The ghetto is how they describe my home, hence they say we come from this orphanage called the hood, which is full of smoke on every street corner, with every street having it’s own story, my home completes the South African history best.
Home I call it… The killings with brutality are real, but we rejoice in moments that life can teach you, when you are less fortunate. Yet, leaders who lead the nation today come from this same home, which leaves me asking… Is my home really such a bad place to be born? Remember we are less privileged where I am from, but I still eat the rice with a fork. Metaphorically we are born poor, but rich in mind. Remember, besides all the bad news we are given, we welcomed the world home when we hosted the World Cup and said, “Local is lekker”. These streets tell stories better than these other fancy places.
There is no replacement for the adrenaline of Soweto, “Yeah, that’s my Hood homie”. I know I learnt to walk at home because I am made in the ghetto. Sentimental streets of Soweto tell tourists that the flavor is different from where they from. Soweto is a Huge “Kasi”, a diverse place within society where the segregation of people in shacks is felt. Houses are developing but it ain’t no lie the households differ with surnames and it is a sin to go against the cultural enthusiasm within the community. The communication is at it’s best, as it has it’s own language, ‘Tsotsi taal’ or ‘hood lingo’, as the new generation call it.
Hiccups are there – it’s the hood, but hope never dies in these homes. Education that the older generation pursued cause they felt the struggle without papers proves the hood is institutionalised with talent. We obliterate at home no more, we now know our value, and we know we are the labourers of this nation. Entertainment is elevated back at home with meat being cooked with good company. The struggles are daily, but the hood is the real definition of the word: hustle
Hence, tomorrow sparks a new chapter to write about the good and the bad of my hood. Yet, it keeps me going from park to park, mall to mall, mingling and manipulating new opportunities, since the grass ain’t always greener here, but giants live in this home… There are football players who live in the same turf. It’s our tradition to take it to the streets and beef it up, in my hood… Theatres are only telling street stories; dancers freelance or rehearse anywhere; poets penetrate points on point like a pyramid; writers are righting the wrongs in their enlightened ink; athletes run the whole hood, and doctors and deputies who live next door to the poverty of our people. Hence the sorrow doesn’t live in Soweto anymore. The more time goes by, the more the hood is developing to become the new Joburg as Art & Tourism is becoming the new gold of South Africa.
So sad, that every street struggles to erase Apartheid that was used to prove the power behind our people in events like 16 June. The lesson was to fight for our worth as hood kids, hence it happened a block away from my home. Home is a corner away, for most of us know the man himself who manipulated oppression against us with the wisdom of the hood streets… The good is the pride of pursuing the price to bring the glory home is a mission of every kid from “Kasi”.
Yes, the Western has taken over certain cultures and norms, but honestly the ethics never change. We only know how wealth is accumulated now, so certain roots are changed to “Die Trying or Die Poor” the influence of that quote has become my motto. Manifested my hood is… Revolutionised my hood is.