Today Beanlet and I had an exciting wake up – she has lost another tooth! Remember that? The shrieking – the inner sense that it is a milestone – the waiting for the tooth fairy?

It is such a gift being with this little girl while she grows. We went from tooth, to chilling, to playing Solitaire on the computer. Then we went and bought her new Big Girl School Uniform – a sweet red and white checked dress. She will be in grade one next year. Oh my God, Grade one! I remember grade one and the nuns at St Ursula’s. My little green dress. Ha ha, and the spiritualist church next door that auntie Petro visited to talk to who knows… and the prison down the road… and the flat where my friends and I bunked in later years. That’s Krugersdorp for you.

I’m pleased that educative styles have moved on and that teachers are more understanding and compassionate. She is a well put together girl, knows what she wants, knows how to care, knows how to love. Is still working on simply listening and being still. Please God may she not doubt herself when around people who don’t know this yet. We had lunch, she made some new friends, we came home and ran through the sprinkler (me naked).  Now we’re watching Win Dixie which has a Dave Matthews cameo – nice.

The rain in Johannesburg is exquisite. We live through months of ashen sinus-ridden dryness for this and it is worth every minute.  A quick wind blows and you can smell all the scent of flowers and grass whooshing past your nose. It is intoxicating. Then big fat plops of rain fall on you – it’s like a beautiful gift to your mind and body as it splashes on your face and releases its peaceful scent. Your cheeks or your arm are momentarily cooled.  And then of course, you run for cover.

The chair project

Have you ever noticed the chairs that security guards sit on?

They are our “first line of defence”, in charge of public places.

Their job is to scare people off, ward off an attack, guard the palace.

But when they rest their feet, they do so on chairs with stuffing oozing out, or three-legged chairs stabilised with an old paint tin.

I want to take pictures of these people on their chairs and tell a short story of their life and how they found the chair and how they feel about it.

Through this I hope to tell the observer who is interested a small story of humanity and survival. Who knows, one day I might even buy the camera to do it with.

This is something we see every day in South Africa. This is with love to the “construction workers” who help build our cities and towns.

Back of the bakkie people

Huddled

Warm bodies

Remembering the comfort of

snatched sleep

Toes curl onto the bakkie floor

trying not to fall of at the brakes

Thinking of half past four

Head down

hands in pockets

A wave for a child

An encouraging, bright word, for a child

Walking through gravel

Stones spitting out

rising sun creating silhouttes

Eight rand taxi fare saved

Blowing out puffs

of morning steam

Hands in armpits

So this

Is our Jozi dream

The waiting men

Waiting for tea

Waiting for lunch

Waiting for that good life

to come your way

Back to the shack

The shared room

The newspaper curtain

The row of spotless takkies drying in the last heat of the day

Not a nameless casualty today

No paramedic calling me buddy

Buddy? Can you breathe?

What’s your name? Can you tell me your name?

Faceless and nameless

In Jozi

South Africans have loads of festivals, many of them related to political events but Halloween has usually been taken with a pinch of commercial cynicism. Lots of plastic, no real understanding of what it is, other than the obligatory episode on some tv programme.

Yesterday was the first time I did Halloween with a child in a neighbourhood who organised themselves into arranging enormous bowls of sweets, costumes, posters, candles outside their houses. This is something that would have started with tentative emails about improving security and then evolved into other “normal” neighbourhood activities.

First, it was off to Caryl’s house where she supplied witches brew with eyeballs (red colddrink with berries), then off to Orange Grove to Abbi and Chris, Jazzy’s friend AJ’s house.

Chris did a recce of the area in his car and we set off on foot with 15 children dressed up in costumes ranging from two month old Anthony to teenagers with lots of Tigger-like six-year-olds in between.

The sweet residents of Hope Street had arranged candles in their driveways, and stuck posters on their gates welcoming people. These posters had been emailed out to all on the community block watch with a use it don’t use it attitude and we met some really beautiful generous people who stood at their gates stuffing shrieking children’s bags with sweets. It was really a lovely sight and a warm fuzzy evening – by the time we started meandering home, there must have been about 200 kids plus assorted adults wandering the streets screaming for sweets – it was a wondrous thing.

There’s a furore in South Africa at the moment over the playing of a CD containing racist lyrics about Nelson Mandela.

According to police, who arrested a company CEO, it was played at the staff party of Sun International. The lyrics, adapated from South Africa’s national anthem called Mandela the “k” word, considered one of the most offensive expressions in this country.

