When the first batch of African migrants trickled into Alexandra, we were eager to learn more about them, and were in no way threatened by their presence. We did not feel as if they were there to take from us or replace us. We were rather intrigued by their culture and languages. We welcomed them with open arms and the long-standing, warm, African spirit the Khoisan extended when Europeans first set foot in the Cape.

Our brothers and sisters from neighbouring countries arrived armed with vocational skills not seen before, and slowly they changed the face of Alexandra. We watched on as they scraped a living. Hair salons, fast-food outlets, welding and car-fixing spots mushroomed across the pavements of Alexandra, and soon local people, many of whom relied on white people to earn their pay, grew envious of the ingenuity demonstrated by the migrants.

Our late high school teacher once said township children are exposed to a variety of resources and opportunities but it is the hardworking rural children who eventually come to capitalise on them. The teacher blamed township children for their lack of hunger for success and their love of substance abuse. And, as if prophesying, he added, “You boys will end up in prison and girls will become single mothers.”

The teacher was right because drugs and alcohol are now a big part of urban culture and if you’re not taking one of these you’re either boring or behaving like the elderly. Life is one long party now.

Teenagers would rather dance the night away than stay home and study. The government makes means to get people reading by introducing national projects like Funda Mzantsi, for instance, but results are yet to show in a country where parents, many of whom are illiterate, are not playing their part. We also don’t create enough educational content on television to compensate for the lack of home teaching. On the contrary, children see only glitz and glamour on television and we can’t blame them for interpreting that as the main value of life.

On the other hand, music is all about dancing and material possessions. Our artists rarely make songs about the plight of the poor. It would seem that narrative doesn’t sell and artists must eat. Children don’t aspire to become teachers and police any more because building the community won’t make you rich, and modern life is all about making money by the millions.

Writers write about finding love and falling out of love. And they write expansively about the monster that is abuse. We all loathe abuse and awareness should be cast on this scourge but seldom do writers delve into the root cause of the abuse, which is pain and suffering, mingled with the eternal feeling of being worthless and forgotten.

This condition is most experienced by marginalised people in townships and other areas where dozens feel as if there’s nothing for them in this world; as if Mother Nature excluded them when dispensing milk and honey to her beloved. And from a distance they watch as others laugh happily. And from a distance they become envious and spiteful.

Those who manage to rise above the challenges of township life are quick to relocate to the suburbs, as if to escape a relentless ghost. This saves them and their loved ones but we can’t say the same about township children who will grow up without these steadfast people to emulate. I don’t suppose that freedom fighters who perished for the love of their country would be happy to see black success abandon their brothers and sisters floundering in impoverished townships where life deteriorates by the day. It is in these hopeless areas where the evil of apartheid was fought to the death. While it is true that you can’t carry people with you, for they’ll weigh you down, still, you can’t leave them when they’re down.

I often think we can all become entrepreneurs and work in unison to overturn the unemployment crisis tormenting our country. I’m not an expert in community development but I’m confident there are investment opportunities in most black areas other than raising a stall at the street corner. In my humble opinion, the service sector is one sector that could be explored more in these areas. It will, however, take solidarity, training and a great deal of ambition to turn black areas into productive economic hubs that could create jobs and expand into the future.

It is sad to see businesses that once stood solid when I was a little boy now not there any more. While some have disappeared completely, the remaining ones are ruined structures, if not turned into shabby rental accommodation or let to new entrepreneurs only in townships for money. These businesses were our landmarks in another life; now their grandeur exists only in our memories.

People who owned those businesses had children and you couldn’t help but wonder whether they’d ever thought of preparing their children to take over the family businesses in future? Isn’t that a vital element in the building of a legacy? It’s even more saddening when you meet on the street some of the children from those family businesses and they appear plain, if not ravaged by the effects of fast life, when they should be helming big corporations because of their former foundational advantage. It’s disappointing to see the pride of our communities fail.

Not that there’s anything to write home about for me. My friend Mjavino was gunned down in the act of committing crime. He was 30. Countless more met their abrupt ends in this unwarranted manner.

Alexandra is crying. We’re crying. We thought it would get better with the born-frees, but visit any township now. The township is losing her fighting spirit. It’s every parent’s dream to see their child succeed in life, and it’s a bonus when the child contributes to the improvement of humankind.

Like all mothers out there, Alexandra, Soweto, the Cape Flats, and Umlazi all dream of seeing their children rise above their social ills. And like in other areas, crime and drugs remain stubborn problems in Alexandra. Our brothers and sisters who lost their lives throwing stones at apartheid police should see us now; we’re dancing carelessly to this freedom. Killed brutally by the wrath of apartheid and we don’t even know who they were, because there are no monuments to their names in the townships in which they fell. No local museums. The township is not known to honour its heroes; no tokens of recognition. And we expect youngsters to know their history?

Perhaps one need not bother about the township. Maybe it should be left behind like an aged mother, as we carry on with life. Like any parent, Alexandra has served her duty, having sheltered us and raised us. We can only await her end, while we’re out and about, writing the great South African story.

Tell us: What are your overall thoughts?