Hector Pieterson
Leaving for work at 4:30 a.m. is painful anywhere in the world, but for Tahir, it was less painful knowing that work meant visiting the rolling sand dunes of Atlantis.
Tahir pulled away from his little studio apartment. Zara wasn’t splurging on any hotels – not for a job this long – but Tahir had discovered that he actually preferred staying in a local apartment. He got to see how people in South Africa lived. Some people at least.
Radio humming, he drove down the tree-lined streets, past the barbed wire fences and the private security guards. Table Mountain rose behind him as he merged right, leaving the City Bowl.
A flashing orange sign - “Don’t Stop for Any Reason.” By now Tahir was used to the warnings to keep doors locked and windows rolled up.
Loose gravel crunched beneath the Volkswagen. His headlights lit a path through an oversized recycling bin, lighting up zinc-roofed shacks and a beat-up car. The guardrail separating fragile shanties from speeding cars frequently disappeared. It always reappeared, but never for more than ten yards, and Tahir wondered whether the government had run out of money or just didn’t care.
He pulled into the parking lot at the base of the dunes and joined the rest of the crew.
Hot coffee and buttermilk rusks.
After checking the equipment, and with twenty minutes to spare, he ventured out onto the sand hills.
“Don’t get lost!” shouted Jeremy, another photographer.
Unbelievably quiet. They’d started at noon yesterday, when the slopes were full of giant, buzzing buggies, and the day had been a hurricane of photos and sand boarding. Now it was so quiet, all he could hear was his breath.
And it was empty too. 100 yards out, Jeremy’s warning not to get lost seemed damn reasonable. With his back to the parking lot, the desert stretched out around Tahir for miles in three directions. A blank canvas for commercial art.
A catalogue shoot was a far cry from photojournalism, and after a recent exposé, Tahir had expected more investigative work. But when Vince told him about the job, it was a no-brainer. The money was decent, and, more importantly, it was an all-expense-paid trip to South Africa for a month. South Africa had always been high on his list of places to visit, and now he got to go on someone else’s dime.
Plus, he got to hang with models.
His pocket vibrated.
Thandiwe: How is work?
Tahir: It’s good. I like my co-workers.
Thandiwe: :)
He turned and, squinting, he could just make out a colony of hair and makeup artists at the far end of the parking lot, swarming around several tall, majestic bodies. He walked towards them, the earth shifting under his feet with every step. It was a hell of an unplanned workout.
A dune and a half later, he was smiling at a young woman wearing linens from Zara's summer collection. She couldn’t wave without disturbing the hair and makeup bees around her, but she smiled back. He watched the beauticians curl her hair until it was the right kind of “big.”
When they finished, she walked over. As usual, she looked stunning. Her dark skin glowed against the white blouse. In half an hour, when the sun was up, it would pop against the white dunes.
“What are you doing after work?” she asked him.
“Good question. I’ll have to ask my tour guide.”
Thandi grinned. “Want to have sundowners with me and a friend? There’s a great place on Kloof Street – it’s like an enchanted garden – and I think you’d like my friend. You remind me a lot of her.”
In Pretoria, only a few days into the shoot, Thandi had become Tahir’s de-factor tour guide and human Google for all things South Africa.
Over the past three weeks, Tahir had become close with the South African model, and he was excited now to be visiting her home province.
“Count me in!”
Great weather, great wine, great currency exchange, and great people. So far, South Africa had lived up to all of his expectations.
They didn’t make it to Kloof Street that night. Instead, they found themselves at the University of Cape Town, at a meeting of the Leftist Students’ Collective, or LSC. UCT sat outside the City Bowl, on the opposite side of Table Mountain National Park, where it had carved out its own bowl-shaped nook.
“Thandi!” A light-skinned woman with short natural hair and bright lipstick ran over. “You came!” She hugged Thandi. “And you must be Tahir,” she said, turning to the photographer with a wide smile. Wearing black work boots and a white t-shirt emblazoned with a raised fist, the leader of the LSC was the last person Tahir would have expected to greet them with a warm, cherry red smile.
“I’m Mpho,” she said, shaking his hand. “I’m so happy you guys came! I’m sorry I couldn’t come out tonight. We called this emergency meeting because there is something big starting at Wits.”
“Wits?” Tahir asked.
“University of Witwatersrand,” Thandi explained. “It’s the best university in the country, after UCT.” She smiled at her friend. “It’s right outside Johannesburg. What’s happening there?” she asked Mpho.
“They’ve started protesting against the rise in tuition fees. Our friends over there tell us that they will continue with a sit-in and a lock-down until the administrators talk to them.”
Before Mpho could explain more, a woman in a green and yellow doek called her over. “Please, have a seat, have a seat,” she said, waving to the circle of folding chairs.
Thandi left to find the restroom. Tahir hesitated before finally taking a seat. He leaned forward and rubbed his palms against each other. Looking around the room, he saw 15 or 20 students.
