On a dark, cold winter morning, about 80 men stand against a wall in Bertrams. Some huddle over a fire and some mill about, waiting.
Similar groups can be seen all over Johannesburg. They are looking for work.
The men are alert and hopeful when a van approaches, and they surround it when it stops. They shout: ”Take me, my baas!” ”I am a carpenter!” ”I do nice bricklaying.” Some brandish passports showing valid work permits. Simultaneously they shout out their vocations.
From all walks of life, the men are marooned by hunger on the street corner they come to every day to look for employment.
Their circumstances create the privilege of employers who are free to use informal, skilled, semi-skilled and unprotected labour at any price they choose.
Elijah Nene* (32), a father of three, is one of these men. He left school in the middle of what was then standard 9 and came to Johannesburg to look for work. He has been standing on this street corner each morning since 1998. It is his life and he rents a room in the area for R200 a month.
By his standards he is slightly better off because he has a roof over his head. This is a luxury that many around him cannot afford.
His wife and children live with his 80-year-old father in Standerton. He has not seen them for several months because he has not made enough money to take home.
His work is irregular and fraught with risk. If he sustains an injury while working, he will have no recourse. He does not have unemployment benefits and when he gets old he will be done with.
”Sometimes you find a white saying he does not have money and you work for as little as R20. The Portuguese hire you, trick and then cheat you,” says Nene, who works as a gardener or in construction.
The slightly built man cannot afford to send his children to school. He concedes that there are laws that entitle children to education regardless of material circumstances, but feels that it works for some but not poor people.
”It depends on which side you are on. I am the father of the family and I can’t afford it. I am on the wrong side, I don’t work and nothing goes well,” says Nene, whose family also depends on his father’s pension for survival.
”My wife complains every month because the children are hungry and there is nothing I can do,” he says as he rubs his hands together for warmth before sitting on them again.
He admits that it’s hard. His stomach is growling now, he is hungry and does not have enough money to buy a piece of bread. He is not an exception.
Sabata Tsotetsi (42) hails from Zola in Soweto. He is a qualified carpenter and was involved in the building of Sun City in the former homeland of Bophuthatswana.
After losing his job in the 1990s, he joined the men scrounging for work on the corner. His three children live with their mother, a domestic worker. According to him, their relationship broke down because he could not put anything on the table after losing his job.
He says it was a lovely time when he was employed because everything was normal and everybody was happy.
Things changed, he says, and after years of standing on the street corner and being cheated by shady employers — both in the townships and in the suburbs — he has lost faith in life and contact with his family.
”I can’t see my children because I am ashamed as I don’t have money. It breaks my spirit and that is why I do not see them,” says the burly, but softly spoken man.
”What hurts me is that I don’t know how life can be better. I can’t figure out where one applies for such a hard life and I can’t find a shortcut out of it,” says Tsotetsi.
As the winter sun slowly rises, the temperature escalates and the mood begins to lift.
Jerry Sibiya*, a short, wiry man of 35 from KwaZulu-Natal, explains that he was formerly an Umkhonto weSizwe soldier and has not been employed since he was demobilised in 1998, despite being trained as an auto-electrician and assistant electrical engineer.
He left KwaZulu-Natal to look for work in Johannesburg and relies heavily on casual work.
”I am hitting walls in civilian life,” he says. ”The work does not come frequently and I work for R40 or R50 [a day] to live for today or tomorrow.”
Fingers point constantly at three enemies — the exploiters, the government and the foreign labourers.
Some of the men believe something can be done to improve their situation but most blame the government. They say they are left to be exploited by anyone who can afford to part with a couple of rands.
”They use cheap labour and it’s bad,” says Sibiya. ”If only the government knew the hardship that people go through. Our cry is that the government must do something to give us jobs.”
According to the men, not being paid for work they do is a regular occurence because they are hired by strangers. Reporting such incidents to the police is a waste of time.
Nene feels that things would be better if the government gave them a monthly welfare grant, and after a long pause, adds resolutely: ”I will not vote. They must forget about it. I will not vote for hunger.”
They also accuse the government of not protecting employment for South Africans.
Another complaint is that companies employing artisans opt for foreign labourers because they will work for less than South Africans.
A van driven by an elderly man slowly moves past. The driver seems to know the corner well. He stops and says that he needs someone to work in his shop and drives off with four men. They are part of a lucky few, perhaps 10, who find work that day.
By noon it’s clear there is no more work and most of the men leave. For those who stay the sun warms away their miseries.
It’s time for fahfee. A few days ago Nene played with his last few cents and won R15. Now he will try his luck again and, since he has paid his rent, he will buy meat — if he wins.
*Names have been changed