. The library, located on Albertina Sisulu Road and Pixley Ka Isaka Seme Street, is quite ‘underutilised’, said Patel.
Edgar Serala, 32, a tall and lean man sits in his chair in the Michaelis Art collection on the second floor.
Surrounded with books and art pieces while natural light streams in from the windows in the ceiling, Serala looks around with familiarity before he starts talking.
Serala comes from Soweto and has been a library user ever since he was a young boy. He is a school drop-out but has not allowed that to detour his path. He is an aspiring writer, former miner and now an entrepreneur, who frequents the library to improve his business in Soweto. He is a self-taught man and uses the library as his ‘virtual’ office.
“It’s easier and cheaper, I meet clients here, use the wi-fi to develop my own website and do the digital marketing for my product,” said Serala.
He believes that despite the library being a hoarder of knowledge, it needs more.
“This is more of an academic library, it houses more 20th century material,” he said.
He says to some extent the library does not identify with the majority of South Africans.
“It still has that colonial structure and it houses that material – we need to ask – do we actually know enough to transform our society, maybe the library needs to transform, before we can transform our society,” he said.
“We don’t only reject it, but it rejects us,” he added.
The architecture and buildings around town are still very European and it does not fit in with the identities or understandings of the African majority. “We’re not necessarily doing away with Eurocentric thinking and material, it’s about giving us the opportunity to learn more about Africa,” he said.
Serala enthusiastically made reference to Black-Consciousness leader Stephen Bantu Biko’s I write what I like.
“I read it when I was young, but it ‘fucked me up’, it made me analyse everything, I didn’t realise what was going on around me and it opened my eyes to the potential of transformation – imagine if I had access to more books like that?” he said.
For Serala, in order to transform, there needs to be a transformation of knowledge which allows people to see and discover things for themselves about the world.
In the same space, also comforted by the knowledge on Art and Art history in the Michaelis Art Collection on the second floor, is librarian William Stewart. Sitting by a round desk, Stewart said the JCL is a preserve of the wealthiest collections of knowledge about South Africa’s history.
“During apartheid, there was a ban on certain books, a kind of censorship and librarians had to burn these books,” but Stewart, who has been at the JCL since 1991, said the librarians at the JCL could not bring themselves to burn books or records they kept of the city, they instead hid them, and when the ban on these books lifted, the books resurfaced.
He said the Johannesburg Library, as it operates today, contains books that represent all points of views. This, he said, is so that people who use the library can make their own informed decisions about the country’s politics and social issues.
“The library’s role is to collect and preserve information of local interest,” said Stewart, while adjusting his thick black-framed spectacles.
The Michaelis Art Collection houses the ideas of contemporary artists from Africa and Europe, either on the shelves or as pieces framed against the walls. A colourful but crammed piece by South African artist Helen Sebidi ushers you into the library. Sebidi is a common name among South Africa’s township artists. Her art confronts themes relating to the ‘dislocation and disruption of society’. She drew her inspiration from the happenings and experiences of daily township life during apartheid.
The www.sahistory.org.za website encapsulated: “The life history of the struggle of this consummate artist stands as a metaphor for our collective struggle to define ourselves as a nation – therefore reminding us where we come from and prompts us towards our future.”
Stewart, who commended the library’s wealth of knowledge in art, history, archives, music while also embracing the use of the internet to supplement knowledge, said libraries collect knowledge for the benefit of society, to broaden people’s perspectives and add to their knowledge of the entire world, not just their own continent.
Through whichever means, the library embodies engagement with knowledge. Every fortnight, the Indaba room on the first floor is brought to life through conversation. People with a disparity in age and background gather around rectangular tables to discuss books they’ve read and provide personal perspectives on current affairs.
Rethabile Dladla, who frequents the dynamic space, said these discussions inform her on broader issues about the world without having to read the news.
“It’s about learning through conversation – people talk about what they learn and we share,” she said.
The 23-year-old journalism student from Boston College in Johannesburg said it is a free space and people of all different ages talk about whatever they want.
“Sometimes we discuss countries, books, movies and TV series, we talk about everything.”
The value and significance of the library holding discussions during the information age is relatively rare. Many overlook that knowledge can also be obtained through conversation and by challenging views, as they do in the Indaba room on the first floor.
Dladla added: “Discussions of this nature will help take us forward and that it’s good because it encourages recreational reading.”
Recreational reading is seen as rather rare according to former JCL librarian Shamim Hargovan. She recalls the vibrancy of people who used libraries in 1984 when she worked there. “It was vibrant and busy and now there is no reading youth,” she said.
Drawing from her personal observations, Hargovan said: “People are not critical, they don’t interact or debate and if it doesn’t involve them, it’s fine – what future do we then foresee?”
Libraries in these circumstances have the responsibility to facilitate and make provision for learning and knowledge that is accessible to all. Public libraries are somewhat representative of an informal schooling system, educating on issues that go beyond their own benefit and interests.
Trailing across the open space from the Michaelis Art Collection, towards the left wing staircase, many youth can be seen gathered around tables with white lights reflecting off their faces. Unlike the natural light streaming in through the windows on the ceilings, this light instead comes from the light of smartphone or laptops.