A young man in a worn red polo shirt with oversized glasses sat down next to Tahir.
“Hello,” he said with a heavy Xhosa accent.
“Hello.”
“Are you new?”
“I’m visiting actually.” Tahir introduced himself and extended his hand.
“Jacob.” The young student shook his hand. “Nice to meet you. What brings you to South Africa?”
“Work. Are you a student here?”
“Yes, I am. What brings you to LSC?”
“Mpho is a friend of a friend, and she invited us to come.”
“Wonderful! Mpho is so committed to the cause. She really wants to help solve inequality. It is a big problem here.”
“What do you think is the biggest barrier?” Tahir asked. It was impossible to ignore the sprawling shantytowns throughout the country. But the Rainbow Nation, home to Mandela, also had one of the most progressive constitutions in the world, and it was painful to think of it as a failed experiment in reform and equality.
“The biggest barrier to equality?”
Tahir nodded.
“Capitalism. Apartheid is over, but capitalism is still keeping the African people down. You know?”
Tahir nodded. He was suddenly conscious of his Japanese selvedge jeans. Not to mention his Zara pay check. Black t-shirt. Jeans. Sneakers. On the outside, he fit right in, but Tahir had enough money to wear the kinds of clothes that don’t advertise what brand they are.
Jacob pulled out a little plastic bag of water and took a drink. Tahir was grateful for the pause in the conversation, and before Jacob finished, Thandi returned and the woman in the green and yellow head wrap brought the meeting to order.
“I am happy to see so many here today,” she began. “And some new faces! Welcome! By now you have heard about what is happening at Wits. Our brothers and sisters are taking a stand for their education. For their rights.”
Claps.
“The University of Witwatersrand wants to raise fees by 10.5%. Today they marched. They blocked entrances to the buildings. Tomorrow they will continue in their protests and try to shut down the entire campus. They are using their bodies to make a barricade because that is all we are to our government. Bodies!”
Claps and shouts.
“Zuma has failed us. The ANC has failed us. They do not rule for the people; they rule for the power; and they reward those who keep them in power! We, who are here to study and raise ourselves up, can’t even do that. They feast and let their people starve!”
“They do not rule for the people, they rule for the power”
More claps. More shouts.
Mpho stood next. “They call us born-frees, but we have not been born free.”
Eish!
“The Rainbow Nation HAS NOT WORKED. All colors are not equal and united.”
Eish!
“There are many who have failed us; who led us here. And it is not just the Afrikaners behind apartheid. It is some of our sisters and brothers, mothers and fathers too.”
Nods.
“Mandela. Madiba. He compromised. His decisions have helped put us in this position today.”
More nods. Another eish.
"But Mama Winnie did give us an important piece of wisdom. 'If we are to free ourselves, we must break the chains of oppression ourselves. Any acceptance of humiliation, indignity or insult is acceptance of inferiority.'"
Loud clapping.
“The corruption goes beyond the lack of funding for our universities
More claps.
“– but we will start here. We will start with education like they started in Soweto!”
A cry from someone in the back.
Fees must fall.
Again, the same cry.
Fees Must Fall.
It grew into a chant.
Fees Must Fall! Fees Must Fall!
Clapping and smiles. Excitement and encouraging pats on the back. The room buzzed.
Mpho stepped out of the circle, and a young man stood up. “We cannot stop with fees,” he said. “Let’s not forget student housing! Let’s not forget our brothers and sisters, fathers and mothers working on campus! Let’s not forget how many of them are losing jobs to private companies that pay less! Let’s not…”
“Tahir.” The photographer turned to see Mpho squatting behind them.
“Thandi told me you are a photographer. Maybe you’d like to take some pictures of our meeting?” she whispered. “Show people what we’re doing here.” She smiled her big cherry smile and got up.
Tahir didn’t have any of his camera equipment with him, so he reached for his phone.
Snap snap.
He took a couple half-hearted shots of the meeting. He understood the importance of cutting fees, but he didn’t know how to capture that on camera. And everything else seemed a little extreme. Mandela? Capitalism? The meeting was a broad indictment.
The room was hot.
Mpho stood and spoke about logistics for an upcoming protest at UCT.
When she finished, people got up and started talking to their friends. Thandi was speaking in Xhosa to the boy named Jacob and clapping along with a new call for fees to fall.
He made rounds of the room, politely introducing himself and asking people if he could take their picture as they talked.
His phone started to feel heavy in his hands, and he felt as uncomfortable holding it as he did wearing his overpriced jeans.
It was getting hotter in the room.
“Are you okay?” Thandi asked.
“Yeah. I’m gonna step out and get some air.”
He walked a lap around the quad. Ironically, the Leftist Students’ Collective met right next to the UCT campus store. He went in and bought a bottle of water.
