Welcome to the oil soiled field where men toil daily for bread. It’s a Tuesday and I am greeted by half dusty and tarred entrance along with three boards with hand written signs hanging unevenly. “Live-chickens for sale”, “Musa the panel beater” and “scrap metal buyer”. The space is littered with rocks, noise, stench, scraps and spills — varying trash mark this space; a void expanse in the heart of Kempton park’s aerotropolis.
Two makeshift shelters stand side by side shedding the November scorching solar heat; one for the automobile repairers, the other for a scrap metal collector. A separate rusty, shaky shack made with aluminum sheets stand at 90 degrees of the land; this is the makeshift kitchen for the farm raised chicken seller. Bricks, car bumpers and foot mats keeps the roofing sheets of the roughly built structure in position.
Diversity of workers at the work shop is an unconscious mix of middle aged West African men hacking out a living in South Africa. The scrap metal collector is a short, bull necked and beefy man with muscular shoulders and a hardened face, hails from francophone Cameroon. He is known as The boss. The chicken seller is about 7 feet, slim and graceful. Mostly sighted with sagging pants and flip flops. He is from Benin. Two partners, both from the Yoruba tribe from Nigeria takeup the middle shelter; a lanky panelbeater from Lagos mainland and a slightly built, talkative mechanic trained in Ibadan. I observe a visibly respectful division of work space.
Rusty brown strands of old iron with equal margins and pointed stakes make up the borderline. It marks a quarter of the perimeter of the yard while the last bit of the brick walled demarcation is bordered with a house cum mini supermarket also locally referred to as a spaza shop; an easy reach for cold drinks, fruits, cigarette or snacks. It is operated by Pakistanis.
First things you notice in the yard are vehicles and stacks of scraps. The vehicles are orderly arranged in order of collection possibilities. With the exception of cars undergoing repairs, most of the lined vehicles are awaiting spare parts or outstanding balance. Sometimes, some owners are at large and vehicles are abandoned or the mechanic waiting for inspiration for repairs.
Street kids play a role at the yard. They are the extra hands by day and watchmen by night. With rolled up windows and intentionally unlocked doors, each child possess a vehicle of his choice as shelter at night. It is a case of using a cat to secure a dry fish.
A open boot bakkie stops by to offload live chickens. The kitchen for the farm raised chickens house four set of thin wired three row cage filled with live chickens. White tired looking chickens with peeling feathers crow gently as they await the slaughter knife. A detached wooden side bed furniture serves as the two phased burner cookers’ raise which sits two large stainless steel pots. Buckets, jerry cans and a side table take position. The uneven cemented floor is the slaughter ground. The bird screams, jacks and it is gone in a jiffy. The chicken makes barbeque delicacies for beer loving night crawlers at a closeby beer parlor otherwise called tavern.
The grind starts early. The scrap collector along with his two support staff; Emeka, a lotto loving Igbo man from Nigeria and a hard faced-never smiling Malawian. The boss arrive as early as 6am in green overall jackets and black pants laced with reflectors. A sky blue head warmer shields his head from cold. A black, thick sole and hard grip rubber snickers supports his bullish figure. Hand woven white plastic sacks are filled with empty 500ml metallic can bottles. Non metallic cans in separate plastic sacks while old office white papers are piled with care and caution into separate paper cartons. By 12 noon, 11 fully filled high rise plastic sacks stand at 8 feet above ground. Space conscious loading commence on a standby bakky (pick-up).
Two men push in a white Honda Accord sedan. The owner of the car, a South African along with a Nigerian auto-electrician have pushed the car from 3 kilometres away. The fan belt of the 1.6 litre engine of the 1986 Honda Accord is broken. The Panelbeater and the auto mechanic casually walks in. Decked in nuburk Timberland boots, Tommy Hilfiger sweat shirt and a cream chinos, the mechanic gently undress to switch to his oil stained blue overall. Friends of the auto repairers are busy devouring breakfast from a black plastic bag filled with (fat cook) maguinya; a sweetened brown coated dough popularly called Puff puff in Nigeria. Breakfast is shared. Lousy conversation from the crew commence. More story tellers arrive. Noise makers or news makers? Everyone has an opinion. Waiting car owners also join in the talk or listen to the chat. You can’t ignore the discussion. While the gists goes on, several petty traders show up; peanut sellers with flat trays neatly balanced on young Mozambican female heads cries for patronage; rice and stew with assorted meat and optional fried plantain, eggs, spaghetti or beans is pushed in with trolleys; Akara (bean cake) and Agege bread sellers also stop by. Work at all three outfits in one space goes on while music from an accident damaged car blares.
As the day gently ages, the sound of life lighten the atmosphere. Nearby trees whisper ocean current-like sounds as the early morning cold breeze beat against my body frame. The cries of engines are heard as they arrive and leave the stop sign. Sun rays gently ease out the cold breeze effect. Gentle but repeated chirps from the numerous small birds serve as natures background music in this busy environ. Skinny cats and fat rats race endlessly in full view. Life is a hustle in the midst of chaos. This is the work chop!