Khayelitsha was my first sighting of the other side of Cape Town and its realities. When I arrived, the first thing I noticed was a shack on the corner that had a young girl who had perched herself on the floor. The shack stood on a concrete chunk toward the end of a rear way. It inclined toward the back of an old block shop that sold what looked like fruits and vegetables. The skinny girl sat with her legs crossed and had the brimming smile that has always fascinated me. The girl had, in huge and bold letters, the word ‘UNCERTAINTY’ written on her forehead.

Even in such conditions, people still found courage and confidence to smile. And here I was, swept up by my troubled life that I couldn’t even afford the slightest smile, I thought as I kept my eyes on the girl. She struck me as a hopeless and bothered soul hanging by a thread. In “Black Cape Town”, her life and the lives of those like her were all marked, invisibly, with the word “UNCERTAINTY”. It was like a ticking time bomb. Each second came with its fair share of uncertainties. These poor people scratched, relentlessly, each day, for their survival. But there is no way they can lose hope.

They were in this not only for themselves but for those who have their eyes fixed on them with hope and confidence. Like a lost child not knowing any difference between left and right, they can only hope something will deliver them from their endlessly hope-filled but essentially hopeless lives. They were never sure whether tomorrow will be any better than today, or the day before that, or the one before. They were in a constant state of uncertainty. Where will they find themselves at the end of today? Is that place fit for habitation? What will they eat there? What prospects are awaiting them? Will it be any better than here? Will the grass be any greener?

They were constantly reminded of this continuous mantra of their bleak existence – that nothing was certain and nothing ever will be. They prayed in hope, hope for a better tomorrow. They hoped that at some point the cycling arrow would point in their direction and theirs would be the struggles of the past. Every time they took a step forward they could only hope tomorrow won’t take them two steps backwards.

I passed the corner house slowly, my eyes now gazing at the next house. It was an old house, one of those old houses built by the Apartheid government. It must have been little more than a celebrated shed even in its finest day. But now it looked as if a giant had sat on the roof, for it hung horrendously. It was a rotting heap, bowing down, subservient to the elements. The windows were gaping holes for the wind to blow through and the door hung on its hinges.

Some of the windows were covered with black plastic bags that shuddered and flapped in the wind. The yard looked old and as though it had not been touched in forever. There was litter gathered around the gate. Wild grass and weeds completely overwhelmed the small patch of grass that had dried out near the gate. The fence, made out of scraps of wood from the wood-pile, had barbed-wire loops on top, completing the reality of this house. The whole house was a heap of rubbish that looked like a small dumping side.

In sad comparison, the house on the next corner was a six-room, well-built house. There were not many like it in this part of the township. Its roof was flat and the door as wide as it was tall. The windows took up entire walls with only stainless steel frames to break them into yet more squares. The sides were polished concrete and the door a slab of shining wood. It had a wide stoep that secured the front of the veranda. Two dogs lazed under an immense apricot tree and the gardens were green and lush. This was one of the few houses that looked this way in this side of Cape Town.

***

My family and I were in the restaurant when the picture of the two faced Cape Town was completed. I had been coming to the restaurant for years but had never perceived it this way before. Apart from the waiters and waitresses, we were the only black people at the restaurant. I thought about Khayelitsha and the picture was completed.

If poverty had a face and that face was black, then wealth and affluence had a face and that face was white. If such affluent spaces were all white then appalling and ransacked spaces were all black. But then what about me? Doesn’t my presence here mean anything? I thought. It doesn’t. How many of those like me were in such an environment, very few.

But what did this make me? Where did I fall in this two-faced Cape Town? I was a beneficiary of a white system economically and otherwise. Yet I was the victim of the same white system as the very essence of my being was taken away from me. That was the price I had to pay for my entrance to the White Cape Town.

“Hello. What can I get you?” asked the waitress with a smile.

“Can we have the usual please,” my mom said.

“OK ma’am,” said the waitress.

The waitress gave me a smile as she turned away from our table. Her smile signified that I should be grateful of what I have but not lose sight of the complex reality of our existence.

***

Tell us what you think: What divides us more, race or financial standing?