The M&G’s guest writer this week, Boetie Damane, revisited the `Jozi’ of hope, sorrow and fear he knew as a child
BACK in 1966, when I was 12, I was a street child in Hillbrow. We slept by the waterfall on the corner of Catherine Street and Saratoga Avenue. Also in scrapyards. Trees provided a safe perch for day and night; high in their branches no one could see you. And the trains offered a sort of comfort, after hours.
When the day-shift drivers knocked off, we used to board the trains on their way to be parked for the night, and sleep in them. The night-shift workers were cruel at times. They even called the police who came and beat us up. We didn’t mind being beaten up, as long as they did not arrest us.
Recently I returned to the streets to see how the lot of modern street chil- dren compared with mine of the past. In some ways they are very different; in others just the same. Talking to the kids, the memories came flooding back.
Aged 14 to 16, this group of ’97 had been living in a shack concealed behind a Coca- Cola advertising board on a flat roof on top of Noord Street taxi rank, one of the busiest places in Johannesburg.
They took me to their secret place. To reach it you crawl through a hole in the wire fence and edge along a narrow path on a bank beneath which the trains thunder. You then climb a sheer brick wall to the roof. Scary if you’re not used to heights.
On my next visit they have disappeared. Two older boys named Mxhosa and Accuse have taken over. They say the kids moved out because they “did not like to be told they should wash their bodies”.
The street talk trail leads to Doornfontein, and a new informal settlement of shacks built out of wood. Inside one of them are the five kids, sleeping on a mattress. In charge is a Rastafarian called “Jah-man”, who they said is good to them, but does not allow them to inhale glue and smoke cigarettes.
I am welcomed with smiles from those who know me and introduce myself to those who do not. And as we settle down to talk, a different story of life in the rooftop hideout emerges.
Motsamai, a serious-looking boy of 16, says: “When we went there to sleep Mxhosa and Accuse would send us to buy cigarettes or fetch water. I couldn’t stand this and I decided to move out.”
Muzi, also called Mancane, is 14. Small, because of his small frame, is a doubtful 14 also and comes from Snake Park, in Soweto.
Small is bright and independent. At first life was good in the rooftop hideout, but he says they were forced out by the older boys. “I couldn’t stand being bullied by these fellows who ill-treated us and beat us.”
But freedom they had. “Everyone did what he wanted, when he wanted,” says Small. “I used to buy my own food with money I got from begging and parking cars at Bruma Lake. We couldn’t share, as everyone had to fend for himself. I did not have a boss to control me.”
We street kids in the Johannesburg of the late 60s needed a boss, if not bosses. Life was difficult at that stage. Blacks were not allowed in town after a certain time at night, so we had to be well hidden. And we needed some kind of protection. Our bosses were older than us and they would control everything.
Chris was our boss. He was short, bulky, with broad shoulders, crooked legs and a head shaped like a gorrilla’s. His complexion was pitch black. A gap separated his front teeth and he had large hands. I was afraid of this guy. His looks annoyed and scared me. Having grown up in a strict family of Christians, I knew well this was the type of guy my parents used to warn me about.
At that time there were not so many street kids. We knew each other well, even our separate dwelling places. None of us dared argue with Chris. The town was too small for this monster when he was baying for blood. If you were not on good terms with Bra’ Chris, there was no place to hide. Those large fists would eventually get you. You had to suffer for annoying Chris,who seemed to be annoyed always.
These days there’s a choice of shelters with sympathetic ears among their staffs to turn to. These ’97 kids have the guarantee that they get mostly what they need. More important, they have access to education. I ask myself: “What would I have done with such opportunities?”
“We only go to Street-Wise,” says Small. “At Every Child is My Child there are a lot of bullies. We don’t like a place with bullies. Street-Wise is okay with us.
“They give us food, clothes and shoes – and they take us on trips. They make us aware about Aids and other diseases. There is a doctor who visits Street-Wise every Friday morning at 10.30 to check us all.”
