Welcome to the oil-soiled field where men toil daily for bread. It’s a Monday morning, and I am greeted by a dusty and unevenly tarred entrance with three boards with handwritten signs hanging unevenly; “Live-chickens for sale”, “Musa the panel beater”, and “Scrap metal buyer”. The space is littered with rocks, noise, stench, scraps and spills — varying trash marks this area – a void expanse in the heart of Kempton Park’s aerotropolis.
Three makeshift shelters stand side by side, shedding the November scorching solar heat; one for the automobile repairers, the other for a scrap metal collector. A separate rusty, shaky shack made with aluminium sheets stands 90 degrees off the land; this is the makeshift kitchen for the farm-raised chicken seller. Bricks, car bumpers and car foot mats keep the roofing sheets of the roughly built structure in position.
The diversity of workers at this Kempton Park workshop is an unconscious mix of middle-aged West African men hacking out a living in South Africa. The scrap metal collector is a short, bull-necked, beefy man with muscular shoulders and a hardened face. He hails from francophone Cameroon. He is known as The boss. The chicken-seller is about 6 feet tall, slim and graceful. Mostly sighted with sagging pants and flip-flops. He hails from the Republic of Benin. Two partners, both from the Yoruba tribe of Nigeria, take up the middle shelter – a lanky panelbeater from Lagos mainland and a slightly built, talkative mechanic trained in Ibadan. I observe a visibly respectful division of the workspace.
Rusty brown strands of old iron with equal margins and pointed stakes make up the borderline. It marks a quarter of the perimeter of the yard. At the same time, the last bit of the brick-walled demarcation is bordered by a house cum mini supermarket, also locally referred to as a spaza shop – an easy reach for cold drinks, fruits, cigarettes or snacks. This shop is operated by a Pakistani.
You first notice vehicles and stacks of metal scraps in the yard. The vehicles are orderly arranged in order of collection possibilities! Except for cars currently undergoing repairs, most of the lined vehicles are awaiting spare parts or outstanding repair costs from owners. Sometimes, some owners are at large, and vehicles are abandoned. In some cases, the mechanic is awaiting inspiration for repairs!
Homeless kids play a role in the yard. They are the extra hands by day and watchmen by night. With rolled-up windows and intentionally unlocked doors, each child possesses a vehicle of his choice as a shelter at night. It is a case of using a cat to secure a dry fish.
Around 08hr30, a white open-boot bakkie stops by to offload live chickens. The kitchen for the farm-raised chickens houses four sets of thin, wired, three-row cages filled with live chickens. White helpless and tired-looking chickens with peeling feathers crow gently as they await the slaughter’s knife. A detached old, wooden side bed furniture elevates the two-phased burner cooker, which sits two large stainless steel pots. Buckets, jerry cans and a side table take position. The uneven cemented floor is the slaughter ground. The bird screams and jacks for a few minutes, and it is gone in a jiffy. The chicken makes barbeque delicacies for beer-loving night crawlers at a nearby beer parlour, otherwise called a tavern.
The grind also starts early at the Cameroonian section. The scrap collector and his two support staff, Emeka – a lotto-loving Igbo man from Nigeria and a hard-faced, never smiling Malawian. The boss arrived at 6 am in a green overall jacket and black pants laced with reflectors. A sky-blue head warmer shields his head from the cold. A black, thick sole and hard grip rubber snickers support his bullish figure. Hand-woven white plastic sacks are filled with empty 500ml metallic can bottles. Non-metallic cans are in separate plastic sacks, while old office white papers are piled carefully and cautiously into separate paper cartons. By 12 noon, 11 fully filled high-rise plastic sacks stand 8 feet above ground. Thereafter, space-conscious loading commences on a standby bakkie (pick-up).
At around 08hr45, two men push in a blue Honda Accord sedan. The car’s owner, a South African and a Nigerian auto-electrician, have pushed the car from 3 kilometres away. The fan belt of the 1986 Honda Accord with a 1.6-litre engine has been broken. In less than 20 minutes, the panelbeater and the auto mechanic casually walk in. Decked in nubuck Timberland boots, a Tommy Hilfiger sweatshirt and cream chinos, the mechanic gently undresses to switch to his oil-stained dark blue overall. Four of the many friends of the auto repairer have also arrived and are busy devouring breakfast from a black plastic bag filled with vetkoek, pronounced as fet cook, which literally means fat cake. It is also locally called Magwinya, a sweetened brown-coated dough similar to what we call Puff Puff in Nigeria. Breakfast is shared. A very loud conversation from the crew commences. More storytellers arrive. Noisemakers or newsmakers? You judge! Everyone has an opinion. Awaiting car owners also join in the talk or listen to the chat. You can’t ignore their discussion. While the jists go on, several petty traders show up. Peanut sellers with flat trays neatly balanced on young Mozambican female heads – they cry for patronage. Rice and stew with assorted meat and optional fried plantain, eggs, spaghetti and pots of beans are pushed in with trolleys; Akara (bean cake) and Agege bread sellers also stop by. Work at all three outfits in one space continues while music from an accident-damaged car blares the latest Nigerian hip-hop hits.
As the day gently ages, the sound of life lightens the atmosphere. Nearby trees whisper ocean current-like sounds as the early morning cold breeze beats against my body frame. The cries of engines are heard as they arrive and leave the stop sign. Sun rays gently ease out the cold breeze effect. Gentle but repeated chirps from the numerous small birds serve as nature’s background music in this busy environment. Skinny cats and fat rats race endlessly in full view. Life is indeed a hustle amid chaos. Welcome to the work chop!
