Have you ever woken up to hear the wind howling sadistically against your cardboard panes, rattling against your walls; with fear curling through your body, expecting that this night, tonight, your paper thin fortress will finally come falling down around you? Have you ever been awoken by the violent vibrations of your home, as the wind threatens to “huff and puff and blow your house down”? Have you ever?
I say paper-thin because honestly if your fort consists of cardboard boxes, old rusty zinc slates, hammered against brittle wooden pieces collected from the nearby dump site, then yes, your home is paper-thin. The place that you come home too every night, has tiny holes peppered across the zinc walls, your ceiling, which is really the roof, is kept in place by mismatched nails and a few large pumpkins, perhaps even a brick or two, that your neighbour pulled from her garden. This ceiling, covered in black soot which comes pouring out of that old paraffin stove that cooks your food and warms your room every night, is your only protection as rain falls heavily, the noise almost deafening. Then somewhere in the darkness, you ears adjust to the sound of something small falling onto your floor. The sound comes faster, harder and from instinct, and because you’ve done it so many times before, you jump out of the warmth of your blankets, feel for your worn Plascon paint bucket, in its familiar spot and you place it just right, under that little hole in your ceiling, where water comes streaming through.
Climbing back into your bed, you know the worst is yet to come, so you pull your blankets tightly against your body, bracing yourself for impact.
I’m pretty sure that for most people reading this, this is an experience akin to your worst nightmare being realised. Living in a dishevelled shack, in and amongst an entire community of hastily built informal settlements, that can barely withstand small pockets of rain, let alone, the crash of hail stones as the heavens open up to reveal the true force of its glory. As we all sit today, in our quiet, neat offices; the kitchenette with that delicious cup of Jacobs just a few metres away, spare a though for the men, women and children, who woke up to this nightmare, as mother nature decided it was time to wash her floors and cleanse her children of the dirt and grime, they are all too well accustomed too. And if you’re lucky enough to be at home, warm and comfortable, remember that millions of children live in unspeakable conditions, that simple words like “poverty” cannot begin to describe and we, with our middle class concerns, are often simply ill equipped to fully understand.