The marble stairs on the left leading up to the Africana section are well lit compared to the rest of the library. Almost like a metaphor for enlightenment of the African child, seeking to quench a thirst for knowledge in a building that looks like it’s been pulled straight out off the page of an Italian architecture book.
The glass doors entering the Africana collection have many instructions on them. “No bags larger than this window allowed.”
More glass casings, to protect the history or to protect the people against the history. There are rows of cabinets, glass and wooden cabinets, holding the books that carry South Africa’s history. Pre-democracy and even the times before that.
History in books is peculiar. They capture the details and ideas of intellectuals, until someone cares to pick it up, page through it and absorb the ideas for intellectual enlightenment.
A definite product of African knowledge is Gugulethu Bodibe, a writer and researcher. He can be found sitting on the cushioned chair, in front of a wooden table, stacked with various political books, reading one of his own. A loose crocheted beanie and a Zulu beaded chain to dress his neck. He uses the fan to cool him in the stuffy preserve of the Harold Strange Africana collection on the third floor.
Bodibe has invested his time in the study of African history, culture, spirituality and politics and published an article called “Culture as a weapon” in an American magazine in 2009. Since then, he has turned his research towards the understanding of Ancient African history and language.
“I wanted to study my father tongue at UNISA but the institution didn’t offer it, I challenged them for it but they rejected me, which brought me to question what does it mean to be an African in the new South Africa – I started questioning everything.”
Bodibe developed a keen interest in Ancient African languages and how they can be used to advance African knowledge systems. He drew his inspiration on this subject from Kenyan author Ngugi Wa Thiongo’s book, Decolonising the Mind, which discusses how African authors have to write in African languages.
“I armed myself with that knowledge and applied myself practically,” he said.
Bodibe started a company called Setheo Seshat Djehuty (the Institute for the Manifestation of Wisdom) that aims to promote the study of African languages and literature in South Africa.
Bodibe, who is very passionate about his research on ancient African languages, said: “Africa needs to look within itself and without- we need to learn from other countries and apply it to ourselves.”
As a researcher on African perspectives and knowledge systems, Bodibe spends at least one day a week in the Harold Strange Africana Collection. He said he wants to use languages and scientific knowledge to motivate and educate others towards transforming society. He said: “As someone interested in linguistics, concentrating particularly on xenophobia – whether it’s something published, or through a public campaign, or using art as a medium – in whatever shape or fashion, I hope to present to the public- conclusively – that xenophobia is senseless.”
Bodibe developed a keen interest in Ancient African languages and how they can be used to advance African knowledge systems. He drew his inspiration on this subject from Kenyan author Ngugi Wa Thiongo’s book, Decolonising the Mind, which discusses how African authors have to write in African languages.
“I armed myself with that knowledge and applied myself practically,” he said.
Bodibe started a company called Setheo Seshat Djehuty (the Institute for the Manifestation of Wisdom) that aims to promote the study of African languages and literature in South Africa.
Bodibe, who is very passionate about his research on ancient African languages, said: “Africa needs to look within itself and without- we need to learn from other countries and apply it to ourselves.”
As a researcher on African perspectives and knowledge systems, Bodibe spends at least one day a week in the Harold Strange Africana Collection. He said he wants to use languages and scientific knowledge to motivate and educate others towards transforming society. He said: “As someone interested in linguistics, concentrating particularly on xenophobia – whether it’s something published, or through a public campaign, or using art as a medium – in whatever shape or fashion, I hope to present to the public- conclusively – that xenophobia is senseless.”
Like the natural light streaming through the glass ceilings and barred windows in the library, individuals take the knowledge and spill it out into the streets. 21 steps, a new outlook and a standing figure to remind you that all you do in the library is a contribution and an effort to further democratize society
FEATURED IMAGE:Books from Joahannesburg Library. Photo; Aarti Bhana
Stuck in peak hour afternoon traffic in Johannesburg’s Central Business District (CBD), the blaring sound of taxis hooting and the streets crowded by pedestrians are heightening my claustrophobia. I slightly open the window of the Uber I am sharing with four friends and the warm air laced with the odour of garbage and urine smack my face. In desperate need for solace, I look to the dilapidated buildings towering over us. The chipping blue paint on a white building is desperately hanging on to the title “ENGLISH SCHOOL” and I begin to question how a place that is densely populated by black Africans in a nation that prides itself of 11 national languages still finds the need for an English school?
In the bustling multicultural city of Johannesburg, learning to read and speak English is more than a way of assimilating knowledge. It is a key to survival.
Hailing from Kenya, a nation that was once severely colonised by the British, English was etched onto my tongue from birth. The command of the English language is a symbol of success in my country and from pre-school I had aced English spelling tests, I could read English books and not a day went by without me communicating to friends and family in English.
So shortly after we migrated, my parents were naturally confused when I returned home with a note from my South African primary school that informed them that their six-year-old daughter needed speech therapy to perfect her English.
According to my speech therapist, Phillipa Ellis, it was my Kenyan pronunciation of English words that South Africans had difficulty understanding. Even though I was an English genius in comparison to my peers, Kenya needed to be washed away from my accent in order for my English to be palatable to South Africans.
Both the reception and expression of the English language is key when communicating, said Ellis. So that is why even though one may have knowledge of the language, it is the assimilation of how it is spoken in a country that is important in order to open the door that the English language makes accessible.
