‘The city makes you invisible, and when you are hidden from view there is no-one to watch your back. You are truly on your own.’

Homeless Writer’s Project

SELLING VETKOEK

In 2001 my aunt in Joburg invited me to come to work for her. She had a little business selling food on the streets and she needed help. She sent me money for transport. I loved telling stories and I wanted to go to Jozi to be a filmmaker. I could work with her for a little while to find my feet first.

It was on a Sunday in June 2001 that I boarded a bus from Matatiele to Jozi. I was happy. Finally I was going to start a new life. I didn’t have money to buy something to eat on the way, but I was sitting in between two old ladies who opened a huge lunch box with two full chickens and bread. Manna from heaven. The ladies asked me what I was going to do in Jozi and I told them I was going to study. I felt stupid to tell them that I was coming to Johannesburg to sell vetkoek.

We passed Vosloorus and then the bus driver said that the last stop would be Bara Rank next to Baragwanath Hospital. I could see the lights of the city at night. I was laughing in my heart. Here was Jozi!

Then the bus stopped at Bara Rank. No, this can’t be? Everything smelled of rubbish and rotting vegetables. I saw a huge pig and its piglets. Was this really Johannesburg? I saw people eating chicken feet. That made me laugh. Back home we used to throw that stuff away. Then my aunt arrived and took me to her house in Lenasia. She produced two full 12.5-kilogram bags of flour and told me to mix it. She then went back to sleep. Mixing all that flour nearly killed me and there was no one to help.

And that’s how it was for the next four years. Every morning I woke at 2:00 am. I washed my hands and then I mixed the flour, sugar, salt, yeast and water. No one ever told me how to measure the ingredients. Then a man called Ntasi who shouted like a donkey picked us up and took us to Joburg city centre where we sold the vetkoek. People liked my vetkoek. I wanted to quit but I told myself to stick it out. One day I would live like a king.

After I had been there for three months I asked my aunt why she wasn’t paying me. She said I was ungrateful. She had given me food and a roof over my head. What more did I want? For the next four years I worked like a slave for her, earning not a cent. This aunt didn’t let me communicate with anyone else. It was just work from 2:00 am to 6:00 pm. One day by chance I found my rescuer – my other aunt, Ntswaki Lebakeng. I told her how badly I was being treated and she invited me to stay with her so I could try to finish school. When I told my vetkoek aunt that I was leaving, she threatened to throw her cup of tea at me. She said I must never come back.

And I never did. I went to Diepkloof to live with my aunt Ntswaki and her three kids. I went back to school and finished my matric. I started to gain weight.

Now I have a matric, people who love me, and a big stomach.

Tshabalira Lebakeng

THE CHICKEN LICKEN ADVERT

In 1996 I won a competition to write a radio advert for Chicken Licken through Metro FM and the SABC. The prize was a year’s course at the AAA School of Advertising. I was 21 years old and everyone was very excited for me. I would be studying at the AAA School of Advertising. My advert went like this:

It was a hot summer’s day and this guy collapsed in town. People surrounded him and one man said, ‘Give this guy some water. He needs some air.’

An old lady said, ‘No, give him some Chicken Licken.’

Suddenly the guy who had fainted stood up and said, ‘Listen to her, give me some Chicken Licken.’

So I took a Translux bus from Port Elizabeth in the Eastern Cape to Johannesburg. On the bus I met a young guy. I told him I was coming to Johannesburg to study. I had won a competition. I also told him it was my first time in Joburg and I had nowhere to stay. He said his brothers, Camagu and Spection, had a place where I could stay. When we arrived he took me there.

When I met the brothers I was nervous. But they were friendly. They were students and the accommodation was free. I was so pleased, and with the money my father gave me I bought lots of groceries for everyone.

On my first day at AAA I was late. I walked there but I didn’t realise how far it was. I walked from Braamfontein to Rosebank. When I came back to the flat that evening they were all having a party. Lots of friends and girls. There were beers everywhere. I checked in the fridge and the three kilograms of chicken that I had bought was all finished. My heart was sore. They were having fun with my money and there was nothing I could do about it.

Things got worse. Camagu got into bad fights and when I tried to intervene he pulled a knife on me. Later I went to live in Milpark with a friend from my home town who was at Wits Technikon. My father was giving me money each month for rent. Four of us shared a small one-bedroom flat. The course at AAA was good but it was not easy for me. There were only five other black students in our class of 30. Most of the students came from wealthy families. They would want to spend R1 000 on a project and I couldn’t. It was painful. Sometimes I would borrow money from one of the other guys whose dad was a dentist. He was nice. When my AAA course ended I went to work full-time for Homeless Talk where I worked for the next nine years.

David Majoka

***

Tell us: does it surprise you how easy it is for people to land up living on the streets?