This n that with Maluphosa - Making ends meet, the Goli way

It has become so hard for most of those in the Diaspora to make ends meet, especially in South Africa. And when one phones home they'd just be praying they will be told sekungcono, they can now come back; come back to the land of milk and honey that was promised some forty years ago. But alas, they're told it gets direr with every rising sun. Famine and poverty and uncertainty still stalk the land unchecked. The politics is that of survival and spoils, and the country operates on default. People still spend almost everything they work for on food. No one ever thinks of buying assets anymore.

Ukuba ngcono to them would mean intaba kayikhonjwa idilikile, and investors are back with loads of investment and therefore jobs; izulu linengi and finally we can zadza madura; electricity supplies are now so regular people have stopped talking; water supplies are plentiful; everybody is free to associate with any one individual or organization without having to look over their shoulder or sleep with one eye open.

This is where we are heading to here, economists say. The signs are there; the number of sellers is fast becoming greater than that of buyers. With the prediction of the worst drought in a century, things are gonna get worse before they improve. Food prices are already beyond what the common man can afford. One needs to have other means to raise more money just to keep body and breath together. But the jobs are scarce too. The job market is teeming with unskilled and skilled labour. We are approaching a situation whereby graduates will be roaming the streets, jobless; let alone doing menial jobs. Those that are looking for greener pastures aren't helping the situation. They practically assist in flooding the job market.

Needless to say, one needs more than one job to survive the current economic crisis. Like this woman who looks after my friends toddler. She keeps soiled, tattered and torn baby outfit in her bag. At around ten in the morning when the chores are done, she the dresses the child up in this out fit, transforming her into a street kid, and takes her to the robots near this big hospital to ask for help – in cash or kind. Looking like a vagrant herself, in filthy rags, and hugging a mucky, torn bag filled with rags, she sings some gospel songs as she moves from one car to the next, clutching the baby under her arm, and a plate with the other hand. Her head is swinging from side to side all the while, to emphasize her misery and agony. The ‘mother and child' cut a ghastly feature, looking like two mobile scarecrows in an abandoned field. Many a time she has to put the little scarecrow to the dusty breast so that everyone looking will think it's hers. And amakhiwa are still a kind lot here, especially towards abantwana.
On dry days she is forced to inflict some pain under the child's feet so that it cries and draws some attention and sympathy. And she will come up with a story; my child is hungry, please help. Or, I need to take her to the hospital. And people will donate generously.

Around four O'clock, an hour before my friend gets back home, the woman goes back to the flat with mounds of cash and food left-overs and old clothes. She then bathes the baby clothes her immaculately and feeds her. When my friend gets home, all is well. The woman is so kind to the baby, not because she like babies, but because she considers this one as her cash cow, or money coining machine, or ATM..

The other day she was given two boxes of condoms – those that are given for free at health centres - with a message inked in red on them: Please stop making babies; Stupid. Ngumlungu lowo – still living in the apartheid era! This, she thought was nasty, until she got another, written on used toilet paper: Go home, kwerekwere! Wow! Black on black? Well, there are no beggars in this country, are there?
The toilet paper had been placed nicely on top of some KFC left-over, inside that take-away box.
Then there were these young seemingly drunk hooligans who threw some urine on her and the child, swearing at her as if they owned the street. Yet others offered a can of the Monster drink, only to find that it is filled with urine too. The smell hit her when she was about to take that grateful sip.
This old man stopped his skorokoro of a truck by the road-side and asked her to come home with him. ‘I have no wife. You, I and baby can make a great family.' She was disgusted. And there is this shriveled old mlungu who gave her a cute pair of shoes. Trouble was both were for the left foot. She was hoping the old woman would come back, apologize and rectify her ‘mistake'.   

Many want to help; one time the Salvation Army workers stopped and wanted to take to some shelter with the baby. And the nurses offered to do a tubal-ligation on her so she can stop becoming pregnant. That was insulting and rude, she thought. Another woman stopped her car and gave her the telephone numbers for the social workers. They will help where they can, she said.

A real vagrant attacked her the other day, fighting for territory and spoils. She had run for almost a kilometer when she remembered she had left the baby behind. She came back to find the vagrant gone, and the baby having caused a mini-traffic jam. The baby stood innocently right in the middle of the road and the cars hooted frantically like there was some mischievous troop of baboons blocking the road. She snatched the baby, amid insults punctuated with a show of the middle finger, shouts and more hooting, and she went straight home to sleep. She was appalled at the lack of understanding shown by these motorists and passers-by. Why were they judging her when they didn't know her story?
But, she says, she will not stop begging because the push factors far out weigh all this abuse. She makes on average two hundred rand between ten and four. That's a lot of money by any standards.

We have such people here who keep two jobs or more. During the day, they are in their formal kind of employ. Eb'suku they are in the streets, hide-outs or dark corners as thieves, robbers, prostitutes, bouncers, or selling one illicit thing or another. They are trying to make ends meet. And people back home are not helping. They don't understand, like these motorists and passersby. There are many who have given up trying and await that Tshangane bag with goodies from eGoli, and a few pennies inside. There is that general misconception that abasebenza eGoli bahola nge ngwane – those big ones ezama Western. And it feels like they think abaseGoli should not eat dress up or pay rates. Every cent one makes should be sent home to them. They are the only ones who have needs that require money. See them when they visit? They never spend a cent even on their own bread but expect to have breakfast with bacon cheese and eggs, baphiwe leye air-time. Whatever they have bayagoqela bathule zwiii, baze babuyele layo. Plus they expect to be reimbursed imali abeza ngayo nge dabulap, and be given the fare back plus eyomphako and more. It's as if licala ukusebenza eGoli. A few guys I know have decided to return home, permanently, regardless of the situation there. They say abantu back home are not thankful at all. Nxa bebonga okunye, bafuna okunye. They are not aware of the difficulties we meet and the sacrifices we make here. To them, silala sembhethe imali.

My friend doesn't know that his precious baby is a pot of gold to her nanny. He thinks the woman is the best in the city. And I do not want to be the bearer of the bad news. I too have more than my fair share of these economic mishaps. Yes, many of our employers aren't concerned about what we get up to after hours no – that's how it should be. But this woman, is she not abusing company resources? And to all those who work so hard and make all those sacrifices amid all the dangers here, and amid all the ungratefulness and complaints back home, thank you.

Ngiyabonga mina!

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Clerk Ndlovu <clerkn35@gmail.com