Interview in the township

MaschataDiop

by MaschataDiop

Story

“That’s Yellow from Holland”, says my friend Lindeka, the photographer. A white giant stands in front of me. He wants to do interviews in Langa, the oldest township in Cape Town. On the topic of the “land question”: Should the whites be expropriated, as populist Malema demands? The land to be distributed to all? Free of charge?

Langa, “sun” in isiXhosa, is 15 km from the centre. “There! Turn off,” says Lindeka’s husband Mzwabantu, sitting in the rickety rental car next to Yellow. At the side of the road, a man is turning chicken legs on a grate. “Molo!” greets Lindeka. Can we park here? “Yes,” says Alex, the chicken leg seller. “Put the car next to the police car over there. I’ve got my eye on it!” He strokes his apron and tells me to hide my bag under my jacket.

Yellow makes eye contact with a young man in front of a tin shack, crosses the road. Lindeka follows Yellow. I follow Lindeka. Mzwabantu follows me. He is our bodyguard. “A few years ago,” Lindeka says, “I went alone, everywhere, to every township. Talked to the people, took photos. That’s too dangerous now”.

Musa, the young man, is ready to give an interview. About the land issue. And about life in the township. We walk behind him through the settlement. Sometimes we have to turn sideways, the shacks are so close together. The sandy soil is damp. A cool wind blows plastic waste over the tin roofs, into the tangle of electricity wires. An elderly man sits in front of a shebeen, a beer bottle between his feet. It is Saturday. The alcohol is flowing. A woman washes a green shirt in a turquoise plastic tub in front of her turquoise-painted hut. “No”, she doesn’t want to say anything about the land issue. I am allowed to photograph her.

A girl does a handstand, looks at me proudly. An older one hangs red trousers, a pink T-shirt, white shoelaces on the line in front of a blue shack. I take a photo. The children are happy. Yellow squats in Musa’s wooden hut, asks questions, films. Musa sits on a sofa with red pads. Every now and then his voice rises, sounds indignant. I can see Yellow’s hands shaking.

“Let’s go,” Mzwabantu says. “Men are flocking together. They say the journalists are coming to make money from our misery!” We say goodbye. Promise to send photos. Walk to the car. Ignore the men on the corner. Yellow turns the ignition key. Engine won’t start. Not on the second, not on the third, not on the fourth try. Mzwabantu gets out, waves Alex over. They push. I want to help. No, Lindeka and I are to stay seated. Yellow should get out. Suddenly a strange man is behind the wheel. I swallow. Breathe in and out softly. The engine starts. The stranger gets out, Yellow and Mzwabantu get in. “Quickly away!” shouts Lindeka. As the car jerks just before the junction, we hold our breath. And exhale deeply as we turn onto the N2.

© MaschataDiop 2021-05-06

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