He pulled out his phone and texted Zola. Hey you. How you been? He drank some water. On Facebook, he scrolled through friends’ photos and updates. Then he called Vince.
“What’s up man?” Vince said.
“How you doing?”
“I’m good, man. You okay? Sound like you just ran somewhere.”
“Nah, I’m good.”
“How’s South Africa?”
“It’s good. It’s great. I was just calling…wanted to check and see if you had any new jobs lined up for me.”
“Oh yeah. I’ve been looking at a couple things. Nothing firmed up yet though. You leave on Tuesday?”
“Yep. I –”
“Shit! Sorry man, I gotta go. Emergency meeting. I’ll call you back?”
“Yeah, yeah, no prob.”
Apparently, there were emergency meetings happening all over the globe.
Louis Botha (South African Parliament Building)
When Thandi came out, Mpho was with her. Tahir hid the R20 bottle of water under the bench where he was sitting. While he was sweating, Mpho was glowing.
“Thank you both again for coming tonight. It means so much to me. And I hope it does to you too. This is the start of something very big I hope.”
“I’m so happy we could come!” Thandi said. Tahir just nodded.
“What else do you have planned while you’re here?” Mpho asked. “Is it all work?”
“I hope not,” Tahir replied. “There are so many things I want to see in Cape Town.”
He left it at that. Wine country seemed like a stupid thing to say after the meeting.
“We’re going to go to Stellenbosch,” Thandi said.
Mpho raised her eyebrows. “Now that’s the real South Africa for you. Beautiful and ugly.”
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The forecast: 21°C and sunny.
After an early mishap in Johannesburg, Thandi still teased Tahir about driving on the left, but he had obviously improved since then, and since his apartment was farther from the vineyards, she had no complaints about him picking her up and driving.
The GPS took him southeast, away from the city center. He drove along Table Mountain National Park and crossed Nelson Mandela Blvd onto the highway. The further he drove, and the closer he got to Thandi’s place, the more surprised he was.
Dry grass dotted with trash and plastic. Squat concrete homes. A row of blue plastic drums. Water? Waste?
The GPS took him off the main road, and he wound his way further into the rag and bone world. He didn’t see many street signs and he couldn’t make out any numbers on the doors, so when he passed a 10x10 concrete square, and his GPS told him he had arrived, he restarted it twice just to be sure.
He couldn’t imagine that the building held more than two rooms and a bathroom. There wasn’t a yard, but it was obvious that someone swept the patch of earth outside the door.
He texted Thandi, and two teenaged girls came out and waved. They were tall and lean like Thandi. When he waved back, they turned to each other and cracked up. Tahir smiled. Minutes later Thandi came out.
He unlocked the door and the cheerful model hopped in. The girls on the steps shouted after her.
“That is my sister and my cousin,” she explained. “They said you’re very cute.”
Tahir laughed his deep laugh, and Thandi shouted something out the window as Tahir turned around.
“Did you have any problems getting here?” she asked as she settled in.
“Not really, the GPS gave me a few wrong turns but not too bad.”
“Is this where you grew up?” he added.
“Yes. This is Khayelitsha. And this is my family’s house.” They both waved to the laughing teenagers.
“Let me show you the new house I am building!” she said. “Would you like to see it?”
“Absolutely,” he responded.
She guided him through the streets of Khayelitsha to an area of newer, larger homes with walled-in yards and signs advertising active alarm systems.
She stopped him next to a two-story home built of freshly painted white brick. A wall surrounded the home and there was a wrought iron fence. She pointed across the street to a second home. It was the same, but with red brick. “That will be for my parents. They will have more space here, but will not be so far from the rest of our family.”
Tahir learned that Thandi, her parents and sisters, shared their current home with her uncle and his family.
She smiled. “My sisters wanted to spend last night in the new house.”
“Did you?”
She shook her head. “Oh no. It’s not finished. There is no alarm yet. So, we were all back in the same room, like we used to be.”
“They are beautiful homes. For some reason, I thought you lived in the City Bowl.”
She laughed and pushed him playfully. “You can’t imagine anyone living in the townships if they could afford somewhere nicer. I have an apartment there too,” she continued, “and it’s nice for late nights or busy workweeks, or when I have friends visiting, but I don’t feel as comfortable there as I do here.”
“Are these new too?” Tahir asked as they turned onto another street full of orange and yellow concrete houses.
“Only a year-old I think,” she said.
These houses were much smaller –the size of Thandi’s family home – and there were more signs of disrepair: missing windowpanes, broken fences. They reminded Tahir of Atgeld Gardens.
“Did the government build them?” Tahir asked.
She nodded. “Right before the presidential election. Thank god we have elections every five years. I can’t imagine waiting ten years for the government to start projects.” She grinned.
Despite the newness of the homes, there was no hiding the poverty, and it was clear that the neighborhood had been forgotten as quickly as the homes had gone up, and as soon as Zuma had won re-election.
Thandi yawned. “Excuse me!”
