NDUMISO NGCOBO | In awe of human decency in the shady part of Boksburg

The barber who trims my increasingly scant hair operates out of a shady part of Boksburg North. For those of you who giggled at “shady part of Boksburg”, all I have to say is, “Respect Boksburg, because it’s a cool place.” Let me explain.

I found parking in the shady part of Boksburg next to a Toyota Corolla with umqhele hanging from its rearview mirror. Umqhele is the goatskin headband Zulu men don at “traditional” ceremonies, usually with a leopard-print T-shirt and multicoloured mineworker trousers. I must admit that loud declarations of “Zuluness” in cars annoys me, as do the “100% Venda” or “100% Tsonga” signs some folks stick on their vehicles.

In any case, as I walked from my jalopy to the barbershop, I heard a voice coming from the mqhele-adorned Corolla saying, “We nduna, akukho nje okukhohlwayo la?” (Chief, are you not forgetting something?) I turned around and immediately saw my car keys hanging in the driver’s door lock. The horror! After thanking him profusely, I went on my way. Did I not give him even a token of my gratitude? Unfortunately, at the time I had just R100 in my pocket for my haircut.

However, after my trim, I drew cash and headed to my parking place, hoping the Corolla was still there. It was, but the driver had vanished. So I folded a R200 note and pushed it into the slit between the driver’s door and the body of the car. I also left a note on the windscreen that read, ‘My brother, thank you ever so much for saving me from so much potential misery.’

I am grateful for the reminder I was given in Boksburg. In spite of everything that’s wrong, there are millions of honest, decent, hard-working South Africans who want nothing more than simply to get on with their lives, improve their lot, and love their neighbours as they love themselves — to borrow the words of a carpenter’s son from Nazareth 2,000 years ago.

However, as I was driving off, I spotted the fellow returning to his car. He read the note, frowned and opened his door — whereupon the note fell to the ground. So I reversed, got out of my skedonk, explained that I didn’t have cash earlier, and then began sincerely thanking him once again. He immediately tried to press the cash into my hand, saying he hadn’t been angling for a reward.

I gently pushed his hand away and reminded him that, without his help, I would probably have returned to an empty parking bay. He insisted even more vociferously that it didn’t feel right to take the money, because he was just doing his civic duty. I then pointed out to him that he didn’t need to keep the money for himself. He could, for example, buy his kids some ice cream or give the cash to a person in need. This advice seemed to satisfy him, and he then shook my hand, got into his car and drove off.

In the aftermath of this exchange, I feel ashamed I judged this person on the basis of a mere cultural artefact in his car, and I am in awe of his sheer humanity. The average South African man would have simply called a mate and driven off with my car. The Corolla driver’s reluctance to accept even a small token of my appreciation for the great harm he had helped to prevent left me with so many questions. His words are still ringing in my head. He had said at the time, “Asikho isidingo sokukhokhela umuntu uma enza ubuntu” (There is no need to reward a human being for being human). His words are a more profound version of the “it is not necessary to reward fish for swimming” idiom.

We are bombarded with depressing news all the time. Stories of crime, corruption and malfeasance in public office abound in our land, and it’s so easy to become despondent.

I am grateful for the reminder I was given in Boksburg. In spite of everything that’s wrong, there are millions of honest, decent, hard-working South Africans who want nothing more than simply to get on with their lives, improve their lot, and love their neighbours as they love themselves — to borrow the words of a carpenter’s son from Nazareth 2,000 years ago.

As for me, I hope I will learn to drop my Judge Judy ways when it comes to people I know nothing about. Maybe the next time you see me I will be wearing my umqhele and a leopard-print vest, enjoying ox tripe and dumpling on a plank at the Mai Mai meat market.