Monica Hilton-Barber : Slice of life
The golden glow of goodwill between different South Africans may have dimmed and the initial dream of racial integration become more distant since the initial euphoria following the elections four years ago. But the rainbow is still bright and beautiful in many parts of the country.
Number 23 Van der Merwe Street in Nelspruit seems an unlikely venue for a feel-good example of harmonious cultural integration. Yet an eclectic mish-mash of people from across the cultural spectrum have formed a unique close-knit community in this 70-year- old sub-divided house. The first flat is occupied by Emmanuel Nyati (31), a softly spoken project development facilitator for a self-help non-governmental organisation in town. His wife, Zwelaki (27), is a schoolteacher in Bushbuckridge. Their 15- month-old son Nkateko, known in the house as “Danger Zone”, rules the roost.
They share walls and a geyser with Helen Spinney (an attractive fortysomething), who moved into the house from Barberton with her three children and a surly parrot (Alexandria), following a divorce two years ago. The teenagers, Brett (16), Aurianne (17) and Richelle (23), manageress at a local coffee shop, adore their mother, loud music, friends with zooty cars and watching videos.
The quietest are the Naidoos – Segran (36) and his wife Rennie (27). Pentecostal Christians, they work for the government and were transferred from Durban last year. They spend their days at work and most evenings and weekends studying for further tertiary qualifications.
The last flat is occupied by ourselves, Monica and Steve Hilton-Barber, refugees from Gauteng in search of an improved quality of life.
The mix is improved by the gardener, Derek Nyundu. He is grilled for gossipy details about our landlord and any interesting goings-on in other houses in the neighbourhood.
If life flings us into despair or depression, the Life Line Crisis Centre operates from a cottage on the property. Thrown together in a pretty cavalier fashion, dictated by small budgets and a desire to live within walking distance of the town, the group had nothing in common bar our address. Yet thanks to the thin walls and cosy living quarters we are forced to share the most intimate details of each others’ lives.
Our daily lives can be compared to a real- life soap opera, falling somewhere between Melrose Place and thirtysomething. We may not be as hip or trendy as those in Hollywood but we do flit around the property in the appropriate state of undress and change hair colour like underwear. Every day is filled with angst, trauma, passionate romance, power struggles, soul-searching conversations and shocking revelations – who falls out, makes up and fights trials and tribulations together.
We’ve had: Rennie Naidoo knocked down by a drunk driver while crossing the road; Nkateko rushed to hospital with a roaring temperature; the police arriving to chase away a pervert with a cellphone making dirty calls; spectacular lovers’ tiffs; and ongoing family sagas. And all this on one day.
Steve usually gets up first and plays quiet music, waking the Naidoos with his enthusiastic dish-washing ritual. The rest of the house follows an hour or so later, unable to ignore nature’s persistent alarm clock, the pair of purple-crested Loeries that live in the large tree in our garden. But if it’s the last day of the month, we are all awoken by the landlord, who makes his door-to-door rounds collecting rent cheques at sunrise, sometimes even beating the dawn.
The women have done most of their bonding at the washing line, hanging washing and chatting while Nkateko rushes around demanding kisses and cuddles. If one family leaves their back door open to let air circulate on balmy evenings we can all listen in to conversations that range from the day’s activities to other more spicy personal dilemmas.
In particular, we know all about which Spinney has done what with whom and who was to blame. For the sake of good neighbourliness, details cannot be revealed and hopefully they don’t notice the rest us opening our windows and straining ears outside lest we miss a moment’s drama.
The shared living arrangements are profoundly intimate. Our bath lies alongside the Naidoos’ bed; the Spinneys are hemmed in at all sides and share bedroom walls with the Nyatis. We’ve become very familiar with the dynamics in each other’s relationships but are all much too polite to reveal anything. On many mornings, after listening to or participating in an exciting domestic quarrel – and some of us are more verbal than others – we may be sheepish or self- conscious but we all continue to behave as if nothing has happened, exchanging greetings and non-committal smiles.
In some ways we can be stereotyped: the youngsters play loud techno music at all hours; the Naidoos always have delicious oriental smells issuing from the kitchen; and the Nyati’s warm home is filled with fun-loving friends and family at weekends. But we are beginning to share our cultures – swapping cooking traditions, being updated on youth fashions, learning about the stresses of motherhood and becoming better informed on different sports.
We go further than tolerating each other. We like and respect one other. Schmaltzy though this may sound, we are proud to belong to our own special community.