“Must’ve been the slumber party,” Tahir said.
“Definitely.” She wiped sleep from the corner of her eye. “I forgot what it’s like to all be together in those two rooms. But it was nice. I don’t know when I’ll get to spend much time with them again.”
“When’s your next gig?”
“Right after we finish.” She rattled off a short list of countries across three different continents that she would be visiting for work over the next six weeks. There was a shoot for Vogue Italia, a three-week shoot for a new Australian designer, and her first-ever invitation to New York fashion week.
“When do you leave?”
“Sunday.”
As they reached the outskirts of Khayelitsha, the township grew even sadder. Tiny wooden shacks with tarp doors. A rusting Ford Bronco among the weeds. A bike missing one wheel. And a broken power line hanging so low, a child could grab it.
“This is beautiful,” Tahir said, as they rode across the neatly groomed fields of Waterford Estate, on the second leg of Waterford’s wine safari. October in the Rainbow Nation was mid-spring, so they were still a month away from the start of growing season, but the landscape was remarkable all the same.
Thandi agreed. “I’m glad we came. I’ve never been to this winery before.”
The Land Rover came to a stop and they followed the other passengers out onto a large lawn boxed in by neat hedges and tall trees. There was a spread of local cheeses and Waterford wines for them to sample.
“What did Mpho mean yesterday, when she said that Stellenbosch was ‘the real South Africa’?”
Thandi took a sip of wine. “I think she was referring to Stellenbosch University. All the big masters of apartheid studied or worked there.”
Apartheid, Tahir learned, was not a natural, slow-growing product of cultural conflicts. It was carefully engineered and methodically implemented.
There were, of course, some sentimental motivations for apartheid, and the populist rhetoric of apartheid’s champions, the National Party, definitely played into that sentimentality. Their gospel resonated with the people who grew up on Rudyard Kipling and on promises that the Boers were God’s chosen people.
But there was also a calculated, economic motivation behind apartheid.
By prohibiting blacks from working in the same market as whites, performing services for or doing business with whites, the National Party protected jobs and wealth for whites.
“I never realized that. I’ve always thought about these things developing over time, based on irrational feelings and cultural conflicts.”
“Yes, I understand. Plus it’s uncomfortable to talk and think about that part of history.”
He followed Thandi’s gaze past the edge of the lawn, over the naked fields, and towards the mountains beyond. The neatly organized rows and precisely separated plots were painfully ironic.
“Mpho seems very motivated to make change,” Tahir said.
Thandi nodded. “I think part of it is her family.”
She explained that Mpho’s grandfather had started his own construction company, but under apartheid he wasn’t technically allowed to own a business that provided services to whites. He had enlisted a white friend in serving as the face of the business, even offering 10% of the profits. The laws of supply and demand simply made it impossible for the whites of South Africa, who made up 9% of the population but controlled most of the wealth, to provide all the services they needed to each other, so people like Mpho’s grandfather weren’t uncommon. The business did very well and Mpho’s father inherited it. Business continued to flourish until her grandfather’s friend died. After he passed away, his son took over, and when he felt like the business was no longer profitable, he sold it and collected the money from the sale. So Mpho’s family ended up working for someone else and didn’t get any money from the sale of the business they had started.
“He used their work to build something, then took the money for himself,” Thandi concluded, shaking her head.
Tahir looked at the table of wines selling for R110, on a wine safari that cost R700. It was a bargain for him. He wondered how much of a deal the Waterford was for the seasonal laborers who would arrive in a few months.
She smiled. “I can see you thinking. You have a questioning mind, like Mpho. That is why I wanted you to meet her. You both make me think more.”
Tahir looked at the beautiful model. From everything Thandi said, it sounded like she had all her thoughts in order, so it was reassuring to know she still had questions and doubts of her own.
“How would you feel about stopping by the university?” Tahir asked.
“The University of Stellenbosch?” she said.
“Yes.” He nodded.
“It was carefully engineered and methodically implemented”
With almost 30,000 students, the university was much quieter than they had expected.
DF Malan Memorial Centre. Since the architects of apartheid came from Stellenbosch, it was no surprise that the architecture was named after them.
Inside, Tahir and Thandi noticed trophies in glass cases and a plaque celebrating a major donor, but nowhere was there a display or even a description of Malan and his contributions to South African society.
“Can you believe that they graduate black students here?” Thandi asked.
Tahir looked around the arena.
Revulsion. Then Relief.
As disgusted as he was, for the first time since the meeting the day before, he felt his shoulders relax and the tension leave his neck. He could breathe easier knowing that apartheid came from a specific place. Places were easy enough to take down.
They left the building and walked towards a busy central plaza. Here were the students. They passed a student with a sandy blond ponytail handing out neon fliers left and right. Tahir reached out for one, and the young woman stared at him.
“May I have one?” he asked.
