26 Minor Street in Yeoville has been my home from Thursday until 10am this morning (Saturday 1 April).

The Buthelezi family has kindly agreed to the “white madam” moving in with them for the next two days to experience how the poorer neighbour lives. This is my diary of what I experienced:

Thursday 6.50pm: I phone George Lebone, the “organizer” of my bad building stay, to say I am on my way. “I’m in a meeting right now. Here’s the address – just phone Stanley and tell him to meet you outside the building.”

Red lights flicker: what happened to George being my security? “Carine, I’ll always be in close proximity.” I understood he was moving in with the family next door…

“Do you really need me tonight,” he asks. No, George, I’ll probably be dead before morning, but I say: “It would be nice to at least meet you.” “I’ll pop in later.” And with that we pile my kids, bag, pillow and sleeping bag into the car to look for 26 Minor Street.

7pm: A quick kiss and hug goodbye and I’m handed over to soft-spoken Stanley with little Lerato in his arms and a shy Kgauhelo peeping out from behind him.

We’re in. I see lights. “Ah, electricity! Can’t be too bad,” I still think.

Down some stairs. “The lift hasn’t worked in years – and sorry, the room’s a bit small.” I didn’t know HOW small…

Wife Neo is waiting on the bed. I make a quick calculation: 2m by 4 m – and it’s packed to the roof with the family’s belongings.

Awkward moments. “Thanks for having me.” We try to work out the “why”. “I didn’t think you’ll come. Must be a joke.” A lot of laughs.

We now talk family – my four kids, their two. Now homes. “We’ve been nine years in this same room. Before that my mom lived here for 25 years," Neo says. They’re astounded to hear my home stands on over 3 000 square meter. “I’ve always wanted a garden – a vegetable garden,” Stanley sighs.

I see a wonderful sound system pumping Metro FM; a TV; a fridge; a microwave. I’m spoilt, not a too bad building, I thought. The space is small, but they have every mod con.

I’ll think differently in the morning…

Stanley asks about my favourite radio station; what I watch on TV - and apologises for his TV not working. "I was spraying for cockroaches and some of the poison got into the TV. Sparks and smoke. But I’ll have it fixed soon…”

He asks about my favourite drink. “Red wine.” He thinks for a while. “Maybe I’ll buy some tomorrow after work.” Work is a piece job as an electrical contractor in Sandton – the first job since 2002, and it will last until June. “It’s payday tomorrow, I’ll get the wine,” Stanley says – but I promise.

I ask: food, schools, money? The room is R480, pre-school for Lerato R280, a Jet clothes account…Neo’s had enough. I ask too much. She yawns.

I wonder about where we’ll sleep. I find out: mom, dad and both kids on the double bed – always – me on the floor.

More yawns. Can we sleep, I ask. No, we’re waiting for your sponge. “Please, I’m fine. A sleeping bag and double blanket.” No, sponge.

I warn them about my snoring. We laugh. I see the heavy “curtain” and tell them about my fear of darkness.

9.15 and Neo yawns again. Where is George with the sponge mattress? He comes – and stays, and stays. Stanley crosses his arms. He must leave for work at 6am.

10pm and all in bed. Lerota creeps in with me. The perfect hosts leave the light on…

I sleep, but not really. Everytime I open my eyes I see cockroaches crawling past my head; over my hand. I’d rather close my eyes…

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Friday 6am: Knock on the door. Whisper, whisper. Cupboard closing, door closing…

6.45: I open my eyes. Stanley’s gone, but now there’s a new kid, Tshepo. “My cousin’s gone to the clinic and dropped off her kid.” I wonder if she’s sick. “No, pregnant.”

I roll up my sleeping bag and long for the first coffee and cigarette. I boil water on the 2-plate stove.

The photographer arrives. I’m still in my pajamas. Out comes the sleeping bag again. Lerato and I pose for pictures.

More photographers… I brush my teeth in the “bathroom” with a lens up my nose. There’s no mirror.

I make cornflakes for the three kids. There are only two spoons. They wait their turn. We use the last milk.

Their clothes come out of the washing machine – “their cupboard,” Neo laughs – and gets ironed.

9.15: All dressed and off to Lerato’s school. We're late. Neo gets her invoice: R280. She doesn’t know where the money will come from. She looks at me. I just take pictures…

We walk to Shoprite Checkers. There are no swings on the poles in the parks, but Tshepo can at least slide. Neo gives me a quick lesson in Yeoville savvy: “Avoid that place – too expensive. No, not that spaza. They charge too much.” I see cellphone shops and clothes shops by the hundreds.

