Local organization hopes to deal with the criminal activities faced by Soweto’s Orlando East. Young men such as Sibusiso Sithole intend to bring the change needed by the township through activism.
There is no crime in Orlando East. Tina Bhengu is emphatic. No serious crime, she says. An hour-and-a-half later, it will become evident that she had been referring to visible crime, the kind that is easily identifiable through visible scars and broken property, unlike the crime behind closed doors which she goes on to describe.
The only people giving the community a hard time are the young men, many in their late teens and early 20s. “I don’t know what substances they are smoking, marijuana or whatever. Last week or two weeks ago, I had to start locking my gate because I found them inside my yard. Many of them are already in jail but many of them still come back and do the same things,” Bhengu says.
It is young men such as these that Sibusiso Sithole, the community programme manager at Isizinda Sempilo, says the organisation is hoping to target through its workshops to deal with the gender-based violence (GBV) in Soweto.
It is a cold, grey Saturday in Orlando East, in a small, cramped living room of a house along Adams Street. Bhengu recounts an experience with an uncle who made sexual advances towards her and nearly molested her on multiple occasions during her teenage years in Spruitview.
Bhengu is a short lady with a firm voice and set facial expression that gives away very little, but is occasionally broken by a smile. She is a mother of one, and a grandmother of four, living in a small, dark house, in contrast to the many brightly coloured ones along Adams Street. Inside, the bright orange sofas and Bhengu’s four-year-old granddaughter liven the room as she plays loudly with everything in her sight and throws occasional tantrums that earn her a scolding from her grandmother.
“He would always ask the children – me and my cousins – to come and sit on his lap,” she says of her uncle. “He would even invite us alone to his house and I would never go because I did not trust him and I told my cousins not to go either.” She pauses briefly, sighs and expresses, regretfully, that she cannot reveal her uncle’s identity since he holds a prominent position in the society.
This uncle, she says, had raped his own children too. He continues to walk free because the family, including his wife, who are aware of this, do not want the negative attention that reporting his crimes would bring to them. Besides, his power and influence that extend to the police and courts in Orlando have made him untouchable.
END OF THE ROAD: Brothers for Life mobilises men nationally to contribute towards the eradication of gender-based violence.
The precinct of the square is buzzing with market vendors and hawkers braving the blistering heat, the consistent noise of taxis and pedestrians all bringing it to life. A railway separates this colossal site and the squatter camp on the other side, both appealing for distinct reasons to the tourists.
At the centre of the square is its most important feature, an enclosure with an opening at the top giving room for the sun to peak through and onto the engraved display of the Freedom Charter.
The organisation runs two major programmes dealing with GBV – Priority and Prevention as well as the Gender Norms programme. Sithole explains that, “The teams go out into communities and run these two-hour sessions and talk about the impact of gender-based violence.
They refer those who have been abused and need help. The second one, the gender norms programme, but the difference is that they come for two-hour sessions for ten consecutive days. They will sit down and face their own fears and then talk about them and then be referred to other psycho-social and other programmes.”
The target of these workshops are young men such as those that can be found playing soccer outside Bhengu’s house in Orlando East at 12pm on a week day.
They are held daily in Ward 31 Orlando East, are often found through word of mouth and the ground efforts of employees at the organisations. “The teams target organised groups. For instance, they will go to your churches and malls. Other times they would walk up to groups of young men sitting around playing dice and convince them to stop and attend a two-hour session.
Soweto, along with other socially and demographically similar areas of Johannesburg including Alexandra have been specially selected by the organisation for the roll out of its programmes.
The United States Agency for International Development (USAID), the primary funder of the organisation, chose these areas based on research they conducted around the country which identified them as areas in the most need of assistance.
The South African government provides some structural support. While GBV and violence against children are endemic in South Africa and not unique to Soweto and similar areas, they have additional socio-economic challenges including youth unemployment.
The most recent national annual report 2015/16 released by the South African Police Services (SAPS) recorded 33 613 arrests for sexual offences, an increase of 1 649 from 2014/15. The arrests for gender-based harm were 159 390, a decline of 1 268 from the previous year.
The police report goes on to outline four strategies to deal with the underreporting of crimes against women.
Among them are “Involvement of the community via community structures such as the CPFs and law enforcement agencies/force multipliers such as reservists, traffic police, etc. to join SAPS on patrols and to engage with communities to address contact crimes in households (domestic violence, rape etc.); conducting awareness programmes, encourage reporting by community.”
Nthati Phalatsi, a counsellor at a trauma centre, says that most of the victims that they encounter are children. In October 2017, an Orlando East school, a few minutes away from the Orlando East police station, was at the centre of national concern after allegations of sexual assault were made by over 80 pupils against a patroller at the school.
The man was arrested and charged with multiple counts of rape and sexual abuse. The trial which was due to start on November 1 was postponed till the end of November for further investigations.
Most of these are brought by concerned community members. In some cases, the children come on their own. Phalatsi was a victim of sexual abuse at the age of 15 at the hands of a stranger at a cousin’s house.
Years later as an adult, she would be subjected to physical abuse at the hands of her boyfriend and father of her eight-year-old son.
“I was beaten when I was pregnant. I was one month pregnant then and I thought that after that he would stop. I never laid charges against him.”
She goes on to provide a harrowing account of her ordeal with the calm and resignation of someone who has made some kind of peace with her past. She never thought to lay any charges against him.
She did not consider that a viable option despite being encouraged to do so at the hospital. “Now I’m able to tell people, ‘Why don’t you?’ because I’ve been there.”
The underreporting of crimes, Makhaya says, has also been one of the biggest hurdles to their work. “There is a feeling that nothing gets done and therefore people do not report and get the help they need,” he says.
He reveals that many victims of abuse that attend their programmes do not receive the necessary help they need after the workshops because they do not feel comfortable talking to professionals.
The organisation does not provide professional help for GBV. They recommend suitable candidates to the relevant professionals that some will forfeit.
The courts are where the final barriers to prosecution of these crimes lie, with many of the cases withdrawn before and during trial. In 2012/13, only 19 549 of the 92 161 reported domestic violence and GBV cases that were opened went to trial.