“Yes yes,” she said in heavily accented English, quickly handing him a pink 8x11. She studied Thandi and Tahir as they walked away.
“Can you understand what it says?” he looked at Thandi, and saw that she was looking back at the girl.
She turned to Tahir and studied the flier. “It’s in Afrikaans. I think it says, ‘Keep Afrikaans.’”
Tahir turned over the flier. Nothing on the back.
“That is the main language for classes and activities at this university,” Thandi explained. Mpho told me that there is a new group of students who are challenging it.”
“Because it’s a barrier?”
“Yes, there is that. Practically, it is unhelpful to have to learn Afrikaans in a world that speaks English. But more than that, it’s about decolonizing education. Afrikaans is the language of the colonizers. It’s not a language of the South African people – Xhosa, Zulus, Koisan.”
“Have you heard of the Soweto Uprising?” she asked.
“Yes,” Tahir replied, although he was embarrassed to admit he didn’t remember much about it other than the fact that it was a protest against apartheid that took place in the 1970s.
“Those students were protesting Afrikaans in public schools. It was during apartheid that the government made it mandatory in public schools.”
Tahir looked once more at the flier and turned around, but by now they were too far to see the girl with the sandy blond hair.
A guide like Thandi was priceless for a first-time visitor to South Africa. The entire country was a monstrous physical beauty with an equally monstrous history that could swallow an inquisitive traveler whole.
Tahir looked back at Thandi, but before he could thank her, she thanked him.
“It was a great suggestion to come here,” she said. “It opened my eyes.”
They spent the afternoon visiting more vineyards and tasting more wines.
Snap snap.
Tahir was also taking more pictures. After learning about the unusual, strangely uncomfortable language battle at the university, he reminded himself what a unique country South Africa was.
The magnificent Stellenbosch Mountains rose in the distance.
Snap snap.
Even in miniature, on the screen of Tahir’s digital camera, the massive mountains towering over boutique vineyards made human notions of power seem laughable.
Afternoon passed into evening and the temperature dropped, but they couldn’t help feeling good and warm thanks to the wine.
At Asana Wine Estates, Tahir discovered a tempting four-course dinner for the price of a few drinks back in London. They decided they would leave after soaking up some of the alcohol in their systems, but with dinner came wine pairings, more laughs and more enjoyable conversation.
“Oh, this has been so relaxing,” Thandi said while they waited for the check. “I could stay here for another day.” She stretched her arms. “What time is the shoot tomorrow?”
“I think it starts around 2?” Tahir replied.
They sipped a local brandy under heat lamps on the stone patio. Tahir looked up at a sky more full of stars than anything he’d seen in London.
“Let’s stay the night.” he suggested.
The next morning, Thandi took advantage of the time away from her family’s crowded house to sleep in, but Tahir had adjusted to the early hours, so he hopped downstairs for a few shots of the vineyard at dawn.
Snap snap.
“You’re up early!” someone said behind him. He turned around. A young man with fair skin and curly hair, dressed in khaki slacks and a blue button down.
“Good morning. I didn’t mean to startle you,” the man said. His Afrikaner accent was very faint – different from what Tahir had grown used to working alongside the South African crewmembers.
“Good morning!” Tahir replied. “I didn’t want to miss this sunrise.”
The man smiled. “That’s a nice camera.”
“I’m a photographer,” Tahir replied.
“From the U.S. I can tell.”
“London right now, but the U.S. originally, yes.”
Tahir learned that the young man was the night manager for the estate. He asked if Tahir would be interested in shooting some promotional photos. Tahir gave him a card, but advised him that he would be leaving soon. They talked about Tahir’s work and travels throughout South Africa.
“How do you like your boys here?”
“My boys?” Tahir cocked his head back, then tried to fix his poker face. He hadn’t heard “you people,” “those people,” or the slightly more subtle “they” in months.
“I don’t know what you mean,” he finally replied.
“Different here, huh?” the man asked. He wiped his forehead and put his hands on his hips.
“Jan!” Someone called from inside.
The young man raised a hand good bye. “Enjoy your visit!” he said.
Tahir turned back to the landscape. Snap snap. Snap snap snap snap snap snap snap.
Rows and rows divided. Asana wasn’t even that old. The vineyard and the long, divided lines of grapes had been planted less than 15 years ago, 10 years into a new, rainbow nation.
“The...divided lines of grapes had been planted less than 15 years ago, 10 years into a new, rainbow nation”
“Are you sure you know where you’re going?” Thandi asked as they got onto the highway.
“Yes. Thanks Siri, but I have a real GPS.” Tahir pointed to the moving map on his phone.
Thandi’s head had been drooping at regular intervals ever since they got in the car. She was exhausted, so without asking for any more assurance, she laid back her seat and closed her eyes.
Flat plains. Mountains in in the far distance. The open road.
A white sign with fancy stick figures in the colors of the South African flag announced that they were entering an “urban renewal zone.”
