Natalie Elliott

By Natalie Elliott

He used to carry R1000 at a time in a roll in his throat, and in his jacket pocket he would smuggle cell phones to the prisoners on the inside. He used to be on the outside.

Many of those around him at the prison eat the sugary strawberry-flavoured biscuits on the table, but not Bonginkosi* He doesn’t put “just anything” into his body any more.

Now, he drinks only water and milk.

He drinks it with purpose. “Allahu akbar” is followed by three intentional sips.

He weighs every choice.

At the beginning he got into fights. First, they landed him in prison and then in solitary confinement. The first time in solitary, it was for 9 months, for violence. He did nothing with his time. The second time, it was for 90 days, out of choice and for his own protection. He fasted and prayed.

These days Bonginkosi considers it a privilege to choose what to do with the R1 400 he receives every month from sponsors. It was when he began swimming that his determination to change his world got him noticed. That was at the last prison. Now there is no pool but he still dreams about it, and the sponsors have stuck with him.

“When I’m in the water, I feel free,” he says.

And the money he gets now is more than he used to make from his last gig – secretly growing marijuana in the grounds of a high security prison.

At first he would spend this money on snacks and cigarettes. Last month, he used it to order 56 Qurans instead. Thirty people converted to Islam, just like he had.

He used to be in the highest security prison in the country, and now he is in the lowest. He used to have contact only with members of the 26s, and now his family comes to visit him every weekend.

Bonginkosi’s world has changed since the day one of his friends shot and killed a man during a robbery. Bonginkosi was there, and that’s why he is now here.

For several years the man’s son sought a gang that would help him avenge his father. Then he came to the prison and met Bonginkosi face to face. With their extended families present, the first meeting was tentative. But the young man has persevered.

Now, he is Bonginkosi’s Muslim brother, and visits him every week. They have made their peace.

By Natalie Elliott

At the edge of my vision is the start of the township. Small shacks made of aluminum dot the landscape. If you were to walk there, your feet would kick trash at every step. These are the informal settlements. Take the first right, and you will arrive on my street, Blinkbonnie.

Waves of people walk home from work in the 5 o’clock setting sun, and school children in plaid uniforms run in between them. Small bare feet kick soccer balls in a car park to the left. On the right, a hair salon operates out of a concrete block with no windows and a gap in the wall for a doorway. Up ahead, the street steadily climbs a hill. At the top is my host family’s home.

Turn left into the car park you find there, and walk back down the hill a bit. A dirt path takes you past the car full of boys playing house music. They are brothers and cousins of the people who live here. Go down past Keira’s house, my sweet twelve-year-old neighbour who loves to play with my hair and my phone. Walk past the house with Hindu statues, blasting out Indian music, and onto the house with the red car. This is where I’m standing.

Behind me, a humble home sits with its door open, but gate closed. Inside, my sister Zama watches soapies while my mama cooks dinner. The smell of carrots steaming with chilli powder and potatoes wafts through the gate, and out to where I am standing.

In front of me, tall grass with glimpses of wildflowers reveals only the roofs of houses perched on the hill below. Above these houses, a clothesline holds onto long pink nightshirts, blue polka-dot pyjama shorts and an orange beach towel.

The wind feels like a soft touch, gently wrapping my body in its arms. Winter has turned into Spring and if I look far enough, I can see the ocean. Perhaps, this is where the cool air comes from. The waves crash into sand, and from there, skyscrapers erupt from the earth. A freeway snakes in between these buildings, and cars look like ants making their way home.

Out there is the city of Durban, but right in front of me is the township of Cato Manor, my home for now.

By Natalie Elliott 

 

What can a name tell you about the person it belongs to? For Zama Kunene, it means she will never stop trying.

Zulu names reflect the parents’ expectations and hopes for their child, and are given before birth, according to the African Studies Center.

Emelda Kunene was married for eight years, but the marriage fell apart because they waited too long to have kids.

Then, she met Zama’s father.

“When I met Zama’s father, in just one visit, Zama was made. I was just trying life again. That’s why I called her Zama,” Emelda said.

In isiZulu, Zama means “try”, and she wanted her daughter to live up to her name.

Zama is 19 years old now, and is the first in her family to attend college. She is in her second year at the South Africa Maritime School and Transport College, studying logistics. She hopes to work as a logistics coordinator for a major company like Hamburg Sud.

The road to get to this point, however, was not always smooth. Zama faced many challenges to get into college. She first applied to the Durban University of Technology (DUT), but waited and waited…

“Waiting for my application to go through [at DUT] was just way too long…the decision should have been made” Zama said.

According to Zama, the delay in processing her application was due in part to the #FeesMustFall protests that had erupted on South African Campuses in 2015. These student-led protests were aimed at lowering university fees and increasing government funding.

Zama was faced with two choices: she could continue waiting for DUT to get back

to her and lose a year in her education, or she could apply to another university.

She chose to apply to a private university, something that had never been on her radar before, due to both financial and systemic odds against her. In the township high schools of South Africa, only 20% of pupils make it to university. But Zama tried, like she had every other time, even when others doubted her.

“Because of how I act, a lot of people thought I would be a certain person, or maybe have a kid by now…I am proud that I was able to finish high school and now I am on the track to graduate [from college],” Zama said.

She chose to try even though nobody else in her family had gone to college. She chose to try even though her high school did not prepare her. She chose to try, even when she faced financial challenges.

She chose to live up to her name and try. And Zama is not only trying, she is succeeding.