People in South Africa are realising the benefits of the English language. According to the nation’s census of 2011, there are 51.7 million people living in South Africa. Of the 11 official South African languages only 9.6% or 5-million people speak English as their home language in South Africa. English, alongside Setswana, is ranked fifth as a South African home language.
However, the English language is fast being adopted by many as their first language, specifically in the Western Cape, KwaZulu-Natal and Gauteng.
People in South Africa are embracing the English language. The 2011 census shows that there was an increase of 1-million people in the country speaking English as their first language.
It is no surprise that in the new education curriculum, English is one of the two compulsory languages to learn. Furthermore, the language of teaching and learning in the majority of schools and tertiary education institutions in South Africa is English.
So it is safe to say that in a melting pot of cultures, the one language that is willingly assimilated in South Africa is English.
On the sixth floor of the Klamson Towers, another tall building in Johannesburg’s CBD on Commissioner street, are three tiny rooms that make up Excell Solutions, a place which offers “all”, may it be “adults, youth, business personnel, individuals, small groups and company employees” to take English courses. Excell Solutions offers “basic intermediate and business level English” which entails reading, writing and speaking.
Pinkie Biyela, a Zulu woman, grew up in KwaZulu-Natal and much of her life has unfolded in the province, from her basic education to her first job, from her wedding to the birth of her children.
She was content with her life in KwaZulu-Natal until October 2, 2015, when she decided she was going to pursue her dream of completing university and starting a business in the trade industry.
She resigned from her administrative job in a financial firm and she was comfortably settled into her flat in Johannesburg’s CBD by the beginning of 2016.
Pinkie got a couple of administrative jobs in the CBD to build her fund for English lessons. On August 16, 2016, she began her English lessons on the sixth floor of the Klamson Towers on Commissioner Street. Pinkie blames her “rural school” in KwaZulu-Natal for an inability to speak English.
“In my school we did not speak English, only isiZulu, it has been hard learning English, it is so difficult to speak and write but it is important because I want to communicate with many different people,” said Pinkie.
She began classes at Excell Solutions with the knowledge of only basic English words and now she is on an intermediary level, meaning that Pinkie can “communicate easily on everyday matters” but she has “limited range of expression”.
Ana Jorquati, a 23-year-old medical student from Angola, also found herself on the sixth floor of the Klamson Towers on Commissioner Street.
Ana is in Johannesburg for the duration of her three month holiday with the sole purpose of learning English so that she could better her opportunities in Angola. “In South Africa, I have a chance to speak English so I learn better…I read in English, I listen in English, I watch TV in English, I listen to radio in English and my English has become stronger…so now it will be easy for me to find work,” explained Ana.
“I don’t like speaking English, I do not like this language but it is necessary and I am trying to learn it and it is fine but I do not like it so much,” said Ana.
Her current level of English is elementary, meaning that she has a “basic knowledge of vocabulary and grammar”, she can “understand simple message and instructions”.
However, the sixth floor of the Klamson Towers on Commissioner Street in Johannesburg, which is the home to Excell Solutions, a base for English lessons does not exactly fulfil its promises to the hundreds that go seeking to learn English as a foreign language.
Thandeka, an employee of Excell Solutions wears many hats. She is the secretary, she does all the administration, she books rooms for the English workshops and works terribly hard to make sure that the teachers show up to work and people learn English.
In the beginning of October, Thandeka mentioned how the rent for the spaces in the Klamson Towers was not paid for and she was abruptly greeted by locked rooms and confused students one morning.
Thandeka said that for the past two weeks, the English lessons had to be put on hold because one teacher is on maternity leave and the other teacher and apparent owner of the school is on holiday.
People like Pinkie and Ana are left in limbo because the successful continuation of their lives depends on their assimilation of the English language.
Thandeka has been working hard to ensure that learners are able to continue with their courses by putting them in touch with tutors who would be able to facilitate lessons.
Both Pinkie and Ana were put in touch with Lesh Pillay, a tutor in an English school in Bramley. She is a tutor to foreign nationals and South Africans who want to learn English as a foreign language.
“I see so many students who are without the interest of learning English but they know that they need it,” said Lesh. Her interest in teaching English grew from her love of learning different languages.
“I have always been an avid reader and I have always loved the language and I also want other people to love it too,” said Lesh.
According to feedback from her students, Lesh said it appears that learning English in South Africa seems to be more affordable than it is in other nations. To get an estimate of how much English lessons are, Thandeka explained that they are as follows: R800 for one lesson, R2 750 for six lessons, R2 800 for four consecutive lesson in a week, R3 240 for 16 lessons four days a week and R3 000 for 20 lessons.
Just like Excell Solutions, the school that Lesh tutors at offers certificates in accordance with the level that the student is trying to achieve. The levels for English are Beginner, Elementary, Pre-Intermediate, Intermediate, Upper Intermediate and Advanced.
Each level that is completed deserves a certificate. If the student wants to learn English for academic purposes two international tests are optional, IELTS and PTE.
SECOND LANGUAGE: Always equpped with an English dictionary: A foreign national student’s desk. Photo: Hazel Kimani
I attended an Intermediate class for two hours. The class was taught by Lesh and attended by three foreign nationals. The lesson was in preparation for a mid-course test.