It played for around 15 seconds and was whipped out of the CD player and the CEO of the security company contracted to the resort, whose stand the music came from, was arrested. He was charged with crimen injuria, although he said he had nothing to do with the matter. Another employee of the company was subsequently suspended and yet another, who the company said put the CD on a table to be played, was fired.

In the aftermath, the security company issued press statements saying it was upset by the incident, did not tolerate racism, apologised to Mandela and promised to co-operate with police.

In South Africa, incidents like this pop up from time to time and they cause outrage.

And, companies or people associated with the incident have to do a lot of explaining and self searching and firing. So, while the security company’s publicity machine dealt with the matter, the resort, who hosted the staff party, feel astounded that they are associated with it.

Telephonic queries and emails for response or reaction to the criticism are met with a sense of exasperation and a feeling that it has nothing to do with the resort and the security company is a separate entity, so they are deciding what sort of statement to issue. I’m being polite about the actual words of one brittle staffer at the consultancy.

Of course, the company is separate, but the resort’s name is linked to the event. So, this is what I would do if I was the PR company handling the matter:

- issue a statement expressing shock, horror, outrage, promising that seven kinds of hell will befall any contractor or their employees for that kind of behaviour.

- promise to send employees to transformation awareness classes

- suspend the security contract while the matter is dealt with

- Offer counselling to staffers who may be upset by what they heard and need assurance that this is not acceptable to the company

- Send stern letter to individual staffers, regardless of whether they work for contractors or concessionaires, reminding them of what is and is not acceptable on the company premises.

And to the man who made and put the CD on to the table to be played – get therapy, you are so screwed up.

Why does the information, insight and understanding that you need to know for a particular situation often come too late?

Why does life do that? I understand that we learn by our mistakes, but why is it not possible to learn this same lesson without the mistake?

Why is that circumstances you try to change seem immovable and then when they do change it is too late? Why can the changes that you are willing and planning not happen when you need them most? Would they not be of more value if they took place when or before you needed them, not later.

Would it not avoid a lot of pain and frustration and confusion? If we are supposed to have faith in a higher power or the forces of the universe, how do we hold on to it when it can’t get its timing right? Why do we have have to lose so much that is precious then watch the things that could have prevented this loss, that we have been working towards, suddenly fall into place?

One of the simple pleasures in life is watching a small child dance in the rain. We spend so much time in the car talking about life and jostling for space for each other in between school and work that it is a wondrous thing to watch your child dance in the rain, big gap where front teeth are growing, glowing with love and joy.

This is the child that brings me flowers in the same way that I bring her food. I am so blessed. So blessed, as Munetsi our new IT guy says whenever I ask him how he is.

I’m only a journalist because I’m always late. Arriving during assembly at school, once too often, and trying to sneak past the prefects I spotted a queue outside the deputy principal’s office. They were waiting to go for a medical check so that they could apply to become teachers. So, in the interests of not having to have The Conversation with Mr Hall, I joined the queue, feigning enthusiasm for teaching, and found myself on a bus to the Krugersdorp Health Department to have my ears and toes examined and, importantly, I had a very good reason for being late for school.

Sitting next to me on the bus was Jackie Wilson (her real name) who asked what I would do if I didn’t get into teaching and she said she would apply for journalism. It was a ping moment in which everything made sense. Journalism. Thank you Jackie Wilson wherever you are.

I got accepted for teaching, probably because I spoke vlot Afrikaans during the subsequent interview once my toe hygiene had passed the test. The Afrikaans was more a survival tool in an Afrikaans neighbourhood than a product of an apartheid education, but I got offered a bursary too. You study for four years, you work for us for four years, and then you are free to go and have babies or whatever. That was the deal then.

I turned down the bursary, got turned down when I applied to study law at Wits (thank God) and found myself on a train to Durban to study journalism.

It was the best gift that a perpetually late person could wish for.

Anyway, I am late in other aspects of my life. I am late in filing leave applications and stand doe eyed in front of the news editor, hoping to God that he will say yes. I do write things in my diary, but am usually too late in consulting the diary for it to have any benefit.

So, I rush.  And because I am usually late and rushing, things that tend to creep up on one unexpectedly, things that require the time budgeted for the unexpected, the time that “real women” allow for, make my days very interesting.

Take today. I went to bed early last night, psyched for a day at the Constitutional Court which requires Concentration and Focus. But, Miss J, missing her daddy who is being a rock star at the moment (he complains that he does not have time to drink beer or take drugs), can’t sleep. So I watch Thumbelina and the twitterberries or whatever they are called, which send both of us off to a gentle sleep. For a few hours. She’s awake at 3am, upset etc and even Oreos and a cosy blanket don’t help.