The rooftop hideout was built by Fanzo, a young man who is presently in prison serving a sentence for child abuse. “Hey, Fanzo was not good!” says Small. “If you refused to have sex with him he would threaten to throw you down on to the rail- line.”
Isaac, known as “Tlanyos”, was one of the group in the hideout. He is mentally disturbed, which gave Fanzo an advantage in harassing him.
“Kade ba mpetsula [they used to fuck him],” comments Muzi.
“I don’t know Fanzo,” says 16-year- old Kebareng. “He was already in prison when I came there.” But he remembers Tlanyos crying at night while Mxhosa abused him.
While sexual abuse is ever-present for children on the street, prostitution is not encouraged. “We do not turn to prostitution to get money, even if we are stranded,” says Richard, also 16. If one of them were to do such a thing? “Siya ba trapa thina lapha. [We beat them up here amongst us.]”
Says Small: “One who does prostitution is expelled from the group … There are those who do it, but they keep it confidential, for fear of being disgraced or beaten up by other members of the group.”
In my day we also had trouble with child abusers. Most were adults – and mostly whites. They used to pick the street kids to have sex with, knowing they had no means to defend themselves.
We survived by stealing, which usually landed us in prison. But sometimes manna would drop from heaven. If you woke up early to rush and explore the dustbins at Fontana Bakery, by luck you could be rewarded by finding a full roasted chicken (stale of course). The old street logo “Fontana saved my life” was born among us kids.
Today there are many more children – perhaps three times – on the streets than back then. Mile (15), comes from Rustenburg. A shy boy who was orphaned a year ago, he is one of those kids no one could bear to see on the streets. But he’s there. He came to Johannesburg after his parents died and after being, he claims, ill-treated by relatives.
“I paid R40 to catch a bus which brought me to Johannesburg,” he says.
“We used to sleep at the basement.” This is an old unused military underground tunnel next to Noord Street taxi-rank. The boys claimed it was haunted and that it was impossible to sleep at night.
“When I arrived I stayed at the basement with a friend, Johannes,” says Richard. “At the basement Johannes taught me how to sniff glue and to smoke cigarettes. At night we used to see strange figures coming to us and we used to scream. We then moved to Joshua Doore and slept on the pavement.”
The boys tend to name their sleeping places by the landmark names of nearby shops: Joshua Doore, USA, Town Talk and the rest.
Richard comes from Zola in Soweto. For a Soweto youth, the city is an adventure. The bright lights are irresistible. Even grown- ups fall into this trap. Jozi: city of hope, sorrow and fear.
He arrived with friends who aban- doned him. With no money, he roamed the streets until he met his present friends.
Workers at Street-Wise took him home again. “I came back again, didn’t I – before yesterday, eh?” says Richard, turning to his friends for approval, which he received.
“Don’t you like staying at home?”
“I do like staying at home.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“I really don’t know.”
Three weeks later, Mile has left the group. We find him at the Universal Church, where he tells us the other boys were troubling him as he refused to smoke glue. “Jah-man doesn’t bother when they smoke.”
Earlier the boys had told me that Jah-man didn’t allow these things. I would never have known the truth if Mile had not left them. It became clear that while within the group there are certain rules to abide by, there are things they do not tell. If they tell outsiders all the details, it’s dangerous for the group. And to the group, it’s a breach of trust.
I went to take a last look at the rooftop hideout. Council workers were busy demolishing makeshift shacks occupied by hawkers and loading them on to waiting trucks. Mxhosa was standing on the rooftop, watching them. When I returned later the rooftop hideout had been removed and Mxhosa was nowhere to be found. Only the Coca-Cola advert-board was still there.
This 42-year-old street child returned to his shack in Soweto and held his son Musa, aged 14, very tight.
Boetie Damane is one of South Africa’s most prolific street poets, and lives in a Soweto shack with his three young boys