The class was an intense grammar session. My presence left the students on edge as I sat in the round table beside theirs. Lesh encouraged the student to comfortably answer questions and speak freely as I was just observing the class. The students had notebooks and textbooks they had to purchase for themselves.
They all wrote with pencils because of the permanent errors a pen would leave behind.
They started off by going through homework, which was in the form of a crossword puzzle. One of the crossword questions were, “bigger than a car and smaller than a lorry?”
The answer was “van” and nobody answered correctly. After Lesh took to the large whiteboard where she went through English articles, such as “a”, “an”, “the” and the use of no articles. The students would ask for the repetition of rules and the spelling and pronunciation of words.
Listen: During a conversational exercise, the students follow and fill in blank spaces. Photo: Hazel Kimani CATCH UP: Anusha recapping the previous days work before class starts. Photo: Hazel Kimani If these walls could talk: A white board with the lesson of the day and a poster with vowels. Photo: Hazel Kimani The students were listening to the pronunciation of English words. Photo: Hazel Kimani
Lesh taught slowly and made sure everyone was comfortable and fully understood what she had just taught. Lesh then asked everyone about the previous day as well as current affairs. Even though they all struggled to articulate what they wanted to say, they managed to respond and engage with Lesh and each other. They even laughed when the student from Ethiopia made a joke.
The classroom’s walls had a “no cell phones, no food and no drink” poster beside the door. Another wall had a map of the world and a clock hung above the whiteboard. There was a fan in one corner of the room as there were no windows for any relief from the summer heat of Johannesburg.
Lesh then taught modal verbs, such as “can” and could”. During the lesson, Lesh would introduce words that the students were unfamiliar with and they would ask for the spelling and meaning. The hesitance of the students was always met with patience from the tutor. The entire learning experience was intimate and conversational.
According to Natalie van de Water, a trainer for teachers from the Wits Language School, tutors that teach English to foreign nationals are mostly taught a communicative approach. The learners are required to be active and the lessons are supposed to be filled with questions and discussions.
“The main purposes for teaching English to foreign nationals is for jobs and generally functioning in society. English is the global language of business and it is necessary especially if someone wants to be integrated into a society”, said Natalie.
It is evident by just observing the current stage of their lives that people like Pinkie and Ana need to assimilate with the English language in order to be able to not only integrate themselves into a city like Johannesburg but the entire business world relies on the English language.
Pinkie’s future endeavours are accessible through her assimilation with English and the success that Ana will be able to attain through her degree will be increased by her assimilation with English.
English then is a survival skill that multitudes on the continent, if not the world, need to attain. It is fascinating that people from different parts of the continent are coming to South Africa, specifically the city’s central business district, to start a relationship with the English language.
After my great difficulty finding an English school, I wonder why many are not jumping at the opportunity of opening such facilities and allowing tutors to share the skill that is fast becoming necessary for survival in global cities.
“I have never met someone who wants to learn English for fun, I have never come across that,” said Lesh. She believes that when someone seeks to learn English it is because it is vital for their livelihood, it is a survival skill.
“English is the international business language so if people do not know English, how do they interact with people from different countries and within South Africa?
“English is not our only language, it is one of many but it is the main form of language, it is the international medium. So to be able to communicate clearly with other people, English is very important.”
So in this culturally diverse hub at the bottom of Africa, the sound of one language rises above all others amidst the bustling streets. English, the language of assimilation, the language of adoption, the language of survival, the language of Johannesburg.
FEATURED IMAGE: Dictionaries at a library. Photo: Hazel Kimani
For years migrants have been experiencing difficulties in becoming legal especially in a country that they find refuge. Countries themselves face difficulties in regulation and accreditation of those migrants.
People such as Jonas* who is a librarian, Rose* a school teacher and Spiwe a town planner and environmentalist, left their home country often not by choice but by circumstance. Being a foreigner in a country like South Africa highlights issues of xenophobia and discrimination which are constant struggles that have been and continue to be addressed in society.
Who is a migrant, refugee or asylum seeker?
According to the Department of Home Affairs spokesperson Mayihlome Tshwete, there is a diverse classification of migrants who come in and out of South Africa. Tshwete explains that there are temporary migrants such as tourists who are often here for short-term business or leisure. Migrants who seek temporary to permanent permits which would include the asylum seekers.
SKILLS: Refugees and asylum seekers have to fulfil standard requirements once allocated time.Photo: Nokuthula Zwane
Within the refugee and migrant policies in South Africa there is different documentation that can authorise for foreigners to reside in SA, for example study and work permits, asylum papers, visitor’s visa and refugees status.
“The role of the department is to live up to our constitutional requirements of providing protection to people who are fleeing persecution in their country or place of origin.
Our responsibility as Home Affairs is to facilitate that and make sure that those people who are genuine asylum seekers get the necessary protection that they need from us, which starts with giving them documentation to be in the country,” said Tshwete.
The migration of a population is a common practice in the world, often based on unfavourable conditions, such as internal migrants who leave home in the rural areas to look for work opportunities in the city.
Internal migrants tend to be different from cross-broader migrants and the reasons for migration into South Africa are often based on political and economic reasons. The cross-broader migrants come from countries such as Mozambique, Zimbabwe, Botswana and Nigeria.