I get her to sleep, now I’m wide awake. I fart around the kitchen for a bit, doing the stuff I should have done the night before instead of watching Thumbelina. Pack the dishwasher, that sort of thing. I read a bit (the third agreeement – be your best) and contemplate staying awake until dawn.

I have this fantasy that I will wake up at 5am, do some yoga, drink green tea, nip the flowers off the herbs, shower, do my hair, dress, and have breakfast in the warming oven when everyone wakes up. And one day I will do it. I swear.

Of course I fall asleep again and then I switch the alarm off because I’m tired. So, we rush.

To save time I don’t shower. Not only do I feel grimy, but I haven’t had my Shower Think. Which I need. I don’t even change shirts three times as usual and we’re in the bakkie, borrowed while my car is in the panel beaters, with a kitchen towel full of avocado pear on toast to eat on our laps in the car. There were complaints about the sparcity of salt and pepper. We played eye spy, the bakkie only stalled once, we got through the bottlenecks and the construction on the blind corner quite fine.

Miss J now insists on walking to class from the gate by herself. She goes up the disabled ramp and slips in her sparkly shoes. Sorries all round from the security guards, she resumes her trek. She’s at the big steps near her class, I might get to work on time. She takes one step at a time. On each step she turns around and waves and blows me a kiss. I dare not move. This is a precious time. In 10 years she will lock herself in her room and hate me and her hormones.

She’s halfway up the steps. I no longer stand a chance of being on time for work. I wave and shout go into the class. I turn around. The people at the old age home over the road hold their breakfast knives and forks in frozen fascination, like one of the scenes Hiro Nakamoto does in Heroes.

She gets to the top and disappears. I run to the bakkie. Nchee chee chee chee, the engine finally turns. I fly to work, pushing through traffic, trying to decide whether I’m having a panic attack or a heart attack.

Greet security guard at gate and at office door. Sliding into work not possible due to glass window next to news editor’s desk. She’s not as lighthearted about the tardiness as usual. Sit down to follow up story of ANC defectors to Cope defecting back to ANC. Will the spokeswoman be in good mood or bad when asked for comment that only one out of a promised 2000 re-defected. She pretends she doesn’t know what I’m talking about. Been called all morning etc, and hasn’t seen story. Relay info that they sent it to us for our diary, plus an advisory to make sure we didn’t miss it. Oh. Will get back to you. Still hasn’t.

Off to Concourt. 10am start. Write nice meaty story on early argument: should the president be held responsible if a member of the cabinet doesn’t do his/her job? Revolves around South African farmer’s failed attempts at getting diplomatic protection when property he owned in Zimbabwe was siezed. Interesting case. Where does the buck stop? File story through Yahoo. Concourt’s usually crappy 3g reception working but office doesn’t have story, according to quick phone call check on way to car at court tea break. Run back to laptop in court, blagging way through security, and refile the story. Run back to car. Sneaking out to do this, office doesn’t know. Please God don’t let Thabo Mbeki arrive at court while I’m gone, thank you. Nchee chee chee, hurtle through outskirsts of Hillbrow, down Jan Smuts, to Miss J’s school to collect her at 11am because it’s mid term break. Late. Miss J is playing with friend Blessing. The only two kids who haven’t been picked up yet. K couldn’t do it as it’s a crucial practice day. Have quick conversation with sulky class helper who Miss J is having run ins with. Watch Miss J do three fabulous things on the jungle gym. Hurtle home to drop Miss J off with housekeeper.

Housekeeper nowhere to be seen. House keys on sink. Reach arm through burglar guards, get keys, open door expecting to find housekeeper collapsed or something. Housekeeper’s cottage wide open, no sign of her. Phone her. She’s in Randburg shopping. She decided to take early lunch and didn’t expect us home so soon. We’re both sneaking around behind the boss’s back but she got caught. Consider taking Miss J back to Concourt, but just know that she won’t be able to resist asking a hundred thousand questions sotto voce. We play ball in the garden instead and have more avocado pear sandwhiches. I pay Gift the whistling gardener and he offers to buy my radio in the garage and we agree on when he will take his annual leave.

Housekeeper arrives just before 1pm. Points out that the back door was pulled closed, so even though the keys were there, it’s actually ok. I rush back to Concourt. Give a robot beggar an apple. Run through security, just in time to hear them say judgment reserved. Oh Fuck. I missed the state’s argument. I am so fucked.  But at least Thabo Mbeki didn’t come. Ask the other reporters what I missed. Nothing much they say, guardedly. Pack up laptop, run downstairs to catch lawyers before they leave.