Good music. Great wine. He looked at Thandi sleeping. Great company. South Africa was alright.
Suddenly, he swerved to avoid a bike lying in the middle of the road. He slammed on the brakes and brought the car to a screeching halt. For a moment, he panicked and wondered if he had hit someone.
He opened the door.
No, he hadn’t hit anyone, but the bike was in bad shape. It was a mere fragment of the frame – no wheels, no seat, and only one handle bar. As he got out to move it, someone grabbed his arm.
“Get back in!” Thandi yelled, pulling him by the wrist. He looked behind him and saw two men running towards him.
He jumped back in and floored the gas pedal just as the bigger of the two men reached the hatchback and slammed his fist on the rear window. In the side mirror, Tahir could see the other man pull something out of his pocket.
“Are you okay?” he asked Thandi. She was wide-awake now, taking deep breaths and staring ahead.
“Yes. I am. Are you okay? Why did you get out of the car?!”
“There was a bike in the road,” he replied, but even as he said it, he realized his mistake.
Thandi looked up at him and sighed. “They put that there on purpose. So, drivers will stop and get out. You’ve got to understand how desperate people are.”
They drove in near silence, nothing but a mid-morning talk show playing in the background.
“I’m sorry, Thandi.”
Thandi reached for his hand, while looking out the window. “Me too.”
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When Tahir arrived at Asoka, Thandi and Mpho were sitting in an L-shaped section of wall bench, around a wicker table with a glass top.
The lounge on Kloof Street combined a garden party, a Tibetan monastery, and a South Asian living room, in the best way possible. Colorful cocktails and the steady beat of Black Coffee’s African electronica. Hanging lanterns. The lounge was dressed in warm shades of red, orange, and brown. Exposed brick. Wicker chairs and satiny throw pillows lining padded wall benches. Candles and tiger lilies at every table. In the center, string lights coiled around a massive tree that branched out from the ground, each of its four trunks rising into the low rafters.
Thandi stood and gave him a hug. Mpho did the same.
“Mpho! Hello!” Tahir said.
“Hi Tahir! I hope you don’t mind that I’m joining you.”
“No, it’s good to see you. We didn’t get to talk much the other night.”
Tahir hadn’t noticed before, but Mpho looked as much like a model as the professionals he spent all day photographing. Like Thandi, she had huge brown eyes and high cheekbones. It seemed like beautiful people were the only kind of people who belonged in this landscape. The entire country could be a UNESCO world heritage site.
As it turned out, Mpho had been recruited for modeling at the same time as Thandi. Tahir learned that the young women had been friends since childhood, growing up just blocks from each other. When they were 16, they went to the City Bowl to visit McDonald’s for the first time, and a talent recruit spotted them. The girls had been excited about the opportunity, but by the time they got back to Khayelitsha, Mpho was having doubts. When the talent recruits called up, Thandi went, but Mpho sent an excited classmate in her place.
“What changed your mind?” Tahir asked.
“I was young and wanted to have an impact on the world. I didn’t think critically about the opportunity. I figured it would just take time away from making social change in South Africa, and that I would become part of the capitalist economic machine that is hurting blacks so much. Now watching Thandi, I realize that maybe that was a mistake. I think modeling can be a great way to bring about social change. After all, it makes black beauty visible to the world. Thandiwe was smarter than me. That’s why she has to keep going!”
“I wish I could say I was thinking that way,” Thandi said, “but I just wanted to get out and see the world. And I wanted money for my family. But now I hope that what I’m doing is making a difference.”
“It is,” her friend reassured her. “Just keep doing it.”
“You think very critically about social justice, Mpho,” Tahir said. “What are you studying?”
The twenty-three-year-old was studying history and economics, he learned.
“I finish this year. I would like to get my PhD, but I will stop and do some work first. It’s a luxury, getting this far in university, and I don’t feel like I can keep going farther without making sure other people can have that chance too.
“How was Stellenbosch?” she asked, quickly changing the subject. But Tahir was still thinking about everything she had said. It made sense.
“It was beautiful,” Thandi replied.
“It was,” Tahir agreed. “But it was ugly too. I understand what you mean now.”
Mpho grimaced. “Sometimes I find it easier to think about all the inequality coming from one place or one person – like the devil. Of course, I know that that is not how it really works, but I use the idea of one place or one university as a tool to feel stronger and more confident about making change.”
As they were leaving, Mpho got a text.
“They did it!” she said. “At Wits! The administration agreed not to raise fees!”
“That’s wonderful,” Thandi said.
“Incredible!” Tahir added.
Mpho beamed. “Wonderful, wonderful news.” She turned to Tahir. “We have a protest here too. Happening on Monday. They want to raise fees just as much here, but we will not let it happen. I know Thandi will be gone, but if you are here, you should come!”’
“I might do that.”