In 2013, parliament released its report on the ‘Statistics and figures relating to Violence Against Women in South Africa’ and identified the challenges to accessing statistics on violence against women.
“Statistics are almost impossible to access because domestic violence itself is not in itself a crime category.”
While the law requires station commanders, under the Domestic Violence Act 116 of 1998 to keep a special record of incidents in the Domestic Violence Register, this is not consistent across police stations. The register reports of each station are not accessible and not referenced in the national police statistics.
Bhengu reflects on the most personal witness of the human effects of a failure to report cases of abuse. Late last year, a friend confided in her about years of rape that she had been subjected to since childhood and throughout her teenage years that she had never reported and never confronted.
“One day she told me ‘I was molested me and raped at a time when I was still a baby.’ She said that this had been haunting her for years and she finally had to tell someone. I cried when she told me. She was my friend and an old woman like me, can you imagine?” Bhengu says as she tearfully reflects.
At the heart of Bhengu’s descriptions of the perpetrators is the common thread by which they are tied – “ordinary”. Ordinary or as Bhengu refers to them, “mediocre men from middle class families”.
“When this rape started, all the people who were doing it were mediocre men, people who were educated!” she says, almost in disbelief. Common, unexceptional, regular men. Fathers, uncles, teachers.
Men with no known criminal past for which they would stand out. Men who are aware of the advantage they had, that they were trusted. “This thing is so difficult because even real fathers do it. We have to be careful.”
However, she says, working mothers, by no fault of their own, cannot always keep track of and notice unusual behaviour in their spouses and children. She remembers a case that she dealt with during her time as a trauma counsellor when a child had been referred by a teacher on suspicion of some form of abuse.
This was not unusual. She had to explain to the child’s mother, an alcoholic reeking of brandy that morning that her husband had been responsible for abusing her child. The woman was initially in denial but gradually put the pieces together, breaking down in tears.
For Sithole, it was concerning that there were “not enough men’s programmes and information targeted towards men” in these communities. While that has improved in the years since he joined the organisation, he does not believe that nearly enough has been done to address the issue.
Like the people at Isizinda Sempilo and Phalatsi, Bhengu believes that it is crucial to have people in the community talking openly.
She believes that family and societal secrecy as well as the failure to effectively address the behaviour of young boys, are what have allowed this violence against women and children to continue in Soweto. She believes that many families are complicit. Often, she says, families prefer to keep these cases behind closed doors.
“In most cases here, if a child gets raped, they call it a family affair. The elders will get together and demand money from the man to keep quiet about the cases,” Bhengu says.
“They never used to talk about it but we have to. It has to get better”.
FEATURED IMAGE: Community members fight against high crime rates in the city. Photo: Files.
The youth of the small community of Kliptown, in Soweto, face many issues in their daily lives. These include substance abuse, lack of basic facilities and rampant crime. Despite this, however, there are centres all around the area that aim to assist these youths in building better lives and securing brighter futures.
Walter Sisulu Square, a monument designed to mark the creation of the Freedom Charter and South Africa’s movement to democracy, stands proudly in the centre of Soweto’s Kliptown district. Small groups of children shuffle restlessly across the monuments’ vast courtyard, on their way home from school, passing droves of tourists snapping pictures in the shade of the Soweto Hotel.
They chatter among each other as they hop between the train tracks that separate the dream-like opulence of the hotel, at the edge of the square, and the reality of their lives in the tiny zinc houses of the region of Kliptown known as Emva Kwe Sporo, meaning the place behind the railway.
Despite the shine on their school shoes and the smiles on their faces, this is a reality that is rife with substance abuse, crime, violence and significant school drop-out rates, explains Faith Dhlodhlo, a social worker at the Kliptown Academic Citizenship and Economic Development Centre.
“I don’t know whether the area doesn’t have enough recreational facilities, or something, but mostly the youth are finding themselves in these situations because they lack employment, or they leave school early and then they are unemployable,” she says.
TRYING TIMES: The people of Kliptown live in impoverished conditions, despite the promise of rights such as education and sanitation being enshrined in the Freedom Charter.
This despairing tale of a community filled with forgotten children is, however, anything but the Kliptown narrative. Centres and programmes that attempt to help youths refrain from engaging in criminal activities, by providing them with positive alternatives, are dotted throughout the area.
This is a community that embodies resilience and determination to secure a brighter future for the youth.
Regarded as the oldest township in the Johannesburg region, Kliptown was initially established in 1903. The Freedom Charter was, thereafter, signed in the area in 1955. Today, however, Kliptown is a far cry from the rights outlined in the document.
The living conditions, which lack rights ranging from housing and electricity to running water, provide for a visual which would make the signatories of the charter tremble with anger.
The heat of an African summer afternoon continues to beat down relentlessly, blurring the tiny shacks that sprawl out into the distance. Packed as tightly as cans on a shelf, these make-shift homes yield only to narrow dirt streets.
“Kliptown is largely an informal settlement and in that type of scenario, the unemployment rate is very high,” explains Dave Shuba, the overall chairperson of the Greater Kliptown Community Policing Forum.
“I don’t know how many government officials came to this area, we’ve engaged with so many people. I don’t know how many presidents came here and we spoke to them, but nothing’s changed,” he continues with a look of sadness clouding his face.
Shuba works to educate the community and aid the Kliptown police in fighting crime. He explains that his organisation deals with youths, as young as 16, who become involved in crimes such as theft and substance abuse.
“It’s purely because the community is on a poverty bend. It’s a survival type of crime,” he shrugs.
Dhlodhlo, whose work revolves mostly around youths that are in conflict with the law, is often confronted with first-time offenders being provided a second chance by the courts.
She has seen the effects of the poverty in the area first-hand in her work with young adults, who speak of their beginnings in substance abuse from “very tender ages like 12 and 13. It’s disturbing because it’s like a norm, everybody has to either drink or drug,” she explains.
According to Dhlodhlo, community and youth centres in the area play an integral role in ensuring that youths are kept occupied and away from crime, because Kliptown contains very few recreational facilities like parks and playgrounds.