Erm… in a nutshell, can you pls explain what your argument was? Sweet sweet Piet. Last time I saw him, he won a judgment on extradition and was all smiles outside, trying to juggle a cigarette and ligher with his big lawyer’s case and his lawyer’s robes while giving soundbites.

Here, have my notes. But please excuse the spelling, my secretary can’t spell, he says. Thank you thank you God. Was that instant karma for the apple? Sarel from SABC wants to know where I was, I say domestic drama, he shrugs his shoulders. Race back to the office. Read Piet’s notes, Google the sections of law he based his argument on, read his heads of argument on Concourt website. Look through my notes from morning session, write my wrap. Get a byline. Eish. Noboby will read it given advocate Barbie’s return to court. Re-read election insults feature issued while I was away to make sure I didn’t miss any mistakes.

Stick up poster for Jim Neversink concert on smokeroom window. Should have done it Wednesday. Phone Mom to ask if she will babysit Miss J on Friday night for JN concert. Confirm Friday off with boss as previous time owed so that I can fetch my car from the panel beaters.

Leave office. Pouring rain. No windscreen wipers. Stall at busy intersection. People hooting. No handbrake. Can’t see anything. Car rolling forward while I’m doing Nchee chee chee. Stop at shops for free range chicken which came in earlier so Miss J won’t have boobs at the age of eight. K on phone to say I must come for dinner with Richard Lloyd who has just arrived from New York to produce their album. Can’t do it. Got Onnie issues and don’t want to leave J since she’s feeling insecure. Drive home. Onnica chatting incessently to make sure I have no space to kak on her for the lunch time episode. I kak on her anyway. We all sneak off, but take the house keys with you next time I say.

She tells me there’s a dead rat in the house. She lifted the couch, but can’t seem to locate it. Kittens bring rats in when I only give then dry food for supper. Neighbour has an owl box and has requested that nobody in the area put rat poison down so owl and kittens having lots of fun. Rats and mice not. Poke around the lounge a bit and decide to deal with it tomorrow.

J and I have chops and vegetables for supper. I bath her. She tells me Gift bought her an icecream and Onnie let her cross the road by herself. She sings me a song about ants marching that Mrs Girly taught her. I read her TWO stories (considered a treat) and sing Three Little Birds until she sleeps.

I drink wine. It’s Lent and I was going to give up. Sorry God, but thank you. For giving me some ball playing playing time with Jasmine. For giving me Piet’s notes. For not getting me killed at the intersection.  For keeping Thabo Mbeki away from the court. For not getting me fired.

In May 2008 between 60 and 70 people were killed and thousands were displaced in xenophobic attacks that shocked South Africa.

The pictures of the last moments of Mozambican Ernesto Namhuave captured the horror of people rounding on foreign nationals on the grounds that they threatened the livelihoods of workers jostling for jobs in a competitive labour market, that they caused crime, “stole” women and illegally gained state housing.

Ernesto's body arrives home in Mozambique after being burnt alive during the attacks. Picture: Shayne Robinson

During the attacks and in the aftermath, news and condemnation of the attacks flooded the media. Online news sites set up special topic platforms, talk shows took calls from people wanting to have their say. News organisations churned out countless statements and video sharing sites hosted clips of the attacks and people voicing their opinions.

Media coverage came under fire for possibly contributing to stereotypes with the Media Monitoring group lodging a complaint against the Daily Sun, and the SA Press Association is challenging a claim in an Idasa report that it had previously used the term “job stealers” in copy.

Appeals for food, blankets and baby clothes for the displaced were made at schools, shops, businesses.

It seemed that everybody wanted to say something. Do something.

People spoke about it in their Facebook status updates, forming groups against xenophobia. And bloggers took to their keyboards.

“We had a massive spike in blogging,” says Justin Hartman, a co-founder of www.afrigator.com, a blogging aggregator which ranks blogs according to their popularity.

Afrigator set up a special focus area on its site for all the blog related to xenophobia, providing links to humanitarian organisations arranging support for the displaced.

Afrigator's xenophobia hot topic. Picture: Simphiwe Nkwali

A similar project was done during the recent Kenyan elections, where observers noted that blogging played a role in getting news out swiftly.

“Everybody felt very opinionated and wanted to have a say,” said Hartman. “Previously you would have to write a letter to the papers or wait for a five minute slot on the radio. It gives people a new way to express themselves.”

