Only money dreams

This post was written some time ago by my daughter. I'm so glad I didn't know about it at the time.

I have a friend who is a human chameleon, capable of blending in anywhere. Raised in Lesotho, Max is fluent in both Sotho and English, giving him a passport across most racial barriers. Late one summer night, Max and I sat discussing the great divide between rich and poor in a sleepy bar on 7^th street. The Melville buzz had long since fizzled out, and chairs were being inverted on tables when we finally emerged back onto the street. A vendor, bearing a box of sweets to disguise his actual trade, came rambling towards us in a manic mixture of rap and begging, his eyes dancing in their sockets. Without hesitation, Max cupped his hands over his mouth and replied in a string of guttural beats. For a second, the Sweet Man’s eyes stopped dancing, recognizing a language his marinated mind could understand. In the next instant, Max and the Sweet Man were in the middle of the street, Max beat-boxing so hard he was bent double; the Sweet Man rapping us into his world. Abruptly, a young black man standing on the side of the road tried to interject his own impromptu rap. His talent however, was less innate, and his eyes tightened with panic as he ran out of rhyming words, bringing the performance to an awkward end. Leaping to his rescue came an improbable friend: a wild haired Afrikaans hippy, whose dilated eyes and slurring speech were testament to his fondness for the Herb. Smiling goofily, he drawled “Like, wow, that was schweet man! Like, we’re going to a party man! Like, do you wanna come – there’ll be like booze and weed and anything you want man!” Eager for his next adventure, and disregarding my concerns, Max gladly accepted, heading off down the street before I could object. To proud to show my fear, I trotted on behind them. The hippy informed us that we just needed to stop for “supplies” before the party, which seemed odd since we were headed into the darkness, away from the lights which might have sold us drinks or drugs.

Suddenly, we stopped.

In a fence I had walked the length of many times, a hole I had never noticed appeared. As we climbed through one by one, the Bad Rapper made a comment that condensed my fears to terror. “Now just let us do the talking. These are people who would kill you for a coke.” Despite my bewilderment, Max seemed unphased. He strode across the abandoned tennis court after them like he was off to visit his grandparents. A second warning sounded back to me in the almost pitch blackness: “You’ll want to hold your breath now, trust me!” A mixture of curiosity and concern held my nostrils open to the gut turning assault of rank human faeces that followed. Restraining dry-wretches, I tumbled up a rough path to a small abandoned house, which again, I had never noticed. An abandoned school, I think. I raced forward to grab Max’s hand, my pride now turned to unbridled horror at where we were going, and desperate for some stay to keep me upright. As we crossed the threshold, we were plunged into absolute darkness. Forced to feel the walls to find my way, my fingers were greeted with rough, deteriorating bricks coated in damp grime. A heady stench choked the black space, reeking of sweat, smoke and faeces. As we rounded a corner, the flickering light of a fire danced off the walls. We stepped into a room filled with men. Some sat around a large fire on the floor. Some slept on the floor and benches. Dozens of young children scuttled across the room, sucking on fruit juice boxes like they were ventilators on which their lives depended. I stepped into another universe – one which I had failed to notice for years; one which I suspected existed, but never truly comprehended.

The sudden presence of three white people, one of them a girl, shocked the room to silence, leaving only snores, coughs, and wood smoke to fill the air. I realized that I was too far in to run now, and squeezed Max’s hand so that he wouldn’t feel me shake. The silence was broken by a sudden outburst from a tiny boy. His finger came up, wagging centimeters from my nose. He screamed unintelligible abuse at me, venting his anger at my good fortune. Max turned and sharply reprimanded him in Sotho. The boy shrank like a cowed dog, reducing his assault to a pitiful whimper. When Max turned away, he would swell with new anger, but retreat again at a glance from Max. Max’s introduction assured him instant respect as a brother, and he received no hostility. I, however, being female, well dressed and utterly English could feel glares bristling towards me. Max took a seat by the fire with our two guides, whilst I stood awkwardly behind him. At that point, the circle seemed to forget my existence, and I was allowed to witness their ceremony of poverty like a fly on the wall. A tattered joint materialized and started its way around the circle. Taking a deep hit, the hippy began his sermon to the circle. “I am a genie” he announced “but not the kind of genie you have heard of.” I wasn’t sure how many of his audience had heard of any kind of genie. “I am the kind of genie that makes you make your wishes come true.” He turned to a boy leaning against the wall, and asked what his wish was. As he opened his mouth, the preconception I was not aware I had constructed crumbled. He sat upright, and in excellent English replied “I wish I could sort myself out and get the hell out of this place.” He told the genie that he was a musician, a rapper, and that he wanted to become a successful artist. The genie launched into an ambitious plan to convert the schoolhouse into a club where he could perform, but the emptiness of the idea showed in the boy’s eyes like a dying flame.