“Most of the things that they do, like if they do crime, it’s when they are bored. When they do drugs, it’s also boredom at most times. When they are busy, they don’t have time for that stuff, so it does help,” she explains.
Feeding hungry mouths and nurturing hungry minds
The afternoon begins to cool in Emva Kwe Sporo, as the clock approaches 2:30pm. Small clouds of dust rise from the dirt as the school-uniform-clad children take turns to jump, dodging the small rivers of dirty water that trickle down Station Road.
Their pace quickens as they approach the white-washed walls of the Kliptown Youth Programme (KYP), the smell of fresh pap and chicken wafting out of the centres’ kitchen and drawing them in.
FOOD FOR THOUGHT: The Kliptown Youth Programme provides members with two meals a day, one in the morning and one in the afternoon.
The promise of an afternoon meal has drawn the now 460-strong membership of the KYP to the centre, since its establishment on May 27, 2007.
For many school-going youths the centre forms the axis of their lives by providing access to homework assistance, sports and cultural activities and daily meals.
“Food should not be a privilege, it should be a right. Unfortunately, not every family in our community have food for their children every time, so we had to introduce the programme,” explains KYP executive director, Thulani Madondo, who has won many humanitarian awards for his work at KYP, including the CNN Top 10 Heroes award in 2012.
Catering to any person who is still enrolled in school, regardless of age, the centre is often flooded with people by 3pm. This is a time characterised by the faint sounds of spoons scaping against plates, trying to capture that last grain of rice.
The quadrangle of the programme, filled with colours and laughing children, lies in stark contrast to the destitute surroundings of the centre. A faded mural at the entrance to the kitchen that perfectly epitomises the aim of the programme, even ten years after its initial creation, reads: “Inspiring positive change.”
According to Madondo, who was born and raised in the Emva Kwe Sporo region, “We started the programme because we wanted to be the generation that breaks the poverty cycle in our community. The main purpose of our organisation is to see young people become the architects of their own exit strategy from this type of environment.”
Seventeen-year-old Buntu Kalipa, who aspires to be a commercial pilot, has spent more than half of his life as a member of the programme and is also currently involved in the centre’s gumboot dancing team.
“Being at KYP for nine years, it is home for me. If something happens, my mom asks if I was at KYP and then she contacts them because she knows when I am here I am safe.
“KYP is like my guardian parents. If my parents aren’t here, they are like my parents and they look out for us. I have been in the experience where my ex-friends wanted me to join drugs and drinking every week. To get out of that space was hard, but KYP was there for me,” he explains with a tiny smile brightening his eyes.
The centre is funded by multiple organisations, such as the KFC Add Hope campaign, KitKat Cash & Carry and The Oppenheimer Memorial Trust. Madondo and his co-founder, Thanduxolo Bezana, plan to secure further private and corporate funding so that the centre can continue to develop and refine the available programmes.
Small bodies, big dreams
Nine hundred and fifty meters away from the KYP, in the Tamatievlei area of Kliptown, stands yet another testament to the community’s dedication to improving the prospects of the youth.
The Mighty Evolution Kids daycare centre, which was established on January 13, 2016, aims to cater to children who are not yet enrolled in school. The small corridor of three classrooms that make up the centre is characterised by the cheerful and ever-present day care principal, Candice Madondo.
Madondo, much like her namesake at KYP to whom she is not related, exhibits an unbridled passion for the children in her care.
“It’s not difficult for children to get involved in crime, because there’s so many things that they see happening around. There’s burglaries, there’s fights that they see happening outside, so we need to make sure that we block off all of that. An early childhood development centre is foundation phase. I believe if the foundation is set right here, the child goes to school and they get a positive mindset,” she says as she organises a mess of papers in preparation for the centre’s December graduation ceremony.
MOTHERLY LOVE: Candice Madondo, the principal of Mighty Evolution Kids, believes that love and positive reinforcement can change a child’s life.
The daughter of a local pastor, Madondo, describes the centre as her form of ministering to the community and plans to expand the daycare to include after-school programmes and facilities, such as a toy library.
“We do have centres such as Khayalethu, PUSH [Persevere Until Something Happens] and the Kliptown Youth Programme, but for our children in this area it’s too far for them to go to those centres. I don’t want to open a centre like those and compete with anybody, but I’d like to have people who assist children with homework. It will also create employment for young girls who are at home struggling to get work,” she says.
The daycare has no full-time sponsor and continues to struggle financially, however, donations from private companies and individuals have ensured that Madondo is able to realise her dream of growing the centre. This is evident in the creation of a small soccer and recreational field, which is underway in an area directly outside the centre.
Madondo is also using this project as a means of assisting older youths in the broader Tamatievlei community, by providing former criminals and addicts with employment.
Twenty-seven-year-old Marco Harrington, a former drug addict and gang member who is assisting Madondo, believes that this work ensures these youths do not have to become reinvolved in crime, so as to support themselves and their families.
According to Harrington, the day care also “helps keeps them [children] out of trouble. They don’t see things that they not supposed to see, because if you grow up seeing things you aren’t supposed to see, you end up doing them. I’m talking from experience.”
Evangeline Fourie, a mother whose two-year-old son Shepard attends the Mighty Evolution Kids day care, agreed with Harrington’s positive outlook on the impact of the day care on the youths.
JUMP FOR JOY: Lamiah Moodley plays outside the Mighty Evolution Kids daycare centre where her father, Marco Harrington, works.
“I see big aspirations in a lot of children here. Children have dreams, but their dreams get crushed by things that they see on the outside. When I look at the children in their classrooms and I look in their eyes, I see presidents and doctors. There’s one boy who always says he wants to be a soldier and when I look at him, I really see a soldier in him,” she smiles.
Left behind, but not forgotten
The impact of centres such as KYP and Mighty Evolution Kids, continues to touch the lives of countless youths in the Kliptown area. However, the flaws of these programmes are too often felt by youths who find themselves in need of medical facilities, such as drug rehabilitation centres.
