Le fruit pour la petit . . .

These words were scribbled on a piece of paper which was pinned to a plastic carry bag which in turn was hung on the burgler gate at the entrance to my flat. The bag contained a variety of fruit, for my daughter who was then 6 years old and in grade zero at the Yeoville Community School, a lovely school by all accounts. My daughter is now much older and Yeoville and South Africa are a different place.

The fruit was left at my door, for my little girl by my neighbour Kofi. I will not for as long as I live forget that act of kindness and generosity. Granted, my daughter was then a charming little thing, from the indian guy who ran a small eatery at Time Square, to Bafana Khumalo (a regular then at Time Square) and of course Kofi, they all loved her, they all thought she was cute and all those things 6 year olds are.

Kofi and I were neighbours. We lived in a run down block of flats on Hunter Street; I a young man trying to make a career as lawyer, he a foreigner from Togo trying to make a living in South Africa, a foreign but promising land. When I got to know Kofi I learned that he is a builder by trade, I also learned that he had journeyed for 6 months to get to South Africa. I also got to know his compatriots who either stayed with him in his tiny flat or came for meals - his flat was always full of people and merriment and animated conversations - all in french. I learned a little french from Kofi and his compatriots (granted it was only the greetings and some limited conversation - I have forgotten most of it) they learned some of the local languages from me, they were better students.

Kofi made a living selling fruit and vegetables. By the time we met and got to know each other his stall near where the market is now standing on Rocky Street, was humble but trading and providing him with enough to pay the rent for his flat. Kofi did not have a car. He got up super early every morning and went to the fresh produce market in City Deep on the southern outskirts of Johannesburg, where he bought his stock for the day. He then had to pay someone to transport the stock to his stall on the corner of Rocky and Bezuidenhout. Initially, when he started the business, he told me that he would carry the box of fresh produce on his head and walk back to Yeoville all the way up what is now Joe Slovo Drive. I admired Kofi for this amazing commitment to his own survival and well-being. If only the marauding gangs of thugs could have the same admiration and hopefully mimic what they admirer. Unemployed and marginalised, they blame Kofi.

One of Kofi's compatriots was a school teacher by profession back home. He earned his living by giving private French lessons and I believe he also worked for Alliance Francaise. I do not remember the names of the other guys and what they did for a living. What I do remember is how they were a self-sufficient unit, how they looked out for each other. They looked out for my daughter and I too. This, the marauding gangs of bandits resent.

I wish these guys well, wherever they may be. I wonder whether ever moved out of that run down building, whether like me they moved out of Yeoville to a better part of Johannesburg or maybe moved out of Johannesburg completely. I hope that they have not been attacked by my compatriots or worse still, killed.

Whenever the word foreigner is mentioned, I think of Kofi and his compatriots and the experiences we shared that many years ago.

As I remember and celebrate the human being Kofi is, I am well aware that there are some of my compatriots who resent such resilience and hard work. I am aware of the extent of the resentment, the blood of the foreign brothers and sisters and their children is testimony to that resentment.

Kofi, I hope this note finds you and your compatriots living in South Africa in good health.