On Friday late afternoon, I find myself sitting with 300 Zimbabweans in a tiny hall. There are no windows and only one entrance. We’re all crowded into the small space on plastic chairs. To reach the hall, we first drove through Alexandra township, and later Berea and Hillbrow.
The atmosphere in our city has changed. March and March, Operation Dudula, Abahambe and the 30 June shutdown have become a living, breathing organism that is tangible. It’s awful and terrifying.
We are not congregated in this airless hall because of xenophobia though. We’re nervously gathered at Regional funerals for a memorial before our friend and carer, Precious’ body gets taken home to Zim for her real funeral.
Sitting among this crowd, I’m lost in my own thoughts (I cannot understand the service, it is all in Ndebele). I listen to the amazing harmonising African voices when they sing, comforting me on a day that was filled with fear. Despite what happened to the King’s and Queen’s funeral home earlier this week, I feel safe here. I’m the only mulungu on the large property – in fact, I’ve not seen a white face since we drove through Houghton.
The uneasiness of the morning is starting to settle here in amongst my fellow mourners.
Earlier in the day, I arrived at the Hospitality lodge, and I walked towards the reception. I could immediately tell something was very wrong. Around our pool, spread out as if they owned the property, was a group of people dressed in Zulu regalia and big South African flags tied around their waists. They were speaking loudly, taking up too much space, and their tone was different from the usual groups of people we have here at Zazen.
I greeted the group and went straight to reception. My staff were staring at me wide-eyed (I think our manager was whiter than me!). I asked who these guys were and Brian told me the name of their leader. I knew who he was immediately. I’ve read about him and his hate speech towards immigrants and LGBTQ people. I knew only too well about his movements, lawsuits and connections to Zuma. What I did not know was why he was here. On this property? Why were they let in?
Brian explained further that when they arrived, they informed the guard they were here to make a booking. (The only woman with them has been here before when we were operating our guest lodge. In fact, she’s been here many times, never with the same man and never for longer than an hour or two). On this pretence, they came onto the property and demanded lunch.
I walked over to them respectfully, and enquired which booking they planned to make. The slay-queen told me that, actually, they just want lunch and would be on their way, pointing to the large luxury SUV with no number plates. I clarified that we are not open to the general public and explained that we now focus on patients and their families. Taking into account that we had quite a few patients actively dying, it really was quite inappropriate to host a lunch by our pool, with or without a political agenda. Slay-Queen understood and told me she’d take her comrades to another lunch spot. They took their time, ignoring my request to keep their voices down and finally left our property.
I’m not sure why they were really there. Our theory is that they wanted a secluded spot to eat before they went to do whatever they planned to do. Why else the unmarked car? The consulate general of Malawi is nearby and hundreds of Malawians gather there daily. We wonder if they were on their way there? Whatever it was, I could sense their hatred and their thirst for violence. I think I was scared. Actually, I admit I was, why else would I not name this famous vigilante in my blog?
On my way back from the memorial, the Uber driver and I chatted (have you ever met an Uber driver who was not also a political analyst/philosopher?) He is a proud Zulu from New Castle. We discussed the new wave of xenophobia, and I carefully tried to find out where he stands. His comments surprised me, “In the end, we can all pretend that this is about jobs. We know it’s not. It’s so we can loot.”
The driver dropped me off. It was dark and cold, and my long-suffering husband ran me a bath and poured me a glass of wine. I wanted to wash the day off me, but instead I got a phone call from Eddie.
Eddie is a wonderful, kind and compassionate carer. He has a skills work visa and is in the process of getting residency. He works hard, pays taxes, makes a huge difference in patients’ lives and is putting his three beautiful children through school. “Ma’am, I’m sorry I had to leave early today, but the March and March people came to loot my house.” Eddie was emotional, but I pieced together his story. People arrived at their block of flats with a fake warrant, pretending to look for foreigners. Instead, they overpowered the landlord and ransacked the apartments. Eddie sent me a video showing what was all taken: TVs, clothes, linen, and what was not taken was broken.
His biggest concern was his children. He could not find them. Only on Saturday did Eddie finally get a call from a friend who gathered all the children and went into hiding. They were safe. The police came and took statements from all the foreigners attacked on the day and duly noted the stolen items. I hope something will come of this investigation.
We often speak about foreigners in numbers, politics and election slogans, but on Friday it wasn’t about policy or jobs. It was about Precious being carried home for burial. It was about 300 people grieving. It was about my staff fearing violence and hate walking through our gates. It was about Eddie desperately searching for his children, his life in tatters.
That’s what xenophobia looks like when it moves beyond speeches and hashtags. It arrives at someone’s front door… someone you love.