Each day, as school children scamper their way across Walter Sisulu Square towards the various youth programmes, these young men and women return to places such as the Kliptown scrapyard. A place to exchange empty bottles for money that they can use to buy drugs and get their next fix.
John Williams*, a twenty-eight-year-old nyaope addict, began his descent into drug abuse in his first year of high school.
Despite attending programmes similar to the KYP, Williams was not dissuaded from using drugs as a means of escaping the hardships he faced being raise by a financially-struggling single mother.
“A programme for the youth? I’m still going to be here in the area, they just going to let me come there every day. There’s nothing there that will keep me away from drugs, so a rehab is a little bit better, because there’s no drugs and they going to give me medication that’s going to help me to detox. There’s no detoxification here in any of the youth programmes,” says Williams.
The satellite office of the South African National Council on Alcoholism and Drug Dependence in Eldorado Park, located 2km from Walter Sisiulu Square, is the closest centre that can assist these youths. However, “at the moment, I think, they are overwhelmed. It’s too much to carry and they do need help,” says Dhlodhlo.
The satellite office of the South African National Council on Alcoholism and Drug Dependence in Eldorado Park, located 2km from Walter Sisiulu Square, is the closest centre that can assist these youths. However, “at the moment, I think, they are overwhelmed. It’s too much to carry and they do need help,” says Dhlodhlo.
Despite this downfall, the youth centres are “trying their level best,” explains Dhlodhlo.
Centres, such as KYP, continue to reach out to youths involved in crime and drug abuse through their various programmes.
The hordes of children that retreat from these centres into their homes each afternoon is a clearly indication of the importance of the centres to the community.
Their foundations providing a starting point for a better, brighter future for the young people who pass through their gates each day.
FEATURED IMAGE: Educator delivers lesson to pupils in class. Photo: Files.
Ouma Majola is bringing social change to the community of Kliptown through her community centre Little Rose. Not only does the centre care for children, but it also provides them with aftercare educational lessons.
Sibongile is dressed in her Sunday best, wearing a red and white polka dot dress to welcome the buzz in the big city.
The Shosholoza Meyl is moving fast, in a race with the ambitions of this young mother when she arrives in Johannesburg. The train journey between the two South African cities takes 14 hours before reaching its terminus at the train station.
“All passengers get ready to disembark the train …please do not forget your tickets before approaching the counter at reception for your luggage! “,…shouts the intercom 15 minutes before arrival.
A PROMISING FUTURE: Little Rose has become a community safe haven grooming the youth for a different reality.
Sibongile’s stay in Johannesburg first began in Soweto at Zola Township with a friend. After meeting her boyfriend in 2007 she moved to Kliptown in the hope of finding her independence.
Kliptown is an iconic area in Soweto that represents the setting of democracy and the signing of the Freedom Charter in 1955.
This sought to provide an alternative vision to the policies of the apartheid government but 23 years after democratic elections there is no sign of it.
Little Rose community centre is built at the centre of the “government forsaken” state of Kliptown.
Made from brightly painted plastic containers, it stands in contrast to the rusty metal shacks that overpopulate Kliptown. Little Rose functions as a shelter and day-care for the homeless.
It also offers afternoon classes focusing on computer skills and literacy along with three meals a day to those in need.
A single mum, abuse, neglect and the road to Little Rose
Sibongile arrived in Kliptown and found a shack. “At first the shack was in bad condition where from my bed the rooftop had a hole you could see the sun from during the day and the moon in the evening.”
To make a living Sibongile started washing people’s laundry and says, “A year after dating my boyfriend we had our first child together, Thabiso (9), we no longer had to fend for ourselves but had another human to support, worse of all I still had to send money home for Lusanda (13) because his father left us back in KZN.”
Sibongile says her boyfriend started selling drugs and became involved in crime in an effort to make a living. “Money would come in; we had enough to sustain us”.
With every rand they made her boyfriend soon started abusive habits. “From Thursday to Sunday he was out drinking and those were the days he would come home drunk and start beating me up. I forgave him often and held onto the initial character I had of him but the reality of who he was and his lifestyle caught up with me”.
A SINGLE MOM’S HOPE: Sibongile Shabalala (31) regards Little Rose as a symbol of a better future for her kids.
Sibongile recalls the first morning after a night out where her boyfriend came home. “Around 3am we were sleeping when we got woken up by a knock. I went to open the door only to welcome in police. They came to arrest him after a girl he slept with had laid a charge of rape. The girl was from the area. I knew her and had heard of their relationship”.
Sibongile’s boyfriend got arrested for three months before the case was dropped. Nine months after his release, Sibongile’s boyfriend was again arrested for another rape charge. Bekundzima (it was difficult) I also was pregnant with my third born I would go visit him and bring him food and airtime Ndimenza umntu (humanising an inhumane situation), trying to assure him that he had a family that loved him.
I had to get lawyers and at this stage we had no money so I had to make a living”. “I too started selling weed and later got access to crystal meth, mandrax and cocaine. I made enough money to get him bail. You know in Kliptown after usuyile eNyangeni (After going to see a traditional healer) and you have money.
You can get arrested for anything but you will never go to prison, his case soon fell through and he was free”. Sibongile says after her boyfriend’s release from prison, he went back to crime.
“Before giving birth to my third born I decided to leave him. I started to fend for myself and my children. Life was hard you know…but I stopped selling drugs and looked for jobs and did peoples hair.”
The better life for all Sibongile hoped for seemed far from reality. But she was determined to change this narrative from being an inheritance to her children.
Sibongile found Little Rose and started to volunteer. “I sent Thabiso (9) the middle born home to KZN and remained with Siphelele (3) who still goes to Little Rose. The centre offers him a different path of life. He gets so excited to attend and enjoys learning. A lot of the kids in the area are susceptible to crime and gambling.”
USING ONE’S PAST MEANINGFULLY: Ouma Majola (56) , founder of Little Rose, used her orphaned upbringing to aid the community of Kliptown.
Sibongile says the centre offers children in the area a different perspective and tries to meet parents half way. “You have to pay for the day care, but if you can’t afford they allow you to work there as a volunteer in exchange for them to allow your kid to come”.