The United Nations Convention definition of a refugee is someone who has fled their home country and has a fear of persecution for reasons of race, tribe, nationality, and political opinion, membership in a particular social group or religion.
“I didn’t have any passport when coming here. My husband and I left at night and travelled on the back of a truck.”
Rose arrived in South Africa fleeing during the night. “I didn’t have any passport when coming here. My husband and I left at night and travelled on the back of a truck,” said Rose. Jonas and Rose are both Zimbabweans who left their country because of the oppressive political instability or what Jonas describes as the “political crisis”.
This can be disheartening to find oneself facing extra struggles in a place that is not familiar.
“I am a recognised refugee in South Africa, which means I have gone through the asylum seeker route. I’ve been through interviews and re-interviews, appeals. I have really gone through a lot. In fact I have finished all the requirements of being a refugee,” said Jonas. However, the stress for him lies in the waiting for what will happen to his refugee status when his permit expires in March 2017.
INFOGRAPHIC:A comparison between a refugee status applicant and an asylum seeker. By: Nokuthula Zwane
In terms of the South African Home Affairs refugee status applications and process, Jonas has been granted a number of extensions. “I don’t know, they are going to tell me, when it expires because my refugee status has been extended,” said Jonas.
“Getting your papers in Johannesburg was impossible because they were only processed on Tuesday. Which meant that you have to sleepover from Sunday and Monday, and hope to be the top 40,” said Jonas.
Rose got her permit as a migrant earlier this year, and says “to get my papers I would have to wake up early and leave at 3am just to be in Pretoria before 8am”.
“Getting your papers in Johannesburg was impossible because they were only processed on Tuesday. Which meant that you have to sleepover from Sunday and Monday, and hope to be the top 40,” said Jonas. Rose got her permit as a migrant earlier this year, and says “to get my papers I would have to wake up early and leave at 3am just to be in Pretoria before 8am”.
Migrants such as Jonas and Rose faced many struggles in becoming recognised in South Africa. They describe the Home Affairs offices as hostile for immigrants where they are told, “There is no war in Zimbabwe, so when you say you want to be a refugee you are a liar, you are an economic immigrant,” said Jonas.
“I fought tooth and nail to get documented,” said Jonas.
Arriving in South African in August 2004, Jonas said, “When I left my home coming here, if you asked me where I was going, I would tell you I don’t know.” When Jonas left his home town in Zimbabwe, Bulawayo, he left behind everything and everyone he knew.
The refugee and migrant policies in South Africa have been under construction over the last couple of years following the increase of displaced people in Africa. Tshwete said that ideally the department would like to get paperwork for refugees and migrants done in three months, however, there are limitations that the office faces.
“Given the amount of applications we have, it takes a lot longer than that; it can take up to two years in many cases. Not only because of our side, the volumes, it’s also because of the appeals that most of the applicants take when they are not given the refugee status,” said Tshwete.
ASSUMPTIONS: African refugees and migrants say they face discrimination in the Joburg CBD for being illegal in the country. By: Nokuthula Zwane
Economic migrants
Recently the Minister of Home Affairs Malusi Gigaba addressed the Regional Conference of the International Association of Refugee Law Judges in Pretoria, highlighting South African achievements and struggles in leading the development of a new policy on international migration and the management of refugees and asylum seekers.
“South Africa currently hosts over 95 000 recognised refugees and last year received approximately 62 000 applications for asylum,” said Gigaba.
An economic migrant is a person who travels from one country or area to another in order to improve their standard of living.
Economic migrants are associated with low-skilled and unskilled work seekers, self employed persons, and small and micro entrepreneurs.
Jonas expressed how he had often been referred to as an economic migrant. Both Jonas and Rose are currently working, and Rose says she is making enough money to rent a place for herself in the CBD.
LEGALLY DOCUMENTED:“I fought tooth and nail to get documented,” said Jonas. Photo: Nokuthula Zwane
According to an AfricaCheck, “Home Affairs contends that these amendments [the Refugees Amendment Bill of 2015] are necessary to prevent economic migrants ‘clogging up’ a system intended for genuine asylum seekers seeking refugee status.”
Gigaba mentioned during his speech the attraction for economic migrants to be classified as asylum seekers is that the “South African jurisprudence has granted asylum seekers the right to work, study and start a business whilst awaiting a refugee status decision.”
Rose, who arrived as an asylum seeker has faced difficulties in receiving asylum papers, waiting for up to six months for the approvals. She said the frustrations were that the “requirements to get the papers were too much and somehow impossible to get”.
The Church’s impact on migrants
The churches themselves, most notably the Catholic Archdiocese of Johannesburg and the Central Methodist Church, have made an effort to assist refugees and migrants in Johannesburg.
According to Rose, “I arrived here in Johannesburg, Park station and the first place I was directed to was the Central Methodist Church in the CBD. The Central Methodist church has been a prominent place of refuge until 2015 when changes within the church structures resulted in the evacuation of all refugees and migrants.
Jonas has also lived at the church and mentioned that he was mainly assisted by Bishop Paul Verryn of the Methodist church to get his permit.
The Catholic Archdiocese of Johannesburg has a department of Pastoral Care for Migrants and Refugees. Sister Maria, the current coordinator of the programme was not willing to be interviewed by university students due to unfortunate previous experiences with student research. However, she said they issue pamphlets and host regular workshops to help migrants and refugees.