Not to dampen the mood, the genie moved on to the next person. He wore the reflective vest of a car guard. “What is your dream?” Anger rushed into the car guard's eyes. “I don’t dream” he insisted, his voice rising “I can’t afford to dream. I have to survive; I don’t have anything to dream about. Only money dreams. Without money, there are no dreams!” The reality of his statement sank into the sudden silence in the room, and I tried to hold the rush of tears that were brimming in my eyes. My tears would mean nothing to him. They would be cried for me, and I deserved no such luxury. The genie began to ramble on about how we all had to dream, but his words fell flat against the resignation on the car guard’s face.

The small boy who had screamed at me earlier dashed across the circle to catch the last embers of the trailing joint. As he sucked, the hippy turned to him. “What is your wish?” he asked, and his accomplice translated. Another hysterical scrambled babble spilt from his lips, translated to “Your jersey”. The boy’s fingers stretched for the Khaki zip-up sweater the Hippy was wearing. “Fine” said the hippy, unzipping the jersey and handing it over. “Now find yourself a better dream.” The child didn’t hear him. He had buried his face in the gift, and was screaming in hysterical delight.

I had become so entranced in the unfolding events, that I had forgotten my wariness, and was now racked with enormous sorrow and terrible contradictions. I felt like an insult, standing there in my big leather boots and beautiful black trench coat, my wallet and credit card concealed within. I felt like my clean skin and washed hair must be offensive in this place. In my world, the right of admission was not reserved for these people, and my admission into their world was uninvited. Tomorrow, if I made it to tomorrow, I would pass these very people on the street, begging for change. Tomorrow, hundreds like me wouldn’t notice their begging, or their desperation, or this house. My own hypocrisy came rushing down on me like a curtain. What could I do, but stand and smile coyly at the glaring faces with which I could not empathize. Never have I felt more alien.

As the hippy continued his sermon, the atmosphere grew tenser. The congregation was becoming weary of empty advice. Finally, Max decided it was time to leave. He bid his farewell, thanked them for the joint, and strode coolly for the exit. Some of the residents joined us as we walked back across the tennis court, this time holding our breaths. One of them was the boy who had spoken first: the rapper. He told me his name was Tsamayi, meaning “To go”. He had come from the Orange Free State to study at Wits. He had a matric, and his proud family had saved money for him to come to Joburg to study. On the taxi ride to Joburg he was attacked, stripped of all his possesions, and abandoned. With no money, no clothes, and no place to sleep, he had been forced to take to the streets. When he found “the House”, it came as a blessing. It was a refuge where all were equal, starving and desperate. What resources were brought home were shared, willingly or by force. There was shelter and warmth, and access to drugs which made the world’s edges less rough. Tsamayi had become a dealer himself, to keep himself fed and clothed. But, he continued, the house was also an anchor that held him to his plight. Any indication that he was prospering more than the others would be beaten out of him. He had to conceal his income, and sleep clutching his few possessions. If he was seen in wealthy company, he would suffer for it on his return. The House ran on fundamental communism.

Whilst I stood talking to Tsamayi, a boy came hurtling down the road, with a man in a car in furious pursuit. As he raced passed, he yelled out that his wallet had just been stolen. Tsamayi frowned, commenting that this was a habit of that particular boy. Max wandered up the road to check out the action, whilst I remained with Tsamayi. I no longer felt threatened. Tsamayi volunteered to recite one of his raps for me. He started to beat out lines, poetic but rough like the street culture they were spawned from. They described the artist, wealthy and famous, giving thanks for his humbling time as a beggar, which now made the lights seem that much brighter. It was heartrendingly optimistic, given the circumstances.

We never got to the “party”. We eventually walked home at 4.30 in the morning. I stood up an hour later to take Max to the airport for his flight home to Cape Town. I didn’t sleep for another three days, my mind reeling uncontrollably at the reality that had crept into my relatively fairytale life. I learned a new understanding of my country. Not one of quaint ethnicity or ancient tradition, but one of the unbearable distance between poor and less poor, relative to the distance between rich and richer. I recognized that these people owe us nothing. We do not earn their respect, so why should they regret stealing our TVs? We can, and do, just buy new ones. We complain about their squalor, but deny them entry to our bathrooms. What option is there in their Catch 22 besides bitterness, crime and juice boxes of glue?

How, how on earth, do we change this?