Mpho and Thandi hugged. “Sharp sharp! Travel safe!” Mpho said, “And hopefully I’ll see you on Monday, Tahir!”
“Un-fucking-believable!” Tahir said, wiping sweat with his shirt. “How many times have you done this?”
“I try to come at least once a month. It’s not only great exercise but this is my place of peace.”
Thandi was leaving that afternoon and had invited Tahir on a run up Lion’s Head.
“Wow, once a month? I salute you!” He wiped his face.
“100% Xhosa strong.” She held her arms up and flexed her muscles.
He stood up and took in the view. “And, yes I can understand why this would be your place of peace. ‘Breathtaking’ doesn’t do it justice.”
She smiled and shook her head.
“The Dutch weren’t bullshitting. They wanted all the crown jewels, huh?”
“For sure.”
Looking over the Sea Point area, they had a clear view of Robben Island.
“So that’s where Mandela was?”
Thandi nodded. “For many years, yes.”
They talked about the protest at Wits and what they had learned at Mpho’s meeting.
“Honestly,” Tahir said, “most of it was new to me. You know in the U.S. we hold Mandela up as a great figure and champion of human rights.”
“Madiba did some very good things,” Thandi said. She sat down on a rock. “Here too we celebrate him as a hero. And I could be wrong, but I think he is part of the reason why the ANC has been in power for so long. That was his party. Anyway, after so many conversations with Mpho, I now think he could’ve done better. I agree that he probably was too compromising with the white leaders. But I think 27 years in prison would weaken anyone and make them more open to compromise.”
They sat and stared out over the water.
“You have been a helluva tour guide Thandiwe. My human Google,” he squeezed her hand and raised it up.
“Your human Google,” she repeated. “I hope that if you are back in South Africa you will look me up,” she said.
He smiled. “Of course. But first, you will probably be in London, walking at Fashion Week, and I hope you will look me up.”
She smiled.
After some water, fruit, and cashews, Thandi said it was time to go.
“Of course, I left packing until the very last minute,” she said. She put her head in her hand and shook her head. “When will I learn?”
Light poured through the windows of Tahir’s apartment like fresh pressed orange juice filling a glass. The studio: black and white with sunny citrus accents. It was reminiscent of the catalogue they’d just finished. If you took out the cheery sunshine, it was also reminiscent of South Africa’s social situation.
After showering, Tahir made himself a sandwich and sat down on the couch. He pulled out his laptop and looked through the photos on his computer. He had pictures from sunrises across South Africa, and for a while he had been thinking about putting together a show. He would call Vince about it later. At that moment, thinking about the born frees and the movements sweeping the country, he realized there was another dawn he needed to capture.
He hadn’t heard from a Zola in a while. He started a new email, and included a link to the protests. #FeesMustFall. Already it was trending on Twitter and Facebook.
His phone vibrated.
“Hello?” He picked it up without looking.
“Hey.”
He finished the last sentence of the email.
“Tahir? Are you there?”
“Vince?”
“Your caller ID broke? Who else did you think it was?” There was a smile in Vince’s voice.
“Sorry man, I was typing something.”
“It’s alright. I wanted to run a new assignment by you. Superdry needs a photographer for two weeks – but it’ll all be in London.”
“Another catalogue?”
“Not exactly. It’s for their website, and it’s just until the next big project.”
Tahir rubbed his face. “I can’t do it.”
“You’ll get to spend some more time with models,” Vince said. “Don’t tell me you’re not enjoying yourself down there?”
Tahir snorted, “Yeah, I’m enjoying myself. But I don’t want to do any more catalogues or ads. That’s not why I got into this.”
Tahir leaned back on the couch and clicked on the news. It was his first time turning on a TV since arriving in Cape Town.
“I know, I know,” Vince said. “But everyone does small gigs once in a while, especially while you’re building up your name and reputation in a certain niche.”
“My niche can’t be catalogues Vince.”
The newscasters were back after a commercial break and the first story was about the protests at Wits the day before.
“Do you ever think about how much money we pour into stuff like this?” he asked his friend and agent.
“Stuff like what?”
“Fashion. Products. Stuff we don’t need…?” Tahir’s voice trailed off. He was distracted by the protest footage.
“You alright ?”
Vince repeated himself. “Tahir!”
“Sorry, say that again Vince?” Tahir said. “I didn’t hear you.”
“I said, are you alright?”
“Yeah. I just can’t do any more commercial shoots. Who am I helping?”
“You’re helping yourself. You don’t get paid to apply to jobs, you know that, right?”
“I know. Have you heard about the protests going on here?”
“No.”
“They’re protesting a hike in tuition at the public universities.”
“Ok...”
“There’s a protest tomorrow. I think I’m going to go.”
“Don’t do anything stupid Tahir. Protesting in South Africa sounds like the start of a bad story. I gotta go, but be safe okay?”
“I will, don’t worry. And check Facebook, I sent you a link!”
He hung up the phone and turned his attention to the TV.