During June 2016 the Catholic church held a Refugee Week highlighting the areas that the church assists refugees and migrants, through training, legal support and advocacy and liturgy or celebration and inter-religious spiritual support and networking.
PRAISE AND WORSHIP: Churches such as the Central Methodist Church in the CBD have assisted in the spiritual and physical well-being of migrants and refugees. Photo: Nokuthula Zwane
The requirement to attend the refugee and migrants’ status varies due the accesses of certain services; these requirements listed below are based on the interviews conducted with Rose and Spiwe:
-Work permit letter -police clearance “One from SA and another from Zimbabwe. It can take up to 3 months to get the police clearance,” says Rose -motivational letter -Bank statements. “If you have a bank account you are fortunate because asylum seekers are not allowed to open account,” Rose explains.
“It’s not obvious that when you apply you will get your permit,” said Rose.
Spiwe arrived in South Africa in 2007 on a work permit, to work as a director in a government department. “…Now I have decided on studying at Wits and currently I hold a work and study permit,” said Spiwe. Her experiences of attaining a visa did not result in any struggle because she was brought into the country under critical skills, having applied at home in Zimbabwe.
There are negative assumptions made about migrants, according to Spiwe. “What I have generally discovered is that South Africans don’t like foreigners, because the people that I used to work with actually say it.” She said working conditions were reasonable, however, racial and intellectual stereotypes arise while in the work space.
These, she said, stemmed from corporate institutions paying for “corporate colour” and not qualifications. “I was surprised at how apartheid has finished but it has finished [only] on paper.
“I find it surprising how I can be brought here into the country under critical skills and still be discriminated against. I mean what is the attitude for,” says Spiwe.
Things that migrants would like for citizens to remember is that “I didn’t plan to come to South Africa,” said Rose.
Crossing the t’s and doting the i’s
Jonas, who has made a number of appeals and extensions for his permits, had one question for the Home Affairs spokesperson: “Which Home Affairs office should one go to to renew/ get certification to apply for the Permanent Residence Permit?”
In response, Tshwete advised that he go to the Visa Facilitations Services, a company that facilitates or rather connects all the documentations.
All around the world the movement of migrants and refugees has been become a painful sight to witness especially when people escape deadly situations as in Syria, Ethiopia and Nigeria. Institutions such as the Department of Home Affairs, the office of the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees and the churches play a significant role in assisting migrants and refugees with permits and legalities.
The degradation that refugees and migrants experience in 2016 highlights how each one of us has a lot of work to do when it comes to making the next person feel a part of humanity.
Jonas, who has made a number of appeals and extensions for his permits, had one question for the Home Affairs spokesperson: “Which Home Affairs office should one go to to renew/ get certification to apply for the Permanent Residence Permit?”
In response, Tshwete advised that he go to the Visa Facilitations Services, a company that facilitates or rather connects all the documentations.
All around the world the movement of migrants and refugees has been become a painful sight to witness especially when people escape deadly situations as in Syria, Ethiopia and Nigeria. Institutions such as the Department of Home Affairs, the office of the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees and the churches play a significant role in assisting migrants and refugees with permits and legalities. The degradation that refugees and migrants experience in 2016 highlights how each one of us has a lot of work to do when it comes to making the next person feel a part of humanity.
*Not their real names.
FEATURED IMAGE: Hands on top of a home affairs migrant document. Photo: Nokuthula Zwane
There are common sounds that tell you that you are in Johannesburg’s Central Business District. The sound of the city is characterised by an unrelenting orchestra of hooting Siyaya and Quantum taxis, and the blaring mixture of kwaito, gospel and North African music from small foreign-owned shops and charismatic churches.
Amongst this staccato of the city’s music is a choir of informal traders singing the same song from Wanderers to Klein streets – “I have what you want” … “How much you have?” … “I give you discount” … “I make you nice my sister, come I do your hair”. Each individual puts on their best performance with the hopes that their voice will be the one to capture a customer’s ear and maybe their wallet.
SILENCE: Obinaddo sits quietly infront of his stalls at the Noord Linear Market. Photo: Tebogo Tshwane
Anthony Obinaddo is one of many traders selling counterfeit clothes and shoes. In fact, right next to his protective gear, is a trader selling counterfeit clothing and again, next to his second stall, is another competitor also selling fake branded items.
Despite the heavy competition at the market, Obinaddo is more of a conductor than a chorister. While his competitors belt out their sales pitches to potential customers and even drag them by the arms in the direction of their stalls, he sits silently on a plastic chair in front of his two stalls and watches as if his business runs itself.
Obinaddo (27) a Nigerian trader sits in the front and centre of his two stalls at the Noord Linear Market. The first stall, on the left, is a table filled with protective boots and clothes hanging on the frame that surrounds it.
On the second stall, to his right, is a table filled with a mixture of fake, branded sneakers and soccer boots that are enclosed by fake, branded t-shirts and pants on the frame around them.
The nature of the business
“I don’t know if it’s my style but I see it as harassment, you not forcing someone to buy what you want. If he got eyes he know what he wants,” Obinaddo says.
His approach to business can also be attributed to his lack of experience in the market. Obinaddo only started trading eight months ago after he arrived in South Africa. “They call me ‘new boy’ or ‘fresh boy’,” he laughs.
