Cabline is undaunted by a life on crutches
He sells wallets for a living and hopefully can afford to buy an artificial leg one day
my wallets because they feel sorry for me.” Then he changes the subject and without being asked, mentions he is married and has two children, aged two and one. They live in Soweto, in a room for which he pays R800 a month.
“There is no bathroom – we have to get water from outside and then bath in t he room.”
It appears he has a somewhat tolerant landlady in that he is currently two months in arrears with his rent. “I give her little bits when I get extra money,” he says, but it obviously concerns him. I ask him how much money he makes on a good day. “Some days I can get lots of people, they give me R20 or R10. On others, sometimes the people buy a wallet or something.”
Thinking he hasn’t understood my question I rephrase it: “On your best day, how much do you take home?”
“Papa, I’m trying to finish my story,” he says ever-soslightly exasperated, “so sometimes I can take R250 or R300 home.” From his current inability to service his rent, I gather he doesn’t reach these figures too often.
“And what,” I ask, “do you take on a bad day?”
He looks at me disconsolately and says, “Ay, some days I have to borrow to pay the taxi. It is R11 f rom Soweto into town and then R12 to here (corner of Republic Road and Main Road, Bordeaux), and the same going back. Every day I try keep R50 for transport, but not always.”
So I take it, on a bad day he makes less than the R46 it costs him daily in taxi fare.
He tells me he buys his wallets for R40 and he sells them for R80. He hands one to me to show the quality. “They are leather,” he says proudly. He buys them in the CBD from a wholesaler whose name I couldn’t make out.
I ask what is a typical day for him.
Most days he gets up just after 3am and often gets to the traffic lights around 5am.
“Are there any cars at that time?” I ask.
“Sometimes too much,” he says. “And the people are good to me. They give me food and other times they give me clothes and money. So I must come here early. I finish about 4pm.”
He doesn’t eat anything before he leaves home, but during the day buys a R5 bag of peanuts from a ‘tuckshop’ under a tree across the road. “At night I eat properly with my wife. Pap and chicken and stuff.”
“What do you do when you need to use the toilet?”
“I go there,” he says pointing at a Shell garage diagonally across the road, “they charge me R2 a time”. Interesting, because I used it a bit later to see if I would be charged, and of course wasn’t.
Cabline usually takes one, very rarely two, days off a week. He uses his off-days to wash his clothes and go to church. He tells me his pastor teaches him he must always, “play Jesus”.
“He means everyone is your friend or you must make them your friend. If you are angry with people or don’t like them, it is you, not them. If they are not your friend – why?” Cabline seems to subscribe to the pastor’s theory. “The people here,” and he points at the passing traffic, “are all good people.”
We return to talking about his leg. “Where to next?” I ask. “Are you just going to have to be on crutches for ever?”
“No,” he says firmly. “I am working here to make money to get an artificial leg. If I can get that, then I can do a proper job.” “Like what?” He thinks for a moment, and then says, “Anything papa, I can work. But the best for me would be to be a driver. Not taxi, but private.”
I ask him what an artificial leg would cost.
“It is too expensive,” he says, shaking his head. “I must pay R30 000 for them to measure and make it and then I must pay R30 000 when I get it.” He then told me a slightly convoluted story of how a few years ago two or three people had said they would help him to buy an artificial leg, but nothing ever happened. “That was three years ago, and now I no longer see them.”
We chat about the fickleness of some people, but although seemingly disappointed he doesn’t appear to be surprised. Being let down in his milieu, I get the impression, is just another facet of life you have to deal with.
Suddenly he turns to me and asks me where I live. “Parkmore,” I say. “Ay papa, you don’t have a room at your house for us?” Sadly, I don’t.