Luniko was troubled by what Jezi had said. For the next two days he didn’t call or text her. Her phone sat silently next to her; no calls from any of her friends in Joburg either. Everybody seemed to have moved on with life and forgotten she existed. Her social media remained inactive. She kept scrolling down timelines, watching other people enjoying their best lives while she rotted away, forgotten in Makhomeni.

Her mother had noticed that Luniko had not been herself since the meeting. All the fire she had had after her talk with Jezile had somehow been extinguished.

“You know Niko, I may not like politicians or their methods,” her mother said, as they sat outside under the old avocado tree, taking shade from the few green leaves it had left. “But honey, we don’t understand the minds of the youth, and we can’t tell you what you need to do. Our time is passed. It’s your time now.”

Luniko didn’t really want to hear this now, she didn’t need a lecture.

“Remember, nothing will change unless you do something.”

Her mother made it sound like ‘you’ was directed at Luniko.

“I didn’t send you to university so you could work for someone else and buy a big house and fancy car while you live an empty life. I sent you to university so you could learn more, to open your mind and grab every opportunity available to you.”

Then her mother got up and headed to the house. Luniko felt lost, stung by her mother’s words. But deep down she knew that both her mother and Jezi were right. She grabbed her phone and set up a poll:

What would you rather see built in your
small town: a library, a job centre
or a supermarket?

It wasn’t long after she posted that Twitter went crazy with her poll. People were voting. Not only that, but also commenting that they grew up in small towns, sharing what the struggles were. The poll went viral.

Luniko was amazed at the discussions going on. People were opening up, just like Jezile had said. People found their voices and power behind their Twitter handles. Some motivated why they chose their answers. Some even tagged their local municipality as they shared the poll. Luniko had also tagged organisations that worked with young people, like the youth wings of political parties, National Youth Development Agency and her local government.

She wasn’t sure what outcome this would have, but she felt like she was doing something.

It was later that afternoon when Luniko received a call from the local radio station. They wanted to talk about the poll she had posted that had gone viral on Twitter and on Facebook. They wanted to hear what inspired her to post it.

The show was an afternoon drive and most of Makhomeni would be listening. Luniko felt nervous, but her mother’s reassurance that it would go well kept her motivated. When the show’s producer called, she was ready.

“And we are talking to Luniko Sonjica. She’s a local, a young person who has taken to social media to ask some important questions. Luniko, welcome to The Drive Home.”

“Thank you for having me,” she said, her voice unsure and nervous.

“Tell us about this poll you posted. I mean, the responses are crazy. What made you do it?” the host asked.

Luniko talked about the struggles faced by the youth in Makhomeni, everything she told Jezile that day during their lunch. And she talked about the concerns of the citizens during the local meeting.

“But why social media though? I understand that you are a Media graduate from the University of Johannesburg. But why did you take to social media and not just, I don’t know, written to the newspaper?”

“Well, according to the Human Sciences Research Council, the preferred medium of communication from the government to the people is still hugely TV. But ICTs, that’s social media, is faster. These channels are open and people feel they have power when they use social media,” she began.

“And what are you hoping to achieve with this poll, Luniko?”

“I’m also one of the people who felt that my voice didn’t matter. I wanted to hear other voices and understand what the people want. A good friend told me that when you don’t take action for something, you’re automatically choosing against it. It works the same with change. If you don’t fight for the change you want to see, then you’ll forever be complaining about there not being change.”

“Wow! Spoken like a true politician. Our lines are going crazy right now; the people want their voices heard. Let’s take some calls.”

People called in and demanded change from their municipality. One caller even spoke about how they don’t really know where to go or who to talk to. People were not sure what the communication channels of government were. They just sat and waited for their councillor to let them know what the story was.

“Okay, the people want to know what is to be done. Who do we report to? And who does that person report to? If we wanted some infrastructure in our town, how long must we wait while the order goes from office, to office, to office? Our producers are trying to get hold of the councillor’s office to get a comment. Stay tuned while we go pay some bills.”

After the commercial break the councillor was live on air.

“We would like to first thank this young lady for taking it upon herself to bring the people and government closer…”

The councillor went on to list the channels of government and where people can go to voice their concerns.

“And all this information is freely available on the government websites. Change will happen. And this young lady–”

“Luniko, Mr Councillor, her name is Luniko.”

“Yes, yes. Luniko has been very brave for standing up for her community and her people. We need more young people like her. We’ve just had communication from the Mayor and he promises that he will fight for a job centre. A place where job seekers go to get help with finding a job – writing a CV, using the internet and getting their documents scanned. Next week we have a meeting and Luniko should come by the office so we can talk about the plans and the vision young people have for this town. We need to strike while things are still trending,” the councillor said, laughing at his own joke.

“Well then, people of Makhomeni, you heard it first right here on The Drive Home. Thank you Luniko for talking to us. And thank you Mr Councillor for the clarity. We’ll be following up on what happens in your meeting with the Mayor next week.”

After the interview Luniko collapsed on the sofa next to her mother. She had been in her room and her mother had listened on the radio in the lounge.

“I’m very proud of you, Luniko,” her mother said and squeezed her hand, as they sat on the couch.

That evening a bunch of flowers arrived at her house. They were from Jezile, asking if she would have dinner with him, so they could talk about this wise ‘good friend’ of hers.

Luniko smiled as she read the card. Finally, since she came home, she was now starting to see some sparks in the future. She was home, where she felt she belonged.

Tell us: Are you in a small town? What could happen there to create jobs for young people?