Ouma Majola (56) is the founder of Little Rose which was established in 1993. Her life growing up inspired the community haven.
Ouma says, “When I was 13 years old. My parents died. I ended up living from one home to the next but fortunately my brother in law was working and got me through school.
Things were different after my parents died…you know the absence of parents even in my case where I was taken care of was still an unpleasant experience. I decided to drop out of school in grade 9 and went to work.”
Ouma describes growing up as a metaphor for the Little Rose centre. “My mother loved kids and giving back to the community so even with me it came naturally and I didn’t want to witness any other orphan or abandoned child going through what I did.
“Over weekends we had community outreaches, in 1993 at a community meeting, I made a proposal for us to start food gardening because the people of Kliptown were hungry and there was land to plant in, this marked the beginning of Little Rose,” she says.
Ouma says she soon attracted support from developed businesses. The single shack was turned into a double deck of colourful containers covered with freehand art from the kids at the centre. The centre has running water, flushing toilets and a playground, which in dry and grey Kliptown provided a literal and symbolic metaphor to the life known by the community.
“We later got computer donations, international sponsors and Sage publication donated a library to us, marking the expansion and full operation of Little Rose,” Ouma says.
A single father’s experience with Little Rose
Little Rose has become a haven to many parents and children in the area.
Julious Zungo (43) is a single father to three-year-old Asanda. “My daughter’s mother left us when she was about 3 months old. Ndim’UMama noTata wakhe (I am her mom and dad). I work here (pointing at the spaza where we met) so when I am working Asanda goes to Little Rose’s day care.
They teach her how to read and write. She comes home and we start discussing what was taught at school”.
Zungo says her daughter talks of future career prospects because of the exposure she got from Little Rose.
REBUILDING TOGETHER: The community of Kliptown relies on one another, and have no faith in help outside of themselves.
Ouma took her in at the age of 8 after her mother passed on. Bongiwe describes gambling alcoholism and drug abuse as being prominent in Kliptown.
“The work we do in the center takes the focus of the youth away from those activities, she says”.
A survey 2006 prepared for the JDA by Martin Wessels an Independent Consultant with the community members of Kliptown indicated that between 1995 and 2005 crime rates had increased by 75%.
With arrests of community members for possession of drugs, rape and robbery being the most prominent of incidents.
Wessels survey also reflected that 62% of community members in Kliptown felt that living conditions had become worse. Whilst 82% said there had been no recreational improvement in Kliptown.
Ouma’s legacy lives
Nhlanhla Majola (31), Ouma’s only biological son, who after a habit of using drugs in standard four, is now a tour guide and mentor for the children in Kliptown.
“If you have no vision or ideas, Kliptown can be like a bottle for you. Where you feel lifeless and with little options”. Nhlanhla says the center “saved him from himself” and gave him a sense of purpose.
“When I was in standard four in Lansfield primary, Eldarado Park, I started hanging with the wrong crowd. I ended up doing; weed cigarettes and cocaine.
To remove me from that environment, in grade eight my mom sent me to a Muslim boarding school. Jules High in Jeppe. High school was a frustrating time for me because I would stay in boarding school and often visit home during holidays and the differences in living conditions and upset me”. After finishing grade 11 in 2007 Nhlanhla quit school and went back home.
“A year later I made my then girlfriend pregnant this one event changed the course of my life. I had to get it together and make means end for my child. I started going to the Mosque in Kliptown and fell in love with the Muslim religion it really impacted me well”, Nhlanhla said.
“As a tour guide I enjoyed the process of showing local and international tourists the history and experiences in Kliptown. It also gave me an opportunity to expose my community to people we hope would come as visitors but leave as family, adding value to our lives”.
Nhlanhla says he hopes to open his own tourism company and wants to mentor the young men and women in Kliptown to use the little resources they have to ‘’preserve the history and make attainable achievements that will bring wealth and communal success to the people of Kliptown”.
The efforts that came from the experience of an orphan are generations ahead of the Government that lays claim to the Freedom Charter.
In realising a “better life” in Kliptown, Little Rose is viewed by the local community as giving a sense of hope to parents, youth and children, changing the predetermined course of life for the younger generation and serving as an act of defiance to the status quo of the area.
FEATURED IMAGE: Founder of Little Rose, Ouma Majola. Photo: Zamayirha Peter.
When it comes to tourist attractions in Kliptown, tourists most often visit the popular historical sites. However, there are other places of historical significance that are not on the usual tourist route and are located in the squatter camps.
Town, town, are you going to town?” taxi drivers hoot their Siyaya horns enthusiastically, ceaselessly, loudly enough to rupture your eardrum. “One town” says a taxi driver with his scraggy arm hanging out of the window, he moves his index finger and points up trying to get a passenger to fill up his raggedy taxi. Welcome to Kliptown.
Kliptown is vibrant and enveloped by the spirit of hustling. South of the Walter Sisulu Square, people walk through the meticulously paved square of dedication, some selling, others buying, while others are standing and gazing at the surroundings looking uncertain, with facial expressions of despair.
NOT DONKEY WORK: A donkey is a cheap mode of transport for vendors.
Today, the centre of the township has been declared a heritage site and is known as the Walter Sisulu Square or Square of Dedication, a R375-million, architect-designed area that commemorates the place where on June 26, 1955 more than 3 000 people from different ethnic and religious organisations assembled to adopt the Freedom Charter.
The square attracts busloads of tourists.
There is the other side of this township, one that is out of the limelight and off the beaten track for tourists, yet carries iconic stories and a history of what the township once was.
Kliptown is one of oldest districts in Soweto and was established in 1903. It is referred to by its inhabitants as the first rainbow nation, as it was originally a home of Indians, Coloured, Blacks, and Chinese.
In spite of the rich history and heritage, and standing as the home of the Freedom Charter, Kliptown is steeped in pervasive poverty, unemployment and violence.
The San Souci Bioscope
One old building that resonates with the history of Kliptown is the San Souci Bioscope. Hollow and unsteady walls and dusty cracked floors are the only remains of what was once a centre of entertainment.