Lines of students holding hands.
Bright signs made with scrap cardboard: #FeesMustFall
Tee shirts with raised fists.
Brightly colored doeks.
Labels like “hooligans” and “thugs.”
“What are your thoughts about the activities on campus?” the newscaster asked one student: “I just find all of this really inconsiderate when we have come here to learn.” The student’s big blue eyes were magnified behind chunky Ray Bans. “It’s exam period.”
A skinny, brown-eyed student wearing a polo that looked one size too big provided a different opinion. “The fees are just one part of the systemic racism in our society, but I am hopeful that if we can have a conversation about fees, we can start having more conversations about the rest of the system. A journey of a thousand kilometers starts with one step!”
“Protesting in South Africa sounds like the start of a bad story”
When Tahir arrived at UCT on Monday, the demonstrations were already well underway. Snap. He didn’t see anyone he recognized from the LSC meeting, but there were hundreds of people. More than he had seen on TV at Wits, and more than he ever would have expected.
Snap.
To keep cars and people from passing through, the protesters put up cones, small bricks, and one uprooted stop sign, but the focus was the human barricade. And really that spoke to the situation of South Africa’s blacks. They didn’t have the material resources, but they had the numbers.
Snap.
The acting chancellor and two other administrators, attempting to leave, were now stuck in the sun, surrounded by the protesting students, unable to go anywhere until they responded to the students’ questions.
Snap.
News cameras all around.
Other students arrived. Students who didn’t have to worry about tuition hikes. Some were curious. Others were annoyed. Quite a few were scared. Some joined. Most turned away.
Unwilling to settle for the three administrators, students began marching towards the administrative building.
Snap snap.
At the administrative Bremner Building, more students came out from inside to join the human barricade. Mpho was among them.
Snap snap.
Mpho stood at the entrance to the building and called to the crowd. A call and response. Tahir moved closer to get a better picture.
Snap snap.
Two students carried a big white banner on two poles: #FeesMustFall.
Everywhere cardboard signs – some proclaiming #FeesMustFall, others with different powerful words:
Educate Your Children
Snap.
Sorry for the Inconvenience. We’re trying to change the world.
Snap.
Max Price for Black Lives?
“Sorry for the inconvenience. We’re trying to change the world”
Tahir stared at that one. He was still staring when he got swept along in the crowd. He tried to get a picture of it at the last minute. Snap!
Police arrived.
The students stood, hands raised in the hair, locked at the wrists. Convicts without a crime.
Snap snap.
Speaking through a megaphone, the police told the students to step away from the building.
The students remained standing where they were.
Another call to disperse.
But Mpho and the others remained in place. Their chanting grew louder. Tahir joined.
Daylight started to fade, and in the dark, it was easier to lay blame.
A scream from the opposite end of the line Tahir was standing in. A student was on the ground, and an officer was standing over her.
A sudden bang and a flash of light. More screaming as students started to run. Tahir ran too.
Suddenly he felt a blunted blow in his back. He fell to the ground. Hand shaking, he reached around, but couldn’t feel any blood.
He tried to get up, when he felt a foot in his spine.
“Fuck!”
A police officer twisted his arm as he pulled him up and pushed him into the transporter. It was packed inside. Like a cargo ship or a cattle trailer.
Outside, protesters banged rhythmically on the transporter, gathering in front of it, forming a new human barricade. Tahir couldn’t see them, but he could hear them, and he could hear the angry police officers.
Another bang, and a bright flash. Protesters running from the transporter.
“What was that?” Tahir asked.
“Stun grenade,” the man next to him said.
The transporter rattled across the campus, onto Rhodes Drive, until eventually it got to Rondebosch Police Station.
Nelson Mandela had once been held at Rondebosch. Tahir didn’t say it aloud to any of the officers, but he decided that when the country’s biggest export had been in prison for 27 years, maybe getting arrested was the best way to experience the country.
In Rondebosch, Tahir learned that he had been hit by a rubber bullet. He learned that there were over 200 people at the protest. He learned that the protesters from UCT had followed them to the police station and were waiting for them outside.
He also learned that a boy named Jama would have to leave school before taking his exams because he had run out of money. He would have to work for a year or possibly two if they raised fees. Then he would have to start the whole year over again when he had enough money. He learned that a girl named Justice had a twin sister at UCT, and now their family would only be able to pay for one of them to go to school. Over 12 hours, he learned the stories of the other men and women with him. There were 23 of them in all. All with similar stories.
“Tahir Reed!” An officer yelled. Tahir raised his head and the officer called him up, out of the crowded holding cell.”
“Your employer called us. Sorry for the mix up. We didn’t know you weren’t a student.”
They returned Tahir’s camera and cell phone, and sent him out without another word.
He already knew that education had a price, but after 13 hours at Rondebosch, Tahir learned that in the twenty-first century, you could still buy and sell freedom.