Home Visits

One street away from Sikhona Care Centre, I visited households with Nombulelo, a community care giver (CCG). She had never been to these homes before, but invited me to join her nontheless. I don’t honestly know if I helped or hindered her attempts to gauge what challenges people had and what they needed, but when we went into the first house, it was clear that this woman needed assistance.

One of the houses facing Sikhona Care Centre.

We ducked under a line of barbed wire, moving the flimsy wire and stick gate out of the way. Inside, the hard was shabby, free of grass, a garden or boulders. The one roomed house was roughly painted, cement walls giving way to a wavy tin roof. Once we introduced ourselve to the owner, a woman in perhaps her mid-40s, we were ushered inside. The room served as a bedroom, closet kitchen and storage room. Everything had its place, whether on the floor or piled on top of a night stand or plastic shelving. Although simple and sparse, the room was clean. Light and a bit of warmth poured in from the door. In tiny houses like this one, privacy and security are almost non-existent. Visitors see not only everything you own, but also your life story written across the ragged linoleum floor cover, the neatly made bed and low food stocks. Although this woman did not have much, she took pride in her home. As she cleared space for us to sit—I perched on an over-turned bucket while Nombulelo sat on the bed—it became clear why we were there. This woman, I’ll call her Sisiwe for this story, left her husband and five children some time ago to live alone. Her husband beat her regularly. She lifted her faded gogo-dress to indicated scars along her legs, while demonstrating how she would try to shield her face with her arms, exposing them to blows. As Sisiwe shared, so did Nombulelo. Trust developed as they two strangers shared their life stories and abuses they have experienced at the hands of men. Sisiwe was concerned about the five children she had left with her husband, who was never home and stayed with a girlfriend. Her children had no way of getting food. Nombulelo slowly began jotting down everyone’s name and ID number to report to the Department of Social Development.

Getting into DSD’s system does not mean speedy food parcels or even guarantee them. However, it’s a start. Someone listened to her story. Baring witness and making the necessary referral is what community care givers do here. They come from the same homes as the clients they visit. They try to get folks connected with local services, but are asked for far more than they can deliver. Care givers are on the front lines of poverty in Ezakheni and much of South Africa—they enter into houses where sick folks in tattered clothing and young women alone with four small children ask for help, money, services, counselling and advice.

After a twenty minute visit, we thanked the woman for her time and exchanged farewells in isiZlulu. The third house we visited was just across the dusty street. Two young women in slippers greeted us. They stood up against their house, peering at the newcomers. These women looked young but their bodies and expressions seemed wary, hardened by winter and circumstance. After another round of introductions and unbashed staring at me, they bethened their mother from down the street. We entered the house and sat in a living room area. Like many houses I’ve seen here, the walls met unfinished ceilings and an exposed roof. A dusty desk top computer  was shoved in a corner.  As we sat down, a fluffy black cat wove its way between legs, couches and out into the sunlight. It’s impossible to separate the cold from the nagging feeling of neglect or downright despair that I feel upon entering homes here. No one is comfortable here, people struggle to stay warm, fed and out of disastrous relationships. The girls stood outside of their house as Nombulelo began talking with the mother. These girls loiter all day. They stay outside for the warmth, but do little more than wander around the neighbourhood or yard every day. They look bored, wary and weary at once. They all have questions for me, mostly about who I am, what I am doing here and if they can go to America. I butcher most complex responses in isiZulu, but get smiles in return for my efforts. These girls are younger than me, but wear the hardness of their lives. We smile, look sheepishly away if a gaze is held too long and finally part ways. We only live a thirty minute walk away from eachtoher, but occupy the same space very differently. If they see me on the road I hope they will wave or greet me.

Back at the office, the world map project
I am working on for Idamu Primary School

Nombulelo and I walk back to Sikhona, recapping what I missed in isiZulu and clarifying her role. She is there to meet families or folks living alone, gather basic identification information for DSD and layout the next steps in the process. More than that though, she shares, reaches out and explains options. As we turn the corner, my questions turn to her situation. Nombulelo lives in a separated house with two of her sisters, her son and numerous nieces and nephews. She receives meager social grants for two of the school-aged children, r280 (about $30USD per child per month) and a small stipend from Sikhona Care Centre, currently r1000 every month. As the only family member with steady work, Nombulelo barely gets through the month. She is in the same boat as many of her clients. That is one of the hardest things to wrap my head around. I can’t pinpoint where exactly Nombulelo became a community care giver, but drive something other than a small monthly stipend keeps her going out into neighborhoods looking for people that need help.