The bioscope is situated in the west of Kliptown, 15 minutes walking distance from the Walter Sisulu Square.
“During the holidays there was nothing to be done in the townships, the only place for entertainment and to watch movies was Kliptown, San Souci Bioscope,” says Carl Tarr, a 61-year-old who lives three houses away from the bioscope, and use to frequent the bioscope when it was still operating.
Established in the 1950s, the bioscope quickly became a meeting spot for people in Kliptown and surrounding areas. “At that time there was no Eldorado park, there was no Soweto.
There was only Kliptown, Chiawelo, Pimville and Dlamini. These were the people who attended the bioscope,” Tarr explains.
The interior design of the bioscope was made up of three sections, the costly section was the gallery section for the ‘big guys’, then the ground floor, consisting of wooden benches and ordinary cinema chairs.
This small bioscope became the center of trade, hustlers using the spot to sell food, and also a space for concerts and music festivals. “You will find five queues, and the fee was 25 cents.
You will find that other people are gentlemen and ladies and wait at the queue,” he laughs vigorously. “There was a lady who used to sell pies. The best way to treat a lady was to buy her cool drink and that round red cake,” he continues.
“The bioscope was a mix masala, there were old madalas from Pimville, gamblers and gangsters.”
ENTERTAIMENT ZONE: The remains of the first bioscope in Kliptown.
Tarr describes the bioscope as a vibrant and sprightly space. “On Sundays we used to have a session, bands from Soweto use to come play here, and we jaiva. Young girls and young men will dress up. At that time it was those pants with the big bottom, they called them bell-bottom, everybody was wearing an afro, and you must have your afro in round, because you get a price. An afro that is in a perfect form wins.”
During the booming of this business, the apartheid regime was penetrating all angles of South Africa. The bioscope became vicinity for political awareness. “Before every session starts there was political speeches, that’s how people from Kliptown and Pimville integrated,” says Tarr as he makes elaborate hand gestures. “But most people were not tuned into what was going on, even people who come to sing [at the concerts and music festivals].”
Tarr takes out his patterned handkerchief and wipes off beads of sweat on his forehead. “One day the police came, the special force, the mlungus. They couldn’t find anything because the people just mingled with others and walked out in different exists.
That’s why you got searched when you go in, because there are others who worked for the police and will snitch on those who inform the people about political intolerance in the country.”
The late Ahmed Ballim who bought the bioscope from San Souci in 1960 sat down with European researcher and author, Benoit Allanic in 2000 and reflected on the period when the bioscope was running at a loss.
“People didn’t want to watch romantic movies,” says Ballim. Professor at the School of Civil and Environmental Engineering, Yunus Ballim who is the son of the late Ahmed Ballim describes San Souci Bioscope as a central gathering point, a source of entertainment and a form of political education.
“My father and Hassan [his friend] took over [the bioscope] in 1960. I got more of my education in the cinema than I got in school,” says the professor with a broad smile on his face.
“Three or four times a week, we go to town to fetch the films, and return them on Thursday,” he continues. “The cinema was like a rite of passage, before you grow up you have to go the cinema first.”
In the same interview with Benoit Allanic, the late Ahmed Ballim reflects on a sad Monday when he found the bioscope damaged and vandalised.
“They wanted steel. There were about 300 corrugated iron sheets, they took them and build shacks. They took the asbestos. They took all the windows. They took the seats. It should be presented as a war zone.”
With tuned down voice and long face, Tarr expresses his disappointment with the lack of response from the government to bring to life this lifeless building. “We pleaded with the government to turn the building into a library or a research centre.”
Mandela’s hide out
HIDE AND SEEK: The Lollan house was a hidding spot for Madiba during apartheid.
A few houses away from the bioscope is another landmark. Constructed with face brick, patched with cement to prevent it from falling, and dead grass lining around the house.
The two bedroom house belongs to Augusta Lollan, the mother of a well-respected political activist and the Secretary of the South African Coloured People’s Organisation in 1953, Stanley Lollan.
According to Stanley Lollan’s late brother, Oom Poto, Lollan was a close friend of Nelson Mandela, and provided his friend a hideaway from the police force during Apartheid.
Lollan passed away 33 years ago, however, his brother the late Oom Poto sat down with Benoit Allanic on April 2000 to reflect on the days when Nelson Mandela used to hide in their house and hold secret meetings.
“Mandela was a great friend of my brother. He started [hiding in the house] in 1947 until they were arrested. They went to jail, they were arrested for treason. They were on trial in 1962. It must have been in the early ‘50s when they were arrested for high treason.
The great grandchild of Augusta Lollan, Beryl Bullock who is in her late 30s says she still remembers the stories she was told about how Mandela use to hide in the house that she lives in.
The great grandchild of Augusta Lollan, Beryl Bullock who is in her late 30s says she still remembers the stories she was told about how Mandela use to hide in the house that she lives in.
“When I was young, kids use to ask me to show them where Mandela used to hide,” she says. She welcomes me inside the house, as I sit on a hardwood chair that is upholstered in leather, I was immediately intrigued by the old furnisher that stores the memories of this historical house.
“He used to hide over there,” Lock says as she points underneath a single bed in the bedroom facing the kitchen.
PRAISE AND WORSHIP: The Charlotte Maxeke Memorial Church brings hope to the community since it was established.
In 1998, Nelson Mandela visited a 96-year-old Augusta Lollan at Eldorado Park where Lollan was staying before she passed away. In a scene captured by AP Archive, Mandela refers to Lollan as his comrade.
“It’s an honour for me to stand beside comrade Lollan, because she was my comrade in those worst days before prison and I’m happy to be here today with her.” says Mandela wrapping his arm around Lollan’s hunched shoulders.
The Lollan house is not a tourism attraction because it is home for Lollan’s great grandchildren.
The African Methodist Episcopal (AME) Church
Another historic landmark is a church situated at First Street of Kliptown’s poorest community called ‘Dark City’. Surrounded by a collection of rusty cramped corrugated iron frames, and garnished with scattered pieces of plastics, cans and used diapers, the church remains a place of hope for the poor community.
