Sowetans take their maintenance disputes to a building ironically called the place of beauty _ a dull, grey building which used to be a pass office. Mduduzi ka Harvey reports
KWAMUHLE (the place of beauty) is a stubborn hangover from the South Africa of the dompas. In the dull, grey building in downtown Johannesburg, once a pass office, droves of patient black men and women wait in long queues as officials stroll past at their leisure.
On the fourth floor stand lines of young and old women, some with crying babies on their backs or standing with relatives who have come to give moral support. This is NdabazaBantu (People’s Affairs), where the people of Soweto come for justice in their disputes over maintenance.
Outside the court, in the corridors, men smoke endlessly as they wait for the magistrate to settle their fate, while others pace in nervous anticipation of their names being called.
The women stand in groups discussing their claims, while others sling abuse at their boyfriends. “I’m going to make him pay through his neck this time,” says one. Another exclaims: “The double-crossing bastard! He can go out drinking with younger women but he can hardly afford to buy his own flesh and blood food and clothing.”
The men, for their part, complain of bias in the court’s rulings. “Die vrouens wen altyd hulle sake hierso (The women always win their cases here),” one says.
At 10am the magistrate arrives, bringing to an end hours of waiting in cold corridors. As he enters the court and takes his seat, the small courtroom is immediately packed with about 80 people.
The magistrate is the only white person present. In a booming voice, he cross-questions the first defaulter: “What do you do with your money if you can’t afford R100 for your child?”
“I don’t work; I live on piece jobs.”
“What’s that?”
“Small jobs in the township.”
“Die man kom speel hierso (This fellow’s playing around),” says the magistrate. He sets payment at R50 a month for the child.
“Next,” shouts the court orderly. In 15 minutes five cases are heard: two are postponed; two men are placed in custody for failure to pay; while a third gets a 12-month jail sentence for not telling the court about a change of address.
The cases are processed in double-quick time. By lunchtime, the corridors are empty and the court officials sit around the benches eating, smoking and chatting.
“What do you expect?” asks Selo Masemola. “This place has always been a Bantu court. Black issues have always been treated as minor _ even when the country is changing.”
Two blocks from this hive of chaotic activity, on the first floor of the Johannesburg Magistrate’s Court, other maintenance cases are heard in a very different setting. Here white and coloured people wait for their disputes to be heard.
The mood is calm, and couples talk in undertones. Queues are shorter _ about 20 people sit in benches basking in the sun. Gone are the screams of babies and the mud-slinging between spouses.
The court starts punctually. Prosecutors and other court officials stride around in a businesslike fashion, but they are approachable and willing to help. Here men are called “sir” and women “ma’m”. Everyone sits quietly as couples are called into the court.
As the first complainant enters the silent courtroom, the orderly shows her where to stand. “Do you wish to speak in English or Afrikaans?” the magistrate, a woman, asks in a maternal voice.
The setting is intimate, with fewer people present and the prosecutor taking time to explain to the parties how their dispute can be resolved.
“If Mr Ferreira has to pay the money directly to you, make sure you give him a receipt. And if there are any problems between the two of you, don’t hesitate to approach the court. Do you both understand?” the magistrate tells one couple.
“Sorry Miss, where do we go for the tissue and blood tests?”asks the complainant. The magistrate patiently tells her.
Each case is given the time it deserves. Both parties are given the opportunity to ask questions.
“The last time I gave her the money in her hands, she bought clothes for herself and nothing for my children,” complains Ferreira.
“Okay sir, we’ll have to ask her to provide you with proof that she spent the money on the children,” the prosecutor responds.
Throughout the morning, the prosecutor continues to argue for increased maintenance, the issuing of warrants of arrest and the referral of cases to social workers.
By lunchtime, couples whose cases have not been heard wait for the court hearings to resume. For the officials, it’s time for a quick snack and back to work.
For Koos Benson and his girlfriend Annie Marks, the magistrate has worked a small miracle. After three years of separation and problems over the maintenance of their two daughters, they have decided to get back together again.
Down at kwaMuhle, Mandla Sibeko feels his case has not been properly weighed.
“I don’t know how I’m going to cope,” he says, commenting on the increased maintenance he will now have to pay. “I might have to get a second job.”