Writing on blogging in Europe and US, journalism specialists say that blogging during crises provide first hand information that journalists may miss.

Riaan Wolmaraans, online editor for the Mail&Guardian, which hosts blogging site www.thoughtleader.co.za said: “We definitely had a spike in blogging submissions on Thought Leader, especially during and just after the attacks in May.

“These submissions all expressed outrage about the events, which was a common thread, but explored various reasons for the xenophobia and for the extreme violence.”

The Eastern Cape’s DispatchOnline editor Andrew Trench said: “I think in this case the majority of reasonable people in our society were deeply shocked and offended by what had occurred. I think that by blogging they were able to disassociate themselves from these xenophobic attacks and were able to send a message that not all people in South Africa are like those people.”

They left it to the community of users to respond to negative comments and the overwhelming responses negated these.

“I think this is a more powerful way of handling this kind of response rather than deleting them from the blogs,” said Trench.

They also used many of the responses in the newspaper itself to give these comments a greater audience.

Trench notes though that he would have liked to have seen more blogs from foreigners living in South Africa and sharing their experiences.

Psychologist Dorianne “Dr D” Weill descibes blogging as cathartic, creating a sense of community and giving people a public voice, “which isn’t easy to get”.

"Dr D"

“The sense of identity with other people is very powerful. You feel there is a connection because nothing joins people more than a shared emotional event,” she observes.

The “comments” sections provides a chance to communicate with other people who feel the same and differing opinions “stretch your intellectual yardstick”.

But what of the displaced How did they tell their stories?

It’s chilly winter night and I’m sitting in Johannesburg’s Central Methodist Church. I’m sitting in the packed church feeling rather foolish for imagining that these people, with their pared down possessions in bags at their feet, might be firing up a laptop or two to express themselves.

There’s a flurry of activity at a banister in front of the altar with people kneeling down and fiddling with something close to the floor. Later, I discover people are taking turns to recharge their cellphones on the church cleaners’ vacuum cleaner plug.

If ever there was an argument for cellphones providing the most effective means of communication for the almost 90 percent of people in South Africa who, according to research don’t have internet access, this was it.

“A block? Blocks? What are those?” asks Zimbabwean refugee co-ordinator Evans Kuntonda. I explain that it’s a kind of online journal, called a “blog”, where people write about what is happening around them.

Evans Kuntonda, refugee co-ordinator. Picture Jenni O'Grady

“Oh yes, we keep journals,” he says. “Refugees keep diaries on abuse of refugees.”

But not on computers. Many have email addresses, but they use the R5 an hour it costs at the internet cafe around the corner to get news from home, he explains.

As for “news news” they rely on television and newspapers bought by residents which are then circulated.

They say all they heard in the media was the voices of the people “at the top”, echoing media theorist Dan Gillmor who believes the people at the top should do more listening, and suggests blogs as one way of doing this.

Orange Farm Water Crisis Committee co-ordinator Bricks Mokolo recently sent a terse email to the media after a recent protest march which read: “For information not from the police force’s mouth, please contact…” and provided his number.

The Star journalist Beauregard Tromp and photographer Shayne Robinson created a sensitive blog Burning Man in which they recall the events leading up to Namhuave’s death and the wait with his family in Mozambique for his body to be returned. It is a moving piece of writing that spans a number of days, peppered with nuances and details that set the writing apart from a hurried news piece and shows how a story can be kept alive.

But blogging also has its downside. A Zimbabwean journalist telephoned me in a panic a day before the June 27 one-man election run-off held there. He was about to cross the border to Zimbabwe and asked me to urgently delete his blog “just in case” he got into trouble over it.

Johannesburg-based speaker repairman Wellington Moyo from Bulawayo echoes this fear of expression with: “If you are victimised, you are scared, you can’t talk freely.”

Journalist Kwangu Liwewe, originally from Malawi says she was unimpressed by the blogs that she read during this period.

“Most hadn’t the faintest idea about real human rights issues or implications of the attacks. The issues of the newly arrived in the country were not addressed. I didn’t see any evidence of well researched articles that quoted the newly arrived or organisations that represented them.

“Issues like access to making applications to the department of home affairs for legal status; access to medicalcare; or issues like the rights of foreigners with SA residency were not explored.I didn’t read anything highlighting that SA residents have the same rights as the citizens in areas such as recourse to public funds, medical care, housing etc. “

“As long as the general public including those who read and write blogs are not aware of the issues that affect foreigners, the rights of foreigners with status, then we are doomed.”