Obinnado continues to laugh as he reveals that his approach to business often means he “is always the loser” among his competitors. Even though he says his business is not doing well, he is able to employ two assistants, at R1200 per month, to help him with sales, as well as R2000 rent every month for his two stands.
Directly across from Obinnado’s stall, Zimbabwean Sihle Dube (38), a single mother to a 13-year-old girl, struggles to make ends meet, selling omelette sandwiches and hot beverages.
Dube and her cousin, Priscilla Ndlovu (34), come to the market every day between 5am and 6am to serve fluffy omelettes speckled with bits of green pepper, tomato and onions on sliced white or brown bread. Their drinks menu includes a choice of tea, coffee or Milo.
SUNNYSIDE:Priscilla Ndlovu assists her cousin in the business of making eggs despite the fact that she sometimes doesn’t get a salary. Photo: Tebogo Tshwane
Their busiest hours are from 7am to 9am, after which they sit and wait for customers to trickle in until 6pm when they pack up and go home.
Dube has been operating from the same stall for 8 years and pays R400 monthly rent to its owner.
“Business is not working, sometimes you make between R50 and R100 per day,” says Ndlovu. Dube agrees with her and adds, “It is a good thing I am working with my sister because if it was someone else they would ask me ‘why you not pay me?’”
It turns out that Dube has not paid Ndlovu her monthly R1200 salary for two months.
Dube says she hardly sees any profit. Her monthly expenses include R500 rent at her flat, R400 rent for the stall, R1000 stokvel fee, R70 a week for storage in a building across the street, R20 per day to the boy who helps carry her items to storage and sometimes Ndlovu’s wage.
When all of that is paid, Dube says her personal expenses are settled according to how good or bad business is on the day. “I’m left out, I buy food little by little and even to send money to my daughter, I do it little by little” she says.
Operation Clean Sweep cleans out profits
Dube says the City of Johannesburg Municipality’s by-laws which are enforced by the Johannesburg Metro Police Department (JMPD) have dealt a hard blow to their business.
Three years ago over 1200 informal traders claimed victory for interim relief at the Constitutional Court over mass evictions that took place under what was called “Operation Clean Sweep”. The City indiscriminately removed over a thousand legal and illegal informal traders from the inner city, an act which was described as “startling” by the court.
The court criticised the City for infringing people’s dignity by taking away their ability to “earn money and support themselves and their families”.
“Most of our customers are the ones who sell fake CDs, but the clean-up has removed them,” says Dube.
The JMPD officials in their bright reflector jackets can be seen at almost every corner in the in the vicinity of Park Station. To a passer-by this is an image that immediately makes one feel secure, but for most hawkers, especially those trading illegally or selling fake goods, the sight of reflectors sends them packing their goods and running in a different direction.
The officials remove and impound the goods of traders who are selling counterfeit goods or are in contravention of the by-laws.
In the City’s by-laws street trading is defined as “selling goods or supplying services for reward in a public road; selling of goods in a designated area; sale of goods or services in a public place; mobile trading such as from caravans, and light motor vehicles; selling of goods in stalls or kiosks and selling of goods at special events”.
Traders are required to trade in areas that have been demarcated by the municipality.
The demarcations are made by means of a yellow paint line which indicates the area on the pavement where one can trade. Traders are only allowed to sell on these sites if they are in possession of a lease agreement that they apply for at the municipality.
Traders who operate outside of demarcated areas often have their goods confiscated and given a fine of up to R500 or a sentence of three months in prison.
This penalty also applies when traders fail to comply with the other long list of prohibitions outlined in the by-laws, from sleeping overnight at the place where a trader conducts business to making a fire and conducting trade in a way that creates a “nuisance”.
A JMPD official who asked to remain anonymous says he personally doesn’t have a problem with hawkers in the city, given that there’s “law and order”. “Our people are surviving from selling on the streets.
Some of us, even the people in top positions, they were raised by these people who are selling on the streets.”
He nonchalantly says he does not let how he feels affect his job. “On this job I work according to instruction. If I am instructed to go there and move whoever, I just do that.”
It’s not always that easy though.
“There was a time when I was supposed to impound for a pregnant lady and she was heavily pregnant and then she just left everything there and started crying. I didn’t impound,”
“I felt bad and let her go” says he says.
The JMPD carry out their inspections sporadically, which is why the hawkers have learnt to protect their livelihoods.
“In the Bible we know that there is Judas. So among them there is Judas” say Valentine Henry (27) a Nigerian trader who sells counterfeit shoes and clothing on De Villiers Street.
Henry says they often get information about a coming clean-up from a rouge JMPD official, which gives them enough time to pack their stock and leave.
SWEPT:Traders at Joubert Park say business has not been the same since the municipalities campaign to remove them from the City. Photo: Tebogo Tshwane
Tragedy leads to South Africa
It’s Sunday night and Dube and her two cousins are eating Sunday kos in the room they rent in a flat in Hillbrow. Dube eats from the double bed that she shares with her cousins while Ndlovu and Nthombelang Tshuma, the third cousin, sit and eat at the foot of the bed in front of the TV.
