“Umlilo, umlilo, kukho abantwana apho” (fire, fire, there are children in there).
This was the scream that echoed through the locked steel burglar bars of 80 Albert Street at around 1am on Thursday morning as a deadly fire ripped through the derelict multi-story building.
For Mac Makwela, 22, it wasn’t just the piercing cries for help that got his attention; those were drowned out by the cacophony of crackling fire and shattering glass.
“The sound was terrifying because you are hearing the fire, it’s engulfing the building. The cracking of windows, the DStv decoders were also exploding, then you also hear people jumping from the roof to the floor because the first guy who jumped from the other side, I can say it was a free fall, he landed on his head, I don’t think he made it,” Makwela said.
The young businessman lives in the corner unit at Elangeni House, the block of flats directly opposite the now burnt building. It was after midnight and there was a power outage. Makwela recalls taking a bath at around 12.30am and getting ready to sleep.
The only light was a flickering red and orange coming from the Albert Street building. Describing it as a small fire at first, Makwela, whose cellphone battery was on 15%, instinctively grabbed his power bank and called 10111. His first call was made at 1:22am. That call lasted two minutes 34 seconds. He called again at 1:25am and it lasted one- minute 40 seconds.
He was given a reference number and then called for an ambulance at 1:27am and again 1:31am.
“I watched the fire move from one side of the building to the other. I was saddened more than scared. There was a moment when I thought the fire would move from that building to my building, because from my bedroom window you could feel the heat from the fire,” Makwela said.
By the time the ambulance and fire services arrived the blaze had ravaged a significant part of the building, which was home to about 200 families. The fire, said to be the worst in South Africa's history, claimed the lives of 76 people, of which at least 12 are believed to be children.
There was a moment when I thought the fire would move from that building to my building, because from my bedroom window you could feel the heat from the fire
— Johannesburg CBD resident, Mac Makwela
A part of South African history was also lost in the inferno. The building was once the central check point for black people. It was the office of the Non-European Department, established in 1954 by the apartheid government to control the movement of Africans. The Central Pass Office, as it was called, is where “the dompas” was issued. Years later, in 1994 the building on the corner of Albert and Delvers streets in Marshalltown, in the Johannesburg CBD, was turned into a hostel for women and children.
Owned by the City of Johannesburg, the building was leased to the Usindiso Women’s Shelter, an NGO that provided a safe haven for mothers and their offspring who had survived domestic violence. The NGO operated for a little over a decade, offering women counselling and assisting them with drafting CVs, job applications and skills development.
When the lease expired, like many other buildings in the dilapidated business district, it was illegally occupied. This is one of hundreds of “hijacked” buildings in the inner city, which is run by organised crime syndicates who demand rent from tenants. Rent ranges from R600 to R2,000. Like most of these hijacked buildings, the Albert Street building became an overcrowded informal settlement with flammable materials such as cardboard and sheets used to subdivide living quarters into small rooms.
With little to no maintenance carried out on the building, residents relied on illegal electricity connections, gas stoves, paraffin lamps and candles. The lack of fire extinguishers also made this building a deadly fire trap.
August 31 is a night Makwela will never forget — from the screams of people trying to escape, to the thud of bodies hitting the pavement.
“At first people ran out like crazy. That was before the fire spread to the exit staircases but then at some point it seemed like it was just easier for people to jump out of the windows. They were screaming. You could tell they were trying to wake the people sleeping in the other units. They were battling to fight the fire. We didn’t sleep, we tried to go to bed at 5am. There was a lot of noise, the fire trucks were here, there were generators, they had to cut down the bars in the building, so we couldn’t sleep,” Makwela said.
One of the thuds Makwela heard hitting the pavement was Evans, a 25-year-old Malawian who moved into the building in 2021.
We met Evans on Friday, a day after the blaze. The smell of smoke still permeated the air, barbed wire encircled the building and blood stains were still visible on the pavement.
Inside the main entrance, cables from the illegal connections were dangling from the ceiling, soot covered the walls as the K9 search and rescue unit entered the building, navigating their way around the crushed steel bars from the staircase and burglar bars.
Evans fiddled with his hands, avoiding eye contact and struggling to speak. He was still traumatised.
Pointing to the broken window on the third floor, he described how he escaped the fire.
“My room is on the opposite side of where the fire started. That’s how I was able to get out because the fire started on the other side. There was too much smoke. I started breaking the windows to get out. I used the blankets,” Evans said.
He shared a room with three others, who all made it out alive. Flanked by two friends, also from Malawi, Evans stood on the opposite side of the road, next to droplets of blood. The spaza shop assistant leant against the wall, looking forlorn as he listed everything he lost.
