Six friends share a room in a run-down building in Hillbrow. For 10 years they wheel and deal by day and at night dream of their true vocations as artists. Kgebetli Moele’s debut novel, Room 207 (Kwela), is a forthright look at compromises in Johannesburg, where ”you are either fast or dead”. This is an extract:
I have been to Cape Town. I have been to Durban, Bloemfontein, Nelspruit and Polokwane. I have been to Grahamstown. I have never been to Lagos and that goes for New York and London, too. But the best part of it is that I don’t want to live in any of them. I don’t even want to visit any of them. I have Johannesburg and I can’t ask for more.
Johannesburg. It’s a city founded by some people.
Who cares that they founded it here? The British had their time here and it passed. The Afrikaners had their time; they enjoyed it, and then it, too, passed by. Now Johannesburg is under the control of the black man, his time is here and, by the looks of things, his time will never pass.
Johannesburg. This is the land where the weak, the poor, the rich and the powerful — powerful enough that they can rob you of your own life — mingle and mend, excuse the cliché.
I once ran into them, one late night. Put myself in a position to be robbed and, like always, the robbers rose to the occasion. I had lost my mind to the pleasures that the female species can offer to a man, and then I lost my direction. I didn’t see that I was presenting myself as a potential victim. You never realise it until it is too late, and, by the time I realised, I was looking at a wall.
You never know in Johannesburg, but, I tell you, walk carefully and think fast; this is Johannesburg, you are either fast or dead.
Well, I am a man and so I tried to fight them: my second mistake.
There were three of them. They pinned me down. Zulu boys. They were speaking Zulu. So, with that went the cellphone, the expensive watch and R132. They even took the 77c. These poor, hungry unemployed darkie brothers of the city. They even took my shoes before they left me bleeding.
Let me advise you: these people will kill you for your property. So next time they want your … please, give it to them as fast as you can and save that life. However manly you are, they are expecting you to fight and they need to pay the rent. Please, don’t die to pay their rent, because even though you are annoying we still need you breathing somewhere — somewhere in this rainbow nation.
By the time I got to 207, 1 had stopped bleeding. Matome looked at me, smiled knowingly and said, ”Welcome to Johannesburg, baba.”
I laughed.
And you’re thinking: What’s so funny?
Well, nobody had ever welcomed me to Johannesburg. He, Matome, had organised a flat party for me and I had been living with him for four years in this city and here he was, welcoming me like it was my first time. That was Matome, he didn’t even want to know what had happened to me.
”Welcome to Johannesburg. This time you really felt it, your blood has been spilt and mixed with its soil. You and the city are in perfect connection with each other. Your blood runs in its veins as it runs in your blood,” said Matome.