THEY live under the name of ANC stalwart Govan Mbeki, but the lives they lead are far from the promised land of milk and honey he fought for.
Instead they wait, in vain, for someone to come and help them with their problems.
In Govan Mbeki township, barefoot children play in stagnant pools of algae and mosquito-infested water, while elsewhere, streams from broken water pipes erode building foundations and flood shacks.
Cement block “RDP” houses, less than 10 years old, are cracked beyond repair, their roofs, on the verge of collapsing, propped up with a few loose timbers.
Linah Moltina is a 65-year-old retired domestic worker and grandmother who has taken it upon herself to try and change the situation.
In a mixture of limited Afrikaans and isiXhosa, she explains how, to no avail, she has been trying to get the municipality to come and sort out the problems for over two years.
“They come here in their fancy cars. They look at the water and say, ‘Yes we must fix this‘, and then they disappear, never to be seen again,” she says, as we walk, slipping and sliding up the hill alongside a stream of fresh water.
Moltina is unperturbed by the mud. She hops along a makeshift boardwalk of planks and old matting with the ease that comes only with time.
The first stop is her house – the source of the river running down the middle of the aptly named Wellington Street. An underground pipe has apparently burst behind her house, the water running now for nearly a year.
“The municipality came here at the beginning of last year and dug up the ground. They saw the burst pipe and said, ‘Yes, we will have to fix this‘.” Moltina says they never came back. After two weeks, she filled the hole with the help of her neighbours, so that her children and grandchildren wouldn‘t fall in and hurt themselves.
She takes me to the back of the house, the source of the problem, and shows me her home‘s main electricity cable, running straight into what has now become an ankle-deep pond.
Though the wire is insulated, she says her lights keep shorting because of the water.
I can‘t help noticing one of her grandchildren sitting in the same pool of water, washing his clothes, unaware of how a tiny sheath of plastic is all that‘s keeping him from being electrocuted.
A little further up the hill, Moltina stops in the backyard of another house, where a depression in the ground behind a recently installed outside toilet has become a stagnant pool of water.
“If you listen you can hear the pipe roaring ... this used to be a fountain of water until we filled the hole,” she says.
Moltina‘s youngest granddaughter, Zanele Majweda, walks with us.
“There are at least eight houses with broken pipes in this area,” she says.
Zanele takes us to Mtimkhulu Street, past RDP houses that are literally falling apart.
Moltina stops and points to some of the houses.
“These toilets are all blocked. If someone needs the toilet,” she points up the hill, “they have to go up there and ask if they can use theirs,” she says.
Past more running streams of water, eroded roads and mud, we find Nelikhaya Nxele, although he prefers to be called China.
The plumbing providing water to his family‘s outside toilet broke three months ago, causing water to flood into a back yard shack.
“No one can use this room anymore, because of the water,” he says as he unlocks the door and shows the waterlogged bedding lying on the floor. The bottom of the shack‘s corrugated walls are rusted through, raising questions about how long it will remain standing.
Our walk back to the car takes us past yet another broken RDP house. The family who lived here have given up the fight – the roof is gone and all that remains are a few bricks marking the outer walls.
“Those who have money have been able to build better houses for themselves, but we who have nothing, get nothing,” says Moltina, when I comment on some of the sounder structures in the area.
Moltina said that before she received her RDP house there had been similar problems in the area.
“We‘ve had problems here since before 1994, but we were always told things are going to get better. I‘m not afraid anymore. People like me are seen as trouble-stirrers and they will want to kill me for talking about our problems. That‘s how they deal with these problems,” she said. - The Herald
Instead they wait, in vain, for someone to come and help them with their problems.
In Govan Mbeki township, barefoot children play in stagnant pools of algae and mosquito-infested water, while elsewhere, streams from broken water pipes erode building foundations and flood shacks.
Cement block “RDP” houses, less than 10 years old, are cracked beyond repair, their roofs, on the verge of collapsing, propped up with a few loose timbers.
Linah Moltina is a 65-year-old retired domestic worker and grandmother who has taken it upon herself to try and change the situation.
In a mixture of limited Afrikaans and isiXhosa, she explains how, to no avail, she has been trying to get the municipality to come and sort out the problems for over two years.
“They come here in their fancy cars. They look at the water and say, ‘Yes we must fix this‘, and then they disappear, never to be seen again,” she says, as we walk, slipping and sliding up the hill alongside a stream of fresh water.
Moltina is unperturbed by the mud. She hops along a makeshift boardwalk of planks and old matting with the ease that comes only with time.
The first stop is her house – the source of the river running down the middle of the aptly named Wellington Street. An underground pipe has apparently burst behind her house, the water running now for nearly a year.
“The municipality came here at the beginning of last year and dug up the ground. They saw the burst pipe and said, ‘Yes, we will have to fix this‘.” Moltina says they never came back. After two weeks, she filled the hole with the help of her neighbours, so that her children and grandchildren wouldn‘t fall in and hurt themselves.
She takes me to the back of the house, the source of the problem, and shows me her home‘s main electricity cable, running straight into what has now become an ankle-deep pond.
Though the wire is insulated, she says her lights keep shorting because of the water.
I can‘t help noticing one of her grandchildren sitting in the same pool of water, washing his clothes, unaware of how a tiny sheath of plastic is all that‘s keeping him from being electrocuted.
A little further up the hill, Moltina stops in the backyard of another house, where a depression in the ground behind a recently installed outside toilet has become a stagnant pool of water.
“If you listen you can hear the pipe roaring ... this used to be a fountain of water until we filled the hole,” she says.
Moltina‘s youngest granddaughter, Zanele Majweda, walks with us.
“There are at least eight houses with broken pipes in this area,” she says.
Zanele takes us to Mtimkhulu Street, past RDP houses that are literally falling apart.
Moltina stops and points to some of the houses.
“These toilets are all blocked. If someone needs the toilet,” she points up the hill, “they have to go up there and ask if they can use theirs,” she says.
Past more running streams of water, eroded roads and mud, we find Nelikhaya Nxele, although he prefers to be called China.
The plumbing providing water to his family‘s outside toilet broke three months ago, causing water to flood into a back yard shack.
“No one can use this room anymore, because of the water,” he says as he unlocks the door and shows the waterlogged bedding lying on the floor. The bottom of the shack‘s corrugated walls are rusted through, raising questions about how long it will remain standing.
Our walk back to the car takes us past yet another broken RDP house. The family who lived here have given up the fight – the roof is gone and all that remains are a few bricks marking the outer walls.
“Those who have money have been able to build better houses for themselves, but we who have nothing, get nothing,” says Moltina, when I comment on some of the sounder structures in the area.
Moltina said that before she received her RDP house there had been similar problems in the area.
“We‘ve had problems here since before 1994, but we were always told things are going to get better. I‘m not afraid anymore. People like me are seen as trouble-stirrers and they will want to kill me for talking about our problems. That‘s how they deal with these problems,” she said. - The Herald