I have had several requests to record some of my own lived experiences as a homeless man. So I thought I would take you back to a period when I was homeless but still not living on the streets ... to the very day that led to my first day living on the streets.
I had several acquaintances that would ask me to come over and spend a couple of days. For about a year I crashed on people’s couches or in their spare rooms.
The day arrived when I was given an ultimatum about collecting my belongings from storage or risk forfeiting everything.I finally got a taxi driver who was prepared to help for R800 (the last of my cash) for a maximum of three trips. But where to? I had no idea.
By the time we had loaded the first load, the driver had a good look at my stuff and said it might take five or six trips, and we needed help.
He called someone, and I immediately realised I was being set up to be robbed. I had left two homeless guys in town, keeping an eye on my belongings.
Everything was propped up against the wall opposite the Church in Greenmarket square. The number of curious onlookers convinced me to ask a stall holder to keep an eye in exchange for a Michael Kors watch I knew I had among my things.
I messaged a guy I sometimes stayed with that worked in Blouberg to meet us there. When we arrived, I was relieved, while my car mates were visibly shocked to see him already packing boxes and suitcases into his car.
The Kombi had only bulky and insignificant pickings for eager thieves when we finally left Blouberg.
It was no surprise when I felt myself being pinned by the other two with a knife to my throat. I gave them the R800 and told them they could have my big microwave, TV and a box of clothes.
The driver spoke to them, and they let go. I understood him telling them they would rob me in town. I wondered how much would be left as I had already seen one or two boxes being carried away. I decided to pray. I closed my eyes and asked God to guide, lead and protect me.
I think selective memory takes over at this point, and I remember hordes of people all around my boxes, with the two homeless guys nowhere to be seen and the stall holder busy packing up his stall.
I remember the guys in the taxi jumping out and grabbing several boxes, and suddenly, two security guards from Newspaper House arrived. I was still lying on the ground, having been thrown out of the taxi.
I explained to them what was happening, and they just said to me I had better find a place to store my things or there would be nothing left by morning. No sign of my acquaintance, his car or my boxes and suitcases.
The guards agreed to stand there while a taxi driver that was parked in the taxi zone outside the church agreed to take me to guys I knew that had recently moved into a flat above Bob’s bar in Long street.
They were only too eager to store the stuff for me. It took us almost four hours and several losses to get what was left to their flat. By the time I woke up in the morning, most of my boxes had been opened, and the two of them and their guests were dressed in my clothes.
It wasn’t long before most of my stuff was gone, and when, about a week later, I dared to remove some of my clothes to go and sell to get some money to try save what was left, they laid a charge of theft against me, claiming it to be their clothes I had stolen.
It was their flat. I could not immediately prove the clothes belonged to me, and so I ended up in Pollsmoor, awaiting trial. By the time they threw out the case I had spent three months in jail and now had nothing to my name except the clothes I had wanted to sell that fateful day.
This became my first day as a person living on the streets of Cape Town.
* Carlos Mesquita.
** The views expressed here are not necessarily those of Independent Media.
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