The funky crutch man of Hyde Park
“That was about 1987, when the cry was, ‘pass one, pass all’.
“When the security or the police came into the class, everyone just ran and they left me and I was stuck… so I decided to give school up as I could just see trouble for me.”
Christopher was born in Zola and now lives in a RDP house in Orange Farm. He stays with his two sons, aged 16 and 9.
Their mother is around, but for the past three years she and Christopher have lived apart; they have been married for 23 years.
“I am now the mother,” he says, smiling, “I cook and I clean. In fact, before I came here today I cleaned the whole yard myself.”
“So, your strong and healthy boys let their handicapped father do all the work?” I say.
He laughs. “Ah, you know what the kids these days are like. They want to play and watch television – they don’t look for work.
“The only thing I don’t do is the washing. I get someone to do that for me.”
Christopher’s RDP house costs him hardly anything – he pays a token amount for water, sewerage and electricity. His expenses are mainly food, clothes, education and pocket money for the boys.
“You know, it is R10 here and then R20 for something – so I seem to be giving them money all the time.”
I return to his disability. “How do people treat you and what is the worst thing you find about being disabled?”
“People always judge a book by its cover – so they do not give me respect sometimes. They just take me for granted.”
I wasn’t completely sure what he meant, but for the first time he wasn’t his happy self, so I change the subject and ask if he has any hobbies.
“I am a gospel singer,” he says, smiling again. “God has given me a good voice and I am always the lead singer in any group when we get together.
“I sometimes sing at weddings and funerals – it is my first love, this gospel singing.”
And t hen, completely unselfconsciously, he starts softly slapping his hands against his skinny thighs, and when he has a steady rhythm going, bursts into song. (It must have been an interesting sight. This tiny little fellow, almost dwarfed by his crutches, happily singing songs of praise to an audience of one on the traffic island below Hyde Park.) when I got home about midnight, the window was open and my stuff gone.
“My boys were there – but they slept through everything. You know these kids – when they sleep, they die.”
I have to know about his “fishes”, so can’t help asking: “How do women treat you when you approach them?”
“They love my face and how I talk, and I can dance, Baba…”
“You seem to be able to do a lot of things,” I say. “What can’t you do?”
He smiles and looks at me. “Run. I can’t run,” he says and laughs at his little joke.
“But I can kick a ball, I can dance – the only thing I need other people for is to do my washing.” Then he bursts out laughing again, “Oh, and I can’t swim…”
Given his circumstances, he is remarkably cheerful. Although a bit later he does admit when things go wrong, he does sometimes wonder, “Why me?”
He then mentions he is a great fan of 702 and Radio Metro. “When I get home in the evenings I always listen to them,” he says.