The cousins share the one bedroom flat with five other people. The lounge is sectioned off into rooms using curtains for walls for the five other tenants. Dube and her cousins rent the bedroom which is furnished with a fridge, bed, a two-plate stove on a stand and a TV placed on a small room divider.
Dube scrolls through her phone to share the many pictures she took of her 13-year-old daughter, during her recent trip to Bulawayo in Zimbabwe.
Her daughter is the last of her immediate family. In 2003 her husband died after suffering from a long stomach illness which he had when he was deported back to Zimbabwe after being detained at the infamous Lindela Repartriation Centre in 2002.
Dube was two months pregnant with her daughter when her husband died. Shortly after his death her two-year-old son also fell sick with a mysterious stomach illness. She says he was sick for a long time, she even gave birth while he was sick. Eventually in March, 2004 he died. Two months after her son’s death Dube’s mother passed away too.
“Mama was not sick. I think she died of heartache from seeing her only child lose so much,” says Dube.
Thereafter she stayed with her aunt who took care of her until her daughter was a year old. Her aunt then told her to go find work. She then decided to come to South Africa in 2005.
Dube says she had to move on to save her life. “I saw that the stress was going to end up killing me. Kuyafika sometimes but ngiyakhona ukuk’ignora (The pain comes back now and then but I can ignore it),” she says.
She had to send her daughter back to her aunt in Zimbabwe when she was in Grade three because the school fees were expensive.
KIDS:Infants and toddlers can be found everywhere at the market because most hawkers cannot afford childminding services. Photo: Tebogo Tshwane
The skills of the trade
Dube and her cousins do not see an alternative to their sandwiches and hot beverages business. “Uzothengisani (what are you going to sell)?” asks Ndlovu.
“AmaNigeria are everywhere, they sell shoes, buckets namahairpiece, you have to be different,” says Ndlovu.
However, the issue of a saturated market has not stopped Henry who has been selling on the streets since he arrived in South Africa in 2014.
“If I have family here and wife and children, I can take care of them,” says Henry.
He starts selling at 7am every morning and hardly takes a day off even though he has someone working with him.
Both Henry and Dube are absent on days when they have to go to church. Dube goes to church on Saturdays at 10am while Henry attends a 7am Catholic Church service on Sundays for an hour.
He is well attuned to the tricks of the trade and says it didn’t take him long to pick up on Zulu because the “gogos can’t speak English”, so he learnt to speak it.
On top of his hands-on approach, Henry has learnt to be an aggressive salesman in order to survive in this tough industry. He watches customers like a hawk, stopping anyone who even sneezes in the direction of his stall. He says the trick is to price goods with enough room to negotiate a discount.
“The minimum profit I am willing to make is R40” he says. However giving discounts is just one of his many tricks.
“I like to handle my things my own way,” he says as he shouts something in Igbo to his assistant who is struggling to convince a customer to buy a pair of red and brown Puma sneakers.
AUTHENTIC FAKES: Most street vendors buy their stock from a warehouse in Jeppe Street, only trusted customers are allowed entry. Photo: Tebogo Tshwane
“Do you know what I just said?” asks Henry. He leans forward and explains that the man wanted to know if the sneakers were real or fake.
“Customers, they can buy, you need to convince them. Look now he is putting it on because he is convinced,” he says with a smug look on his face as he pockets R250.
Henry says he has learnt to negotiate and bases his argument on what the customer says. According to him most of these counterfeit items have characteristics which make them look authentic such as stitches inside the shoe.
“You show him one without stitches and one with stitches, he will be convinced,” he says.
Most of Henry’s and Obinadda’s stock is brought in from Mozambique by second party suppliers who have a warehouse in Jeppe Street. The most authentic looking sneakers, are those brought in from Mozambique whereas the South African counterfeits look fake.
SALES:Competition is tough in these streets and often the most aggressive salesman wins. Photo:
This is not the end
Currently Dube and her cousins are hoping to raise enough money to buy a three-plate gas stove so that they can start selling “iplate”, a serving of pap/rice with meat and vegetables.
She makes her omelettes on a single plate gas stove encircled by a rectangular cardboard box with dark oil stains.
“The problem is the people [other hawkers] here, they don’t want amapapa la. They say it will make their clothes dirty,” says Dube as she points to a neighbouring stall lined with formal pants. Right behind her by her stove is a wall of travel bags and school bags belonging to another trader.
The crammed and intimate conditions of the market make it crucial for Dube to not step on people’s toes. She is aware of this. Which is why she feels her only option is to move in order to start her new business.
A three-plate stove is just a pipe dream now as Dube does not make enough money to save for it but she’s optimistic that she will get it.
“We hope that God will make things right,” she sighs.
Dube has even bigger dreams. She hopes to make enough money to build a house and a supermarket back home in Zimbabwe. “To work for another person? I can’t!” she says.
FEATURED IMAGE:Informal trading Photo: Tebogo Tshwane
Since her announcement as the Democratic Alliance’s mayoral candidate for Johannesburg, Helen Zille has dominated national headlines. In this bonus episode of We Should Be Writing podcast, hosts Lulah Mapiye and Bonolo Mokonoto dissect a media meet-and-greet with the mayoral hopeful. From her extensive political résumé to her controversial public utterance, we examine why the Democratic Alliance has chosen Hellen Zille as their candidate for the 2027 local mayoral elections. Additionally, […]
