Essays

The wanderings of a lonely sojourner in quiet suburbia

By Tendani Tshauambea

It’s just gone 4pm, with the maddening heat of the Highveld a little more tempered than earlier, I decide that it is as good a time as any to go for a walk around the neighbourhood. Having been cooped up inside the house since I arrived in Joburg three days ago.

As I leave the house through the kitchen door, I emerge onto the driveway, our cul-de-sac to my right (where Nandi from number 4 — opposite and two houses to the right — organised a street braai that one time) , I turn left onto Mount Boreas and immediately pass Mr Khumalo from number 8, diagonally across from our house. He is busy taking in his refuse trolley while speaking animatedly on the phone (no doubt closing a business deal). He nods his head in greeting and I raise my hand, uttering a feeble Unjani Baba as I trod along the street.

At the corner of Mount Boreas and Mount Shovano, I turn left and walk a short distance until reaching the junction between Mount Shovano and Mount Wakely. Turning left onto Mount Wakely at the end of Shovano, I make my way along a street that, in a few houses, characterises the neighbourhood. Sprawling driveways (accessorised with all manner of premium cars), well-manicured lawns, immaculate landscaping. The quiet scene is broken only by the constant chirping of birds in the background (the screaming kids being confined, thankfully, to the many parks dotted around the neighbourhood). The collection of flowers on some of these forecourts would rival any half-serious botanical garden. I turn left onto Mount Augusta Drive, the main road running through the neighbourhood.

On Mount Augusta Drive, I pass all manner of workers: house staff, butlers, horticulturalists, groundsmen (who keep the gardens along Mount Augusta Drive looking immaculate) as well as the army of the (mostly) men in navy blue who ensure that residents can ‘live, learn and play (safely)’, the motto of Midstream Estates, in a sort of ‘separate peace’. Each time before I pass one of these staff members, I agonise over whether or not to greet and whether I do it in IsiZulu, Setswana or Tshivenda sans my former model C school accent, of course. Oftentimes settling on busying myself on my phone. It’s only after noticing a few more people than usual on a stroll through the neighbourhood (and my continued agonising over greeting boUncle and boMama), do I realise it’s knock-off time.

This is confirmed by the hubbub of workers from the many houses walking, cycling and being driven to the gate by their employers or on the neighbourhood minibus (‘donated’ by one of the residents as their own personal form of corporate social investment). This flurry of activity breaking through the faint sound of chirping birds and cacophony of cars going to and fro.

As I walk along this road, I notice a sense of camaraderie, familiarity, perhaps even a sense of community amongst the staff walking past each other and in groups towards the gate. This Which comes across in the greetings, stops for a quick chat, the sharing of a joke or the day’s happenings. As I near the end of my walk by the gate (the end of Mount Augusta Drive) where many of the people I saw end one journey and begin another (the homeward journey by bus, taxi or bicycle, for those fit enough to do so), I realise something. This sense of community I witnessed eludes me. Not by virtue of not partaking but because I do not belong to that group of indispensable sojourners of this community. Instead, I am relegated to continue my wanderings as a lonely sojourner. The collection of flowers on some of these forecourts would rival any half-serious botanical garden. I turn left onto Mount Augusta Drive, the main road running through the neighbourhood.

On Mount Augusta Drive, I pass all manner of workers: house staff, butlers, horticulturalists, groundsmen (who keep the gardens along Mount Augusta Drive looking immaculate) as well as the army of the (mostly) men in navy blue who ensure that residents can ‘live, learn and play (safely)’, the motto of Midstream Estates, in a sort of ‘separate peace’. Each time before I pass one of these staff members, I agonise over whether or not to greet and whether I do it in IsiZulu, Setswana or Tshivenda sans my former model C school accent, of course. Oftentimes settling on busying myself on my phone. It’s only after noticing a few more people than usual on a stroll through the neighbourhood (and my continued agonising over greeting boUncle and boMama), do I realise it’s knock-off time.

This is confirmed by the hubbub of workers from the many houses walking, cycling and being driven to the gate by their employers or on the neighbourhood minibus (‘donated’ by one of the residents as their own personal form of corporate social investment). This flurry of activity breaking through the faint sound of chirping birds and cacophony of cars going to and fro.

As I walk along this road, I notice a sense of camaraderie, familiarity, perhaps even a sense of community amongst the staff walking past each other and in groups towards the gate. This Which comes across in the greetings, stops for a quick chat, the sharing of a joke or the day’s happenings. As I near the end of my walk by the gate (the end of Mount Augusta Drive) where many of the people I saw end one journey and begin another (the homeward journey by bus, taxi or bicycle, for those fit enough to do so), I realise something. This sense of community I witnessed eludes me. Not by virtue of not partaking but because I do not belong to that group of indispensable sojourners of this community. Instead, I am relegated to continue my wanderings as a lonely sojourner.

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