On a Monday morning the Record receives a call from an angry Patience Mokgathle.
“You must come,” she shouts over the phone. “You must come and see how we live. You must show everyone how we live,” she emphasises the reason for her call.
The Record meets her at the entrance of Tshepisong and once the vehicle is safely parked, the journalist follows her into the underbelly of the settlement.
Although there are no protests or unrest she gives her assurance that the journalist will be safe if he sticks with her and her aunt Zandile Zulu who is a pastor.
As Mokgathle starts pointing out what supposedly has become an impromptu playground for toddlers and primary school children she tells the Record that “we live like dogs. Not humans. Like dogs. We vote but do not know who we will get for a councillor”.
A construction with a defunct drain apparently serves as a swimming pool for the kids. They also take to the miniature river that runs from the drain to cool down. The water is littered and possibly a source of transmittable diseases.
Mokgatle next shows the Record a large old plaasdam that now stands empty but also serves as cement dumpster and playground for the children.
There are street vendors who try and make an honest living, according to the pastor, but whose businesses get broken up by JMPD allegedly at the behest of the current councillor who does not take their calls anymore.
“Yes, and he drives the smart new car,” Mokgathle spews forth her bile aimed at the councillor.
A Rastafarian brews something in a large pot on an open fire – the thick black gooey stuff is pig’s blood.
“We have to make a living,” he smiles, obviously stoned.
Everywhere people live in abject poverty. Little electricity. No water. No refuse removal. Broken unmanaged communal toilets. One tap for every 20 or so shacks.
JMPD allegedly also has torn down a mentally ill man’s shack. (In terms of the law, SAPS or JMPD has to take anyone who is visibly mentally ill and incapable to take care of him or herself to a government institution.)
A sick lady stands at a damp shack’s entrance.
“Not even dogs live like this,” Mokgathle repeats.
The aunt and her cousin do not answer the question whether, after 20 years, they would vote for the same government again, and so the dogs of democracy’s barking falls on deaf ears.
