“This is wrong! I’m going to fight this!”

“Pheliswa, you may have just turned eighteen and you think you know everything, but you don’t know the law. Don’t rock the boat! Give me that,” snaps my grandmother, snatching away the piece of paper that says ‘Eviction Notice’ in bright red letters across the top.

I stamp my takkie in helpless fury, but my gran’s face tells me the tantrum approach isn’t going to get me anywhere. It’s a huge effort but I wind it in a little and rework my attitude. I stand tall, hands on my skinny-jeaned hips, and put my ‘reasonable adult’ face on.

My friend Aphiwe is at my side. If she didn’t know I was on the verge of becoming homeless right now, she’d be saying, “Pheliswa! Cool it gal. Your head is so hot your ’fro looks like black smoke,” which is what she always says when I’m struggling to control my temper (and which, I admit, is pretty often).

But there’s nothing funny about my family losing our home. Aphiwe’s eyes are wide with worry and she moves closer to me, providing silent back up.

“Don’t sign it Gogo! Please! You’re right, I don’t know the law, but I think that if you sign that Eviction Notice you’re agreeing that we’re OK to move out. I’m not sure if it does mean that, but I think it’s a risk.”

That works. My gran stops and looks at me – but in the weirdest way. As if she’s looking straight through my red top and my body at something else beyond me, something from the past. Her eyes are dull and sad, and the wrinkles on her face seem suddenly etched deeper than ever before. I understand: she is remembering a similar pain from long ago – the pain being forced out of her home during apartheid.

“Gogo?”

My gran jumps, as if I’ve frightened her by waking her up. But thankfully she’s looking at me again, rather than through me.

“Gogo, please. We’ve lived here for so long, since Mama passed. You’ve struggled so hard to pay our rent on time every month. But that doesn’t mean they can’t kick us out. I don’t think you should sign. It just doesn’t seem like a good idea.”

“Pheliswa, sometimes things happen that are bigger than us. I don’t have a choice,” my gran says, nodding towards the security guards who are doing the rounds, making sure everyone signs.

Panic burns my stomach and my skin. I feel so helpless! And I hate that. I explode again.

“But we’ve got nowhere to go. We’ll be homeless!”

“Pheliswa, we’ll make a plan,” says Gogo, in a tired, weak voice that doesn’t do anything to calm me down.

“Gogo! Listen to me! What about the children in our flat? They can’t live on the street.”

Even to my own ears my voice sounds hysterical. And now I’ve made things worse by drawing unwelcome attention to us. Gogo’s eyes widen as a guard in a bulletproof vest smacks his baton against his palm, skulking towards us. He’s just one of a whole pack, scavenging like hyenas amongst us on the rooftop.

We live in a tiny flat a few floors down from here, sharing it with another family. At least we have one room of our own to sleep in. Yes, this run-down, inner-city Joburg block of flats is home.

I look wildly around the rooftop. The security guards are bullying all the women up here into signing. I hate them! Next time they come, they’ll be throwing us out on to the street. My hands clench into fists at the thought.

A few minutes ago, before these guys smashed the fire escape door open, Aphiwe and I were happily fooling around, doing our cool new dance. We taught ourselves by watching the TV in the corner shop along the road. Gogo was shouting at us to help her, but we were having so much fun working our moves we pretended not to hear her.

All the women up here with us were laughing and shouting in excitement, racing against the early-evening storm clouds to get their dry washing off the clothes lines that criss-cross this big, flat roof space.

Suddenly there was the crash of metal fire-escape doors being flung open, frightening us even before the men even started handing out papers. Papers with ‘Eviction Notice’ written in bright red across the top.

Time stands still as the massive security guard heads towards us.

This is the tallest block of flats in grimy inner city Joburg, and as lightning flashes, it’s as if, in this life-changing moment, we’re standing beneath a spotlight. Windows that still have glass in the trashed apartment blocks around us reflect the flash, then rattle from the thunder.

“Don’t sign that eviction notice! Please Gogo…”

This hood is a filthy slum. The buildings are packed so close together and inside every apartment, people are packed even closer. Life here is rough and dangerous.

Yet as a burst of sun streaks through the heavy thunderclouds swirling overhead, I feel such a strong, strange love for this ghetto; our home.

Strips of paint peel off scaly walls and fly about as the wind picks up. It sucks torn, faded curtains out through the glassless frames in the neighbouring buildings.

I usually love watching these wild Joburg storms, and sit dangling my legs over the edge of the building from my own spot high up out here, on the very top of the world. The clouds and the thunder and lightning are so damn beautiful.

These storms are wilder and stronger than anything evil here. When they hurl down rain or hailstones I know that nothing that scares me can touch me. Even gangsters and crooks have to hide when a storm breaks above us. It washes away reality. I don’t think about the thousands of people in this hood who ‘stay but don’t pay’. I forget about the stench of blocked toilets, electricity that doesn’t work, the mountains of rubbish outside and inside. I forget that the lifts don’t work, that the staircases are scary as hell, and that the buildings are falling apart around us.

Why? Because I feel like I’m a part of the storm, charged with its power. Sometimes when the thunder roars and I’m all alone up here, I yell my lungs out, knowing nobody can hear me shouting away my frustration. (That’s a secret by the way.) Afterwards, I’m soaked and freezing, but I feel so light and clean.

Now my gut knots as I think of having to leave. Finding another place to live around here is frightening. We won’t have any option other than to live on the streets, everything we own in a trolley, and sleeping under cardboard boxes at night. It freaks me out!

“Gogo! Don’t let them make you sign! Please…”

My grandmother holds her hand up sharply and I break off. The security guard looms over me. I stick my fist in my mouth and bite my knuckles. I don’t know how else to stop my words. This is wrong! Where will we live? We have nowhere to go. We won’t last a day out in cut-throat Sixth Street.

My little brother grabs my leg and pulls himself up onto his feet. He looks up at me and then at the security guard, and starts to wail. Lightning flashes as I scoop Jabulani up and squeeze him tight against my chest.

I look the security guard straight in the eye. A cold chill spreads over my head, and the hairs on my arms prickle. Thunder rumbles around us, making the building tremble.

“Get on with it old lady. Sign it! Now!” he barks at my grandmother.

Aphiwe grabs my arm, and holds me back.

***

Tell us: How would you feel if you were about to lose your home?