“Johannesburg is a rich substance for the artist’s mind.”
Veronique Tadjo
—
Out of body experiences come from one of two things for me;
live music and anything that fuels my purpose here. The allure of the city and
its tales are as true as ‘a secret love’ affair, one that Luther Vandross knew
all too well about. Secret love in that there are sacred parts of Johannesburg
that complete my human experience, however outside of these sacred spaces the
city has never been anything to write home about. Write about and share with
others the valleys and greens of various rural areas around the country, those
are . I would not dare delude people into a romanticised view of this place
that I currently call home. Apart from the glorious Johannesburg skyline, food
and late nights, life here is inspired by work and ultimately a kick-push dance
towards any form of success. At the very least, we could settle for a well
established and comfortable life along balconies, which look onto ponds and
lakes from Jan Smuts to William Nicol. Although we long for the comfort of
these homes, the joy of caffe lattes, there is a dark and eerie cold that
breathes past the city lines.
Discomfort and fear are true components of city life, no
matter where in the world you are and although this blueprint is engraved on
our memory, we hardly recall to look before we cross the road or better yet to
not talk to strangers and so forth. In as much as our minds know of the danger
spoken of in taxis or conversations you hear when passing by Mandela Bridge. It
hardly sinks in that this city in particular is not your friend, until you find
yourself becoming one of those people whose incidents are unreported and if
they were… not much would be done anyway.
So what is it that you do when Johannesburg attempts to run
away with all your stuff? My first encounter of the safety/comfort thief
was late last year, when walking from Noord to Bree, which is an exercise I
engage in often enough to not even feel the distance. Having two men follow you
without notice, things happen so fast that the next thing you know one is
rubbing against your arm telling you to hand him your phone and he does not
forget to bring to your attention the man behind you who holds a knife to your
back so as to make sure that you have no way out. Here I recall human instinct
kicking in and all I could do then was run because firstly where do you get the
nerve to take something from somebody whose struggle you know nothing of?
Although both of them ran after me there is something about making friends with
the vendors that you pass daily, they act as agents who comfort you when in
distress. The idea posed by the two rather ambitious men was that I would not
run, that I would give in and become so afraid in my own city that I would
experience immediate amnesia and not be able to take refuge anywhere. It is my
greeting the man who sells me ama skoppas from time to time that saved my life
that day.
But, one thing I walked away with is a sense of fear that
leaves me so exhausted because the system does nothing to ensure that we are
safe, although we may rant and risk losing ourselves amidst the melancholy, the
alternative is that we wait and carry on with our lives but be more alert than
we are normally. These are the wars spoken of in Isibaya, that taxi routes draw
not only the taxi owners and rival competitors but the people who use this mode
of transport into the conflict. We find ourselves in unsafe areas and
situations that we re-experience each time we approach the city, the aura
around us changes and this I know for sure. I hope that we can soon recollect
the pieces and find in ourselves ways to weave together the confidence that has
been taken by the man who has followed you and stared you down so close to
undressing you. The men that have grabbed onto your body as though this is
another teenage movie and you are the outcast that is used as a utensil for
endless jokes with mates. And what of the taxi marshals that walk around as
though their presence moves you and you owe them a response on your knees, bare
feet, with your breasts in the air, completed with a tray and a cup overflowing
with African beer?
Unfortunately for them, we are not cut from the same cloth,
one that systematically classifies anything outside of males as inferior. When
the old man that stands outside of Bree C4 grabbed me to tell me that I am ‘his
girlfriend and should not walk past him as though I do not know him as he gives
me money to go to the hair salon’. I honestly felt like I was starring in my
own cyber space flick where I am a replica of every alien female who never
voices her thoughts in meetings over world domination. It took so much from me
to push him away and tell him not to speak to me like that and I will not have
it. People around you see the conflict but walk on by when they see that you
are scared past understanding and you need their help. There is nothing
enlightened about not helping other people. Johannesburg walks away with our
stuff, every day and the very same people who are quick to ask you for help
will blink twice and think before even helping you. It is sad that fatherhood,
manhood and human-hood are complex findings that complicate society. You can
never differentiate human-hood from a man brought up of patriarchal
understanding. It is the basis of violence, greed and all ills that take from
equality.
It is true that I have been afraid of the place that is home
as of late, afraid as no matter how we try to extend love or whatnot to these
men there is a heaviness and darkness that will always want to take and it is
to be obeyed or else!
What is it that you do when your partner cannot swing you
around when crossing the road because your heart is no longer the same, or your
reflex is to jump out of your skin if someone wants to hold your hand? Rather…
it’s about holding yourself together so that the predator does not smell the
fear that oozes out of you. You are in fact born anew when Johannesburg has
attempted to walk away with your stuff; one sure thing is that it takes your
kindred child spirit that is formed on living freely. However, I must say this
to you (and to myself) let no place or person walk away with your stuff. One
day I will once again swing in full force when crossing the road, with air
across my face, with my muse, something like the smell of fresh scones will be
the air I breathe that day. Then the ‘eyes of my eyes will see and the ears of
my ears will hear’ a brand new melody.
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