I first came to Braamfontein about 13 years ago. Everything about the place had one clear message, “blacks are not welcomed here”. The streets where clean, there were no hawkers or beggars: it was another country, nothing like down-town Jozi, which lies less than a kilometre away. Our sheer numbers as we in fluxed into the space effected a fundamental change. Mzito was amongst the pioneers of that great rapid unplanned but human transformation of space. He set up an elaborate pap and vleis stand on Biccard Street behind the FNB. Soon, every corner had its own “chesa nyama”. Then came the women with brasiers and roosting of green millies. The aroma of the braaing meat, herbs and roasting milies travelling through the air, at times through thick clouds of smoke, gave Braamfontein a unique scent. Monday babalaas was sorted out with a quick sharing of a cold skop between De Korte and Biccard streets. I hated the look of the rubbery concoction of trotters and innards, but those who partook of the meal whilst reading the Sowetan sport page seemed to enjoy themselves.
Everyday we gathered from 11am around the chesa nyamas, Mzito was making good business by all accounts, to get his plate you had to endure long queues. We did. The police officer, the nurse, the office secretary, NGO types, student and street sweeper met at these corners. Initially, the educated types approached the ‘chesa nyamas” with caution, unsure of potential the impact on their status. But in the end, pap and vleis is pap and vleis, and we are South Africans ladies and gentleman. Plastic chairs and makeshift tables were part of this great street life.

I can still remember the sweet coffee and fat cake we enjoyed as breakfast in Juta street. You were rarely asked “how many sugars?”, or “black or white?”. It was assumed you wanted lot of sugar and milk—a shared meaning system, a common understanding of the culinary tastes of this place and its people. Braamfontein became a space abuzz with laughter and chatter. You could even pick up a good second hand book on the street.

Then the city of Johannesburg announced the Egoli 2000. A programme to make Jozi a “great African city”. They started off with selling of state assets. Jobs were lost and consultants and managers got fat cheques. At first, this did not affect the streets directly. Then they started to “clean” the streets. Running battles between the cadre of Braamfontein “entrepreneurs” and the Joburg Metro police ensured. Goods were confiscated, people arrested. The fires of the streets were extinguished, the chattering and laughter ceased. The aroma died. Braamfonetin became clean and dead again. This time the message is “this is a place for proper business”. Mzito disappeared into the hidden Reserve Street. For a time some of us followed him in his new “proper” restaurant. The queues dwindled. I doubt whether he is still making as much money.

Braamfornetin was killed in the name of “development”. There is little doubt that the main beneficiaries of “cleaning up” process were the big established businesses. The “hawkers” were to got down-town or to the crowded Yeoville market, at least 5km away. More stalls were promised. Three years later nothing has happened. In a country were more than 40% of its working population is out of a job, this is puzzling logic.

Last week, I witnessed the last mopping-up exercise. Someone, perhaps not informed about the by laws of the city, started selling fruit and vegetables at the corner of Jorrisen and De Beer streets. Three black Metro police officers threw his stock in the boot of their shiny car. Receipt book in hand, they told him in the most cynical display of power “you have to pay a fine to get back your goods”. They did not care to specify where and how much. A small group of angered but defeated people gathered around the car. Someone asked “why are you not catching the real criminals, why are you so overzealous in doing this dirty job, how do you sleep at night?”. “Go ask the mayor?” came the answer. The crowd started to hurl insults at the cops. The effect of which equalled that of a desperate Palestinian youth throwing of stones on the Israeli tank which will demolish his or a neighbour’s home that day. The “development” machine moves slowly but surely, leaving shuttered lives on its wake. This is madness.

Only days later did it I find some meaningful answer to this sorry affair. Braamfontein has to be kept “clean” so that the rich people from the North of Johannesburg can travel in peace through the almost completed Mandela Bridge into the Newtown Cultural Precinct, to enjoy African culture and arts. It became clear to me that the bridge was build so that the rich can avoid going into down town, and mix with the riff raff at the Bree Taxi rank. What still puzzles me is this, why honour Mandela is this way? When nations build dams, they displace people, but at least they offer compensation. Whether the victims of Dam “Development” ever get what’s promised is another matter. But, promises are made. Who is going to compensate those uprooted from making an honest living in Braamfontein? Perhaps we need to repeat the lines of young poet “We march against the War in Baghdad. Who is going to march against the war in De Korte Street?”