I learn about half cabbage at R4 for the better days, quarter cabbage at R2 for the lean days. “We eat a lot of cabbage and pap,” Neo says matter-of-factly.

We buy dish wash, boerewors, tomato braai mix, bread, milk, 2 bottles of cold drink – and a bottle of wine. I forgot: they’ll have no bottle opener…

10 am: We’re back and make the bed. Neo has a quick breakfast, I another cup of coffee. I wash the dishes in a plastic bucket. No hot water from the bath. “They” turn the water off during the day until it’s hot, Neo tells me.

I hear a lot about “they”. “They” paint the building. The owner? No, some white lady. “They” put the electricity on when Council cuts it. The landlord? No, some man gets paid to keep it on. Losing battle for Council, I think. “They” pay for security at the building: after 6pm all stangers must sign in “so we know who does bad things should they happen,” Neo explains. Better security than our boomed-area, I think.

“They” also gave the meager dishes. Friends? No, some white man who was moving out. He also gave the microwave. I realize Neo has no idea how the microwave works. “Sell it then,” I suggest. “Never!” I tried to teach her – but the microwave is not even plugged in.

Nearly everything the family has, belongs to someone else. The sound system? Some cousin who moved away. “We can use it in the mean time.” The same with the TV and the oven.

But the 2-plate Neo bought. And the fridge and washing machine. “I’m still paying off.” More debt, I think.

11am: More photographers pitch up. Tshepo’s mom arrives, but hides away from the camera.

Neo and I fall into a pattern of what we say to reporters. We both have problems with the same question: Why? The press leaves.

I make myself a cheese sandwich, pregnant Jeanette opts for 5 slices of bread, cheese and polony. She’s been up since 4am and is dead on her feet. Her baby’s due end April.

She and Neo are comfortable with each other, lapse into their mother tongue and “skinder”. The odd bit is translated for my benefit.

We talk about Aids, the ANC, services, Zuma, Mandoza.

I feel I don’t belong and flee to the outside steps on the pretext that I’m “going to write my story”. A deep depression settles upon me. There is a chasm we can’t breach. I cannot EVER live like this: it is too cramped; the bathrooms are too bad; I don’t understand a single soul; I can’t visit for hours and hours on end in the same little room with seven bodies. What divides us? Culture? Class? Skin colour?

The reality is sinking in…

The communal bathroom

5pm: Stanley’s home and I’m still fleeing: buying a box of matches from the corner “shop”; playing with the kids. I have a headache and want to go home…

Neo makes the pap, I the boerewors. There’s now also a friend visiting. We have a picture session. They are amazed that they can see the pictures instantly on my digital camera and become fussy. “Delete that one. Try again. My eyes were closed.” I have 5 pictures left. The boerewors is burning.

6.30pm: The power just went off. “Don’t worry, the White Madam came prepared: here’s a torch.” Stanley gets a candle and apologises profusely. We talk about what I expected: no water. No lights. We agree this will just be a “romantic dinner”. My head ache pills have kicked in. At least we've finished cooking.

7pm: The kids and I are starving. Neo dishes in an assortment of dishes. A lot of pap, and each one gets a piece of boerewors. The pap is smothered in relish. I eat with my hands. “Hey, we must say grace first!” Kgauhelo says a simple prayer and we dig in. It is fantastic! I feel better.

9.30pm: The power is back, the guests have left and we all get ready for bed. The kids fall asleep instantly; us grown-ups still talk for a while trying to figure out what difference this experience will make in our lives. The light stays on again…

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Saturday 7am: I open my eyes and see a letter from Stanley propped up next to my head. “Didn’t want to wake you up… God bless you… I’ll always remember you…”

The family is still sleeping.

I quietly get ready: for the first time I remember to take the toilet paper with me. I remember the light must be on for the stove to work; where to put the key. I know where to stash the sponge. Where to find the teaspoon if it’s not in its usual place…

I’m sipping my first coffee on the step in the doorway. A local asks where security stays and | casually point to number 9.

I nearly feel as if I belong…

Neo and I talk quietly. I hand her R50 – all I had in my purse. She has tears in her eyes and hugs me tight.

I wait for 10 o’clock and my family…

Posted 1 April 2006 by Carine Hartman Contact her at