We called him Mkhulu simply because he was a grey-haired old man.
My uncle, Billy Masilela, shook his head with despair when he spoke about Mkhulu, the poor old man who became part of the flotsam and jetsam of our uncaring and unthinking society.
Mkhulu was spotted by uncle Billy loitering around the streets of Alexandra without a proper home, at times even without something to eat.
To survive, Mkhulu pushed around a wheelbarrow, transporting crates of sorghum beer from the bottle store to shebeens. He was also a runner for a Chinese man who played a game of numbers with local gamblers, known as fah-fee.
With a lump in his throat, uncle Billy told of his own sleepless nights thinking about the lonesome Mkhulu, drifting about the dark and turbulent alleyways of the township north of Johannesburg.
What really troubled uncle Billy was that night-time Alexandra was notorious for sporadic bursts of gunfire, with the occasional bullet-riddled corpse being collected by a police hearse.
Uncle Billy, the erstwhile courtroom interpreter, decided to take it upon himself to tackle the plight of Mkhulu head-on.
He engaged Mkhulu, telling him about the Masilela family smallholding in the crop and livestock farmlands of Klippan, north of Pretoria.
In Klippan he offered Mkhulu retirement with dignity against the backdrop of birdsong, goat trails and church bells.
After deep thought, Mkhulu winked at uncle Billy and a date was set to transport the old man to a place of peace and dignity.
Because of my passion for rural surroundings, from time to time I pack a cooler bag full of ice cubes and plenty of beer, heading for a peaceful weekend on the Klippan smallholding.
There he was: Mkhulu, a wizened old-timer, complete with broken but expensive two-tone shoes and grey hair partly covered by a fading maroon beret with holes in it.
In line with uncle Billy’s wish, I found the old man relaxing under the shade of a tree, rolling tobacco into a piece of paper and lighting up, with a faint cloud of white smoke drifting from his nostrils.
After accepting a few cans of beer from yours truly, Mkhulu’s eyes lit up, telling me about an old kleva back in Alexandra, who was arrested for the illegal possession of a firearm.
Talking between mouthfuls of beer and bursts of laughter, Mkhulu related how the kleva tried to convince the court to believe the firearm belonged to a Chinaman, and how the Chinaman was nowhere to be found.
Then suddenly tears started rolling down his wrinkled cheeks. With a hoarse voice, Mkhulu lamented how he was missing the turbulent alleyways of ol’ Alex.
Johnny Masilela is a journalist and author.