JOHANNESBURG — He had 40 years of experience as a firefighter and inspector, but nothing could have prepared Boet Hamman for what he saw when he entered a complex of dark buildings on Davies Street in downtown Johannesburg that some 600 people illegally called their home. home.
Turning on the lamp on his cell phone, he stepped onto a water-slick concrete floor that led to a hallway where dozens of rooms had been created from a flimsy combination of wood, drywall, and chipboard that could spread a fire in a matter of seconds. .
Climbing some stairs, he found a hallway whose ceiling had a mess of wires for illegal electrical connections.
He and the two men guiding him heard a high-pitched boom that sounded like a cable whipping through the air. The two guides ducked and ran.
Hamman noticed a small flame glowing from one of the wires hanging above.
“See that. And that's how quickly the fire starts,” she said.
Several weeks had passed since 77 people died in a fire in a nearby building in August, at 80 Albert Street, which, like them, was occupied by hundreds of residents who say they could not afford somewhere else.
Now the owners of the dilapidated buildings at numbers 32 to 40 Davies Street had filed an “urgent” application asking a court to evict the possessors within 48 hours. Hamman had been sent to examine the danger.
“Palpably unsuitable for human habitation and totally inhumane,” one of the owners described the property in an affidavit.
A judge has not yet ruled on the request. The owners—some of whom have spent decades in the building—are still there.
“It is my only home and provides me with a dignified existence in the City Center where I would not otherwise have the luxury of existing,” Jabulile Ndebele, 56, a retired domestic worker, wrote in a court affidavit.
Hamman wrote in his report that the building is not suitable for residential use, adding that “the lives of the tenants are in danger if a fire were to occur.”
The arguments presented in court angered Lancy Moabi, a resident of 18 years.
In statement after statement during a hearing the day after Hamman's inspection, Moabi heard that the place he called home really wasn't a home at all.
Moabi, 40, had moved there after being released from jail for violent carjacking. His tiny room is made of chipboard and is decorated with a photograph of him and his two children. His mother and his two brothers live in adjoining rooms.
Moabi was worried that he would have nowhere to go if he was ordered to leave. Having become a community leader whom everyone calls “Skim,” slang for friend, he gathered dozens of neighbors outside their buildings the night after the hearing.
“Whoever says that we should move from where we currently are to be standing in darkness is nothing more than a criminal,” he said.
He raised his voice, and the residents shouted in agreement.
The next morning, police officers stepped out of an unmarked sedan and demanded that Moabi and about a dozen men place their hands against the wall. An officer grabbed Godfrey Majola, a resident repairing a car, and pushed him.
Within minutes, officers searched them and then sped off.
Moabi did everything he could to maintain his dignity. That afternoon, he spent several hours painting the entrance to his building.
When Vinolia Ngwenya, the mother of his children, stopped by that night, Moabi showed off his work with a proud smile.
“What's the point of painting the whole place when you're leaving?” Ngwenya asked, assuming the judge would evict the residents.
“No one is going to leave,” Moabi assured. “But you can see I’ve made an effort.”
By: John Eligon
BBC-NEWS-SRC: http://www.nytsyn.com/subscribed/stories/7028074, IMPORTING DATE: 2023-12-13 21:40:08
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