It’s a chilly July morning in the city of gold. The heater in the car is on but outside the grass is weathered by black frost; and though the sky is blue, the air is frighteningly cold. It’s the kind of cold that seeps through warm clothing, chilling the bones; and yet the sun shines brightly in the sky.
At 7 am the roads are already congested with vehicles – trucks, lorries, multi-purpose vehicles and passenger cars all crawling on the winding roads, past skyscrapers and over highways. Some people smoke with their windows only slightly open. A woman sings to the song playing over the radio, children shout over the voice of their parents and a man slews his way through a thick ham and cheese sandwich.
As they stop at the red robot, a young boy, probably about nine or ten years old, walks from car to car, his hands cupped open. He is of small frame, as if his body stopped growing many years ago, his skin is scarred, clothes – the many layers – are tattered and torn, and his kinky hair is knotted in dirty little clumps.
Giving Money to the Poor
The robot turns green and the long queue of cars moves on quickly, exhaust smoke billowing in the wind. For only a moment the boy is left alone – perhaps a few copper coins were passed on to him as well as the crust of the leftover ham and cheese sandwich. I arrive at the robot and he peers into my car, dirty nails itching for a part of my life. His eyes, though bloodshot, display a harrowing helplessness.
I pull out a five rand coin and give it to him, and feeling relieved I am now able to listen to my music, enjoy my warmth and my seventeen buck café latte without feeling guilty. I see him everyday on my route to work and each time those sorrowful eyes force me to scratch through my purse to pick out coins, which mean little to me in relation to the notes I carry, but mean a lot to him, as I soon find out that too little means a night without dinner yet again.
Getting to Know the Poor Boy, Bongani
One day I find I am without coins and for a moment it seems insane to give him a note. He is poor, and, while I am not rich, I have food at the end of the day. Guilt-ridden and slightly angry at God-knows-what, I ask him his name. Bongani. It means ‘be thankful’. The irony hits me.
‘How old are you?’ I ask. He is ten. He tells me he is not in school because his mother cannot afford to send him to school. I think it’s because she needs him on the streets. The poor boy asks my name. ‘Jabu,’ I respond and then he asks for money.
Over the next few weeks I learn more about him each day. His family is from Kwazulu Natal and he lives with his mother and grandmother in Hillbrow. He is the sole breadwinner. He cannot go to school because his mother has no money, and all the money he gets each day goes to feeding the three of them. As he wipes a sliver of mucus from his nose, he tells me his mother has promised to send him to school the following year.
The Face of Poverty
I have seen poverty, but I do not know what being poor feels like. My parents have often told me of their own poverty-stricken childhoods – when my grandmother used to sew dresses out of 50 kilogram mealie meal sacks for my mother and her siblings, or when my dad and his brother had to make do with pap and water or, if they were lucky, eggs.
Bongani is only one of millions in
Response to Kevin Carter’s Photograph in
In fact, Kevin Carter waited 20 minutes before taking his historic shot, hoping for the vulture to spread its way and add volume and colour to his photograph. Many people around the world criticized the famed photographer for not helping the toddler. The St. Petersburg Times in Florida said this of Carter: ‘The man adjusting his lens to take just the right frame of her suffering, might just as well be a predator, another vulture on the scene.’
Are we vultures? Predators when we walk on by without doing enough to assist those with visibly less? It seems morally right to hand out coins and leftover food to those less fortunate, but let’s be honest, on your 30-minute journey to work there are at least five Bonganis hoping you will be the one to change their fortune that day.
When Do We Stop Giving?
If you are giving R5 to 5 people a day that is R25 and in a month that is R750. We are constantly bombarded by the poverty that still haunts our country even after 16 years of democracy, and a government that promises a change with the advent of every election. Add to that, your hard-earned money should be budgeted for food, clothes, fuel, rent, your children.
And yet, no matter how you look at it, you will always be one better than a Bongani who limps towards you in a torn t-shirt begging for whatever crumbs you can throw at him. In no way am I saying don’t help anyone who asks for help, but there are questions we should ask. In giving Bongani money every day I am only helping his today. What about his tomorrows? How do I go about ensuring that I uplift him so that he can, one day, take care of himself and his mother?
Helping Those Less Fortunate
The truth is, I do him no favour by making him dependant on me. He has hands, feet, a body and I am certain a very useful mind that if guided well could do more than take him out of his poverty. So often I have thought of approaching his mother to ask her if I could sponsor him while he went to school, but in my own obsession with my own life I have never brooked the idea with him, despite the fact that wherever he sees me, he calls my name out loud, a playful smile on his lips, and careens straight for my car hoping to get fed.
The Philanthropy of Bill Gates
Bill Gates is the richest man in the world but he is also one of the most philanthropic. He has promised to give away half of his massive fortune to uplifting communities and causes all over the world. But I know that wherever you are sitting and wherever I am, there are people who grunt that Bill Gates has the good fortune of giving away his money and still be rich, while our 16-hour days only get us through the month.
Begging on Street Corners
Oh yes, I have seen them. Those people who pretend they cannot see the mother begging on the street, who hurriedly close their windows as a tramp walks close by, who throw, rather disdainfully, soggy sandwiches or who leave their windows open, turn up their music and pick at their noses then flick it at the person begging.
It must be humiliating when you’re forced to stand at the roadside and ask your fellow humans for a helping hand. With the recession, more people than before stand at the robots and ask for our change.
It’s been shocking to see Indians, who are such a close-knit community. It’s been hard to watch whites who had all the privileges before. It’s been angering to watch black women who have one child after another and bring them to the robot and urge their little ones to beg on their behalf. But poverty has no colour. It is what it is.
Let Us Take a Stand Against Poverty
Many people I have spoken to want to help, and they do help in their church organisations or as members of non-profit organisations, but the unending queue of those who beg can be, and often is, heartbreaking, frustrating, annoying and it hardens the heart. Some of those to whom I have spoken feel that some of the poor are given chances and simply pass them on in order to score drugs or live unrestricted lives on the streets.
As with all things, it’s true for a minority but not all. There are some who beg because they make a nice stash to buy glue and food while others genuinely need it to see them through another heart-wrenching day. I will give my money to the many Bonganis out there, and if some lie to me then that is their karma; but if it means I help someone who is in genuine need of my assistance then I will do it.