Charlotte Maxeke, one of South Africa’s first black female graduates and activist, is linked to the history of the church. She is the founder of the church and played a pivotal role in multiracial movements and protests.
Today the church is known as Maxeke Memorial Church. It was an essential space during the apartheid regime, and used by political leaders as a meeting place.
Reverend Blom who delivers Sunday sermons at the church says “Maxeke was a member of the Methodist Episcopal in America. The church honoured her by naming it after her. I also know that Political leader held their meetings here [at the church].” he says.
Some people believe that the Freedom Charter was signed at the AME Church. A Kliptown community leader and the CEO of Greater Kliptown Development Forum, Gene Duiker says “The freedom charter was not signed at the church. The delegates did not sign the Freedom Charter, they adopted it by show of hands,” he says as he slowly grabs the bottle of Castle Milk Stout and pours into a facsimile of a Gleincairn whisky glass, sitting at the local tavern.
The new museum
PRESERVING HISTORY: Kliptown residents still gather outside the closed museum.
Opened in 2003, Oom Bolo’s Museum is a significant building that preserves the historical and artistic items and household pieces that represent the old Kliptown.
The museum is situated at Beacon Road, and was founded by a cultural and art activist, the late David Meyers, who is famously known by the community as Oom Bolo. In the 90s the building was a butcher shop, and was later transformed into a museum.
“The museum was created to continue to give people a connection with the old lifestyle.
“[It was created] so that people could relate to how others lived back then,” says Duiker whose photographs and household items are in the museum. Cyil Jantjies, a friend of Meyers says “He [Meyers] was interested in Kliptown. He wanted to preserve the memory and culture of Kliptown.”
Meyers passed away last year, and the museum has been closed since then. “The museum is closed because of family feud.
The mother of Meyers’s late girlfriend wants to take charge. The previous owner of the building also wants to claim back the place,” Jantjies says.
Meyers’s son-in-law, Glen Crawford says the museum was always full of people. “The museum was always full. The stoep [at Meyers’s house] use to be full of people every day.”
Despite Kliptown’s well-known historical significance and high-cost constructed square, the community sees no beneficial effects.
“Kliptown is a historical place, yet people still live in shacks or what they call ‘informal settlement’ a new fancy name. People don’t even benefit from that square. Where is the running water? Where is electricity? Where are the sewage pipes?” Duiker asks with a forced smile.
FEATURED IMAGE: Kliptown’s closed museum. Photo: Tebadi Mmotla.
There is a harmony of taxis hooting, gospel music playing and local traders shouting, “Ice! Ice!” in the air. The stench of rotting vegetables and fried potato chips is inescapable.
Shops are tightly squashed next to each other on every block. On the sidewalk are rows and rows of black women sitting underneath umbrellas and selling vegetables, all at the same price. These are the sounds, smells and sights of town in Kliptown.
Walking west, past the city centre the harmony gets quieter and quieter. A different stench of sewage assaults the nostrils and the amount of people walking around decreases.
Shops turn into shacks and shacks turning into small homes along the roads. Every once in a while, one can see murals painted on the walls.
On Beacon Street, “Pots and gas stoves rented here,” is written on one of the houses and “Shafiek’s General Works” is written on another.
The house that has “Shafiek’s General Works” is painted in pink and green, with a shiny silver gate. It is slotted comfortably between another pink house and a glass cutting business. The mural on the wall has a phone number and a crude drawing on a geyser and tap on the sides.
Upon walking into the home, on the right is a dark bedroom. The room is filled with the smell of burning incense and reggae music playing softly in the background. There is an Islamic mat hanging on the window and, below it is a shelf with the Quran, many tools and a Dragon energy drink. Below the shelf is a small bed. All along the walls, are shelves holding hammers, electrical drills, wood glue and other tools.
SPECIALISING: Shafiek’s General Works owned by Koobatialian Abdulla.
The occupant of the room is Koobatialian Abdulla, also known as Shafiek and he is the programme manager of Shafiek’s General Works. The 64-year-old started his business in November 2016, with his daughter and friend.
Abdulla is one of many Kliptown residents who started a business and run it from their homes.
“It’s like an enterprise. We can repair doors, ceilings and we build carports. We can fix your geyser and do your plumbing. At the moment I am here [home] and I am using it as my office and I want to start building up Shafiek’s General Works,” he says.
Abdulla sits on his bed. His hands are wrinkly and weathered from a lifetime of physical work.
He is wearing a navy jacket and brown trousers. His shoes are covered in dust and dirt and on his head is a short, rounded skullcap.
Abdulla was born in Kliptown in 1953 and was raised in the location. He attended a trading school in the Eldorado Park, where he received a welding qualification. After leaving high school, he would go on to work as a welder. Abdulla picked up skills in his many different jobs, including ship repairs in Angola and construction work.
Shafiek started his business at home because he was too old and sickly to do contracted work in contruction and welding. Shafiek did not want to let it go and started his own business and run it from home.
“There came a time when my age and health couldn’t allow me to go further and I had a chest condition. I was paid off and told ‘You’re not fit to go to any other place’ and that’s why I’m doing my own thing and doing this on my own,” says Abdulla.
Not far from Shafiek’s General Works, one can see another mural on a wall. The mural says “Marlon’s Take-Away” with paintings of a kota (a hollowed out quarter loaf of bread, filled with a variety of ingredients, often chips, cheese, polony and egg with atchar) at the top and deep fried chips at the bottom. Marlon’s Take Away is owned by Marlon Webster. He started a business in the home that he was born (in 1986) and raised in.
The Webster home has a small room in front of the kitchen. The wall direct opposite the door has a deep fryer. The deep fryer is not being attended to but sizzles as potato pieces turn into French fries. Next to the door is a deep freezer with ice lollies or “chuppas” as it is called. Above is a shelf with an array of sauces and spices.
Inside the kitchen is a large refrigerator that is full of two litres of soft drinks, along with other groceries of the family. Hanging on the side of the fridge, are large packets holding small NikNaks and other chips. On top of the fridge is a variety of different sweets and biscuits.