My room is on the opposite side of where the fire started. That’s how I was able to get out because the fire started on the other side. There was too much smoke. I started breaking the windows to get out. I used the blankets
— Evans
“It was very difficult. I lost my mind because I didn’t know what was happening. I was too much scared because I almost died. Now I’m staying with my friend. I lost everything. I am not OK. I only have these clothes and they are not even mine; I borrowed them. I don’t have any clothes. I worked so hard and now I have nothing. I had a TV, my bed, blankets, it’s all gone. I have to start again and I don’t know how I’m going to do that,” Evans said.
With a similar hopelessness in their eyes, some 50 residents sit on the side of the road while a social worker takes their names, to place them in one of the three allocated temporary shelters.
But this is little solace for Evans, who has been taken in by a friend.
“Before this people always ask if there’s a fire what’s the first thing you’ll grab, but for me there was no time to take anything. When you are running, about to die, there’s no time to think about anything else but your life. I saw so many people dying. Some died while jumping. I have nothing, I keep my money with me and I lost over R2,000 in cash. It was all the money I had. I was supposed to pay this month’s rent,” Evans said.
The only life at the Albert Street building was a single yellow bird trying to weave a nest on the branches of a burnt tree.
I saw so many people dying. Some died while jumping.
Shoes, used nyaope needles and shattered glass lay scattered around. From several windowsills dangled soiled linen and blankets, used by some residents as makeshift ropes to escape the blaze. As the cloths blew in the wind, they brought the whiff of Joburg inner city’s unique fragrance — a pungent blend of urine, sweat and beer.
It was oddly quiet, with the usual blaring music from spaza shops, taxis hooting, tyres screeching and generators humming replaced by the sound of death and despair.
This was different from the frenzy on Thursday afternoon as international media and politicians flocked to the scene. There was a heavy presence of police, firefighters, paramedics, pathologists, engineers and City Power officials.
As the sun set on Thursday afternoon President Cyril Ramaphosa, who cancelled an address to the nation, visited and was briefed by city officials and experts. Residents from the adjacent buildings peeped from their windows while those living at Elangeni House chanted his name. The brief visit ended and Ramaphosa waved to the crowd which then belted out the national anthem.
Speaking to the media, Ramaphosa said the tragedy was a “wake-up call” to the government, which urgently needed to address the inner city housing crisis.
These words offer little comfort to Martha, 22, who had missed her wake-up call from her sister. The young woman was in tears on Thursday as she walked the streets of Marshalltown searching for her sister. About 400m from the derelict building, she broke down crying and collapsed to the floor.
After calming down, Martha, who lives in Mayfair, said her sister, together with her two children and another friend, lived in the building.
“We don’t know what happened. We need to know are they inside or not. My heart is breaking too much. We spoke on Wednesday night, just our normal chat and we had plans to meet. This morning her phone was off and it’s been offline all day and I don’t know where she is. I just need to know where are they now, because we don’t know, are they alive or have they died?” Martha said.
The heartbreaking reality is that, according to the Gauteng health department, 62 of the victims who died in the fire were burnt beyond recognition.
Families who flocked to the Forensic Pathology Services, the mortuaries in Diepkloof and Hillbrow, found out this weekend that DNA testing would be used to aid the identification process.
Back in Marshalltown, it was Spring Day, the ideal laundry day evidenced by linen, underwear and clothing hanging on washing lines at Elangeni House. But while firefighters continued to comb the building floor by floor, women rushed to remove the laundry realising it would smell of smoke. Meanwhile water gushed down the street transporting fire debris, litter and faecal matter, which eventually formed puddles of muddy waste.
Keeping a watchful eye from behind the green palisade fence of the adjacent block of flats, a group of boys eagerly shared the previous night’s ordeal with me.
One boy, 7, said: “It was so loud. I heard the people making a noise and I woke up. I said oh my gosh, what is happening.”
Another boy, aged 5, said: “I was scared. It went boosh and then I thought I was going to melt, it was so hot.”
Unlike the children playing across the street, there are 12 children from 80 Albert Street who will never wave to the president or sing Nkosi Sikelel' iAfrika again.
It’s a night that will forever be etched in the memory of those in Marshalltown who were woken up by the screams of “umlilo, umlilo” at 1:10am.
For Makwela, the worst sight was seeing the body of a child being removed from the building.
“When they were removing the bodies there was a body of a young girl ... It was very sad to see. Her body didn’t show signs of burns; you could tell she was tucked away somewhere but the smoke still got to her. She was covered in smoke and I’m sure she died of smoke inhalation. They only found her at 7am,” Makwela said.
For the residents from Malawi, Tanzania, Lesotho, Zimbabwe and even some South Africans who called 80 Albert Street home, their South African dream is forever soiled by soot and sewage as they’re once again displaced and in despair.
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