Even though I now have a list a hundreds of suggestions for people I should interview, for no particular reason I still like doing the occasional tour of the streets to see if someone “grabs” me, or of course, if there is anyone who needs running over.
Well, this week, as I drove past a young white chap holding a cardboard sign at some lights near Northcliff - that is exactly what happened.
Something “grabbed” me as I drove past him resolutely holding his sign and staring into the far distance. For some reason, I thought he just might be interesting. This he turned out to be.
It didn’t take much to convince him to come and talk to me, although - despite my undoubted magnetic charm - I think he was just weary from hours of standing in the boiling hot sun and needed a break.
But the desperately sad thing is: when you actively start looking for street people as opposed to trying to ignore them, you suddenly become aware of how many there are.
The other day, while parking to do an interview, a very polite, neatly dressed, well-spoken chap, who turned out to be named Richard, came up and said “Sir, I see you are helping this guy (One-legged Wallet Man) and I wondered if there is any way you are able to assist us?”
“Who is ‘us’?” I asked.
He pointed to a group of fellows sitting along a pavement. “We are all builders and painters and we are looking for work. Sometimes people stop and collect us, but it has been very quiet lately.”
“Where are you from?”
“Here,” he said.
“No,” I said, “I mean where do you live?”
“Outside,” he said.
“Ow”
‘I was born in Discovery and grew up in Klerksdorp,” Johan Blom, 29, says. He has just been standing at the lights in Judges Avenue, holding a cardboard sign.
“My parents got divorced when I was small. Then Dad got married and the old and the new didn’t mix. So I stayed with my mom.”
He has a half-sister with whom he lives rent-free. “I have to cover all my other expenses.”
“Do you get on well with her? Do you chat?”
“Of course,” he says quietly, but firmly, “we are all we have.”
“I see from your sign you have twin boys, one-year-olds. Are you married?”
“No. We are going to be. One day.”
“So where is your girlfriend and the kids?” I ask.
“They are in Klerksdorp - she stays with her mom.” When I then ask if he talks to them often, he replies somewhat disconsolately: “Only once a week. My cellphone is busted right now.”
But then he smiles. He has a pleasant, open, expressive face and always looks me squarely in the eye as we chat. “We get on well. The hard times have made us stronger in a strange way.”
“So,” I ask, “how does she feel about you begging on the street?” For the first time he looks nonplussed.
“She doesn’t know I am at the lights with a sign.”
“Oops,” I say, “you are going to be in a national newspaper and it is inevitable she’ll come across it some time. Do you mind me doing this interview?”
He nods: “That’s fine. She knows I’m not working and people are helping me. She just doesn’t know how. But you are welcome.”
He pauses, searching for words. “That’s what my sign is about. I’m trying to tell my story, but how much better if you can tell it. You are doing more than most people would, so it is really appreciated.”
“Okay,” I say, “but let’s get back to how you ended up here. When did you finish school?”
“I finished Grade 10. Then I went to Witbank to do my apprenticeship to be a fitter and turner. But I didn’t get my trade. When it was time for finals at the college, we found we were not properly registered. We had just been cheap labour for three years.”
“Surely you must have known you weren’t?”
He shakes his head. “I was just a lightie. I never had a clue about that sort of thing.”
He tells me it was around then that his mother remarried.
“Let me guess,” I say, “the new husband didn’t like you?”
He laughs. “No,” he says, “we didn’t like him.” He becomes serious and says, “I stopped wanting to visit her ” he doesn’t finish the sentence.
“Okay, so now you were an ex-apprentice - then what did you do?”
He goes back to being his polite, almost cheerful self. “I went to Pretoria and did air-conditioning installations. After a while I moved to Klerksdorp to be nearer my mom and I became a restaurant manager with the Spur Group.
“I’m a qualified senior kitchen back-of-house manager,” he says proudly. “Oh, and I can do front of house as well.”
I ask if he enjoyed doing that.
“I did - but at the end of the day a restaurant manager doesn’t have a life.”
Then he smiles ruefully. “I’m not exactly having much of a life right now, but it was just the hours. I was only 23, I just wanted to be young.”
Later he joined RTT, a courier company. “I progressed in the business and at 25 I was the youngest branch manager in the group. Then I got an offer from Fast Freight Couriers, but they were liquidated and I ended up at Zilmet in Kyalami. I was their head technician and built their booster systems.”
I’m struggling slightly with the number of job changes, although he says he left them all amicably and he doesn’t drink and has never had a problem with substance abuse.
“Getting back to now; how did you feel when you first stood at the lights with your sign?”
“Embarrassed,” he says emphatically. “Without exception, every time I stand at the robot I am embarrassed to the core.
“But I have to survive, I have to sustain myself. I don’t want people to sustain me - it leaves a dent in my pride.”
“How do people respond to you?”
“I don’t bother people. They have a choice.
“They can read my sign or they can ignore it, but some people still make sly comments. The other day a guy said in Afrikaans, ‘Nou ‘* ding soos jy maak nog sulke goed’ (‘a thing like you makes more of these things’), referring to my kids. That breaks a person down. But if someone gives me money, I tell them if they hear of any work they know where to find me.”
I ask what his typical day is.
“I usually get up at 5am. A bit later I check the robots. I stand here or the corner by Cresta.”
“How do you choose one?” I ask, thinking I might be entering the secret lore of the streets as to what makes a good set of lights to stand at. But it is not to be.
“Oh, just gut feel,” he says, smiling.
“Do you eat breakfast?”
“No,” he shakes his head, “that is a luxury. Then I stand for three to four hours. I only buy one meal a day with money that people give me, the rest I send to the kids.”
I ask what he normally buys.
“A R10 quarter.”
“What is that?”
“It is bread with chips and a piece of polony and sausage. It’s quite nice, actually. Otherwise, if someone gives me food I eat that, because otherwise it would be a waste of the money. I would rather keep the money for the kids.
“The other day a guy bought me a small pizza, which was nice. Or they give me sandwiches. In the evening, if I don’t eat at the lights I go and buy something small - not much. Just as long as I keep nourished.”
I ask him what he does in the evening.
“I read the Bible or I sketch.”
“Does that comfort you?” I ask.
“Lots. It gives me strength every day. I know God is not going to leave me. I don’t blame Him for putting me where I am. The bad in the world that brings suffering and pain is not God.”
“So who do you blame for where you are now?”
“Me. That was my wrong decision. It was my bad - I have to rectify it. Nobody else can.”
Contact David Gemmell
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: Tarryn donated R400 and a notebook, which I dropped off at an ecstatic Penman last week. I saw him later and he mentioned he’d called her to thank her.
: Alison tells me the Blairgowrie community have taken the Knitter into their hearts. They say they have plans, which I won’t disclose just now. A fairly useless piece of feedback, I suppose, but I thought it worth a mention that people are still caring and helping Michelle.
: Says thing are much better. He started telling me about some gardening place that had contacted him, but the lights changed and I couldn’t stop to chat. He also got a few mentions from show host Michelle, when I was interviewed about this series on SAfm.
: Someone who wishes to remain anonymous donated R800 towards Cabline’s rent arrears and is currently pestering a doctor friend of hers to assist in finding a way to help him with getting an artificial leg.
: A number of people stopped the last couple of days and commiserated with the Wire Artists at the loss of their friend Agrippa. They are very congenial guys and all made a point of thanking me for noting the loss in the Saturday Star.
: Still attends the Cycle Lab every Saturday and says he enjoys it and everybody treats him well. The lady who runs the restaurant said in passing, “He is good with kids - my granddaughter really enjoys him”.