SWEET TOOTH: Stock of sweets sold by trader in Virginia McDonald’s yard.
No money, more problems
It is a 12pm on a Wednesday and the heat is almost suffocating in front of Marlon’s Take Away. Two men are lounging in front of the Webster garage occasionally slipping on Sprite, talking to each other and occasionally chatting to the people who walk by. The men have been there since the morning and will probably stay until the evening.
A scene like this is not unusual in Kliptown. Many people can be seen sitting outside their homes, chatting with their neighbours, instead of being at work. This scene is normal because of the high unemployment rate in the area. Unemployment is one of the reasons why Webster and Abdulla started businesses in their homes.
According to the Quarterly Labour Force Survey released by Stats SA on August 7, the current national unemployment rate is 27, 75%. The same report stated that the unemployment rate in City of Johannesburg Metropolitan Municipality (where Kliptown falls under) is 27, 2%. According to, City of Johannesburg 2012/16 Integrated Development Plan, the current population rate in the municipality is about 4 400 000.
“I started the business because I was unemployed and life was tough. So I figured that I’d trying something on my own,” says Webster.
He does not have qualification and his odd jobs like fixing roofs did not allow for a constant flow of money.
One of the other reasons why businesses are run in homes is lack of capital to afford to rent out a shop space in the area, says Webster.
“I have no money to rent a place for the business. It is just easier to run it from here at home,” he says.
Despite the high unemployment rate and lack of capital, business owners are making opportunities for themselves and others.
Business owners like Virginia McDonald, also known as Ma Lulu. The 60-year-old Kliptown resident owns a take-away business that is currently on hold for renovation next year. McDonald also lets other businesses use her yard to trade and operate their businesses.
“You don’t need to wait for the government or your children to come and give you what they feel like giving you,” she says.
Keep it in the community
The home run business owners of Kliptown chose to keep it in the community in regards to stock purchasing, marketing and customer base.
“I get my stock from the Kit Kat down the road. Or I’ll stock from the Pakistani and Muslim shops by the square,” says Webster. Kit Kat Cash and Carry is a franchise similar to Macro where they sells bulk merchandise and bulk purchases.
Most of the customers that Webster receives are members of the Kliptown community. His customers is also why he started the take-away in his home. Webster has a lifelong relationship established with the community.
“I grew up here. People know me and they know that this is my tuckshop,” he says.
Speaking in IsiZulu, neighbour and customer of Marlon’s Take Away, Sehlabo Tsiu says, “We buy cold drinks, snacks, biscuits and chips from Marlon. The shop is open in the evening and we buy. Other customers also come, even if it’s 11pm and it’s safe.”
“We buy some cold drink there, fish and chips and bread and Russians. They are doing well and we can buy nearby instead of going far away,” says another neighbour and customer, Joseph Sithole.
Admin and paperwork
The procedure when licencing and getting your home zoned to run business there occurs at the City of Johannesburg, Land Use Management office. They released a Land Use Scheme draft on June 7.
According to the Land Use Scheme, spazas or house shops like Webster’s and McDonald’s are required to submit a written consent application with notification of the “direct adjacent neighbours”. The exercising of the spaza should exclusively be for the owner/occupant living in the house.
“I used to sell food before, so I’m waiting to get the papers and stuff and fix the place so I can open up something like a restaurant and selling food,” says McDonald about her future plans with her business. They will need to be approved by the council.
According to the Land Use Scheme, not more than “25% of the built floor area of the dwelling house/ unit or 36 metres square may be used for non-residential purposes in total.”
The Land Use Scheme also states that, the displays on the fences or building that advertise the name, occupation and telephone numbers that are currently on all three of the homes are permitted in compliance with outdoor advertising by-law.
McDonald says that her children are currently trying to get her business licensed so she can expand and renovate her shop.
“Inspectors must come and inspect your house and come check if the place is alright for what you are doing. I understand that the food or health inspectors will be doing that but my son is still busy,” she says.
Moving on and up?
Abdulla is planning on moving Shafiek’s General Works out of his house and set up shop near his home.
“I’m here every day. I’m not unemployed anymore, I’m self-employed. Operating is a very slow from the house, it goes very slow. And I hope to do much better than this when I do move into the other place,” he says.
According to him, Shafiek’s only has three or four customers a month, depending on the job.
On the other hand, McDonald has no intention to move her business out of her home.
“I feel that my house is safe and if they [customers] don’t want to take a take-away, they can sit. If they want to use the toilet, they can use the one in the house,” she says.
“I’m more comfortable here because of my age also. For me to be moving around and my age doesn’t allow it. Next year I will be 60-years-old and I just want to keep myself busy.”
Individuals like Abdulla, Webster and McDonald are actively using the resources and structures available to them to make opportunities for themselves and others. Individuals like them are what make Kliptown, Kliptown. They strive push past the obstacles of poverty and unemployment in the area and embody the spirit of hustle, hustle, hustle.
Still like this
The sun is setting over Kliptown. People are beginning to slowly trickle from town towards the houses and shacks. The hustle and bustle in town has almost come to a standstill while traders pack up their stands.
The harmony has toned down to only the sound of taxis hooting, as people shuffle to return to their homes outside of Kliptown. The stench of rotting vegetable is still in the air.
The vegetable ladies pack away their produce and draped their stands with large plastic covers. Lone tomatoes and onions roll around the floor, either waiting to be kicked or stepped on by the rushing commuters. The shop owners have switched the lights and music off.
The pack away their products displayed outside. A “ddddrrrrr” sound can be heard as they slam closed their awnings and snap the locks shut.
The town has simmered down to a standstill. The streets are almost empty as everyone settles for the evening. Kliptown is still. It will remain like this until the sun rises tomorrow morning and the hustle of Kliptown and its people starts again.
FEATURED IMAGE: Marlon Webster looks over his work station. Photo: Chulumanco Mahamba.
In episode six of We Should Be Writing season 7, the team unpacked the evolution of music as a form of expression and protest, through four decades in the South African context. The episode explores the journey of South African music and its consumers from the 80s, 90s, early 2000s and contemporary listeners. From the […]
