Navigating Cape Town in a wheelchair: a daily act of protest
This profile is part of a six-part series by Marcela Guerrero Casas on how people living in the Cape Town metro are navigating public spaces during Covid-19
“E very activity in my daily life is an act of protest.” This is how Makgosi Letimile describes her personal experience as a disabled woman in Cape Town. From the moment she opens her flat door on to the hallway of the nine-storey building where she lives to the moment she reaches her destination, Makgosi is fighting a battle largely ignored by most fully abled people in the city.
Makgosi (36) lives in the Cape Town suburb of Observatory and has been navigating the world in a wheelchair for the past five years as a result of TB complications in 2016. She speaks openly about her story and how she has become a disabilities consultant and advocate for promoting access to both physical spaces and knowledge about health for disabled people. She describes herself as “a mom, a writer, a disability awareness activist and someone who likes talking about sex toys and disabilities”.
Since January, Makgosi has been part of a group of six Capetonians who have engaged in conversation and reflection about their experience in public spaces since the pandemic began. This is not a new topic for her but Covid-19 has certainly exacerbated some of the challenges. And even though the pandemic may have shed light on a wide array of social inequalities, when it comes to disabilities, it has made an already invisible segment of the population in Cape Town even more so.
Meeting the group in a virtual chat, Makgosi asked: “When was the last time you saw a person with disabilities and it wasn’t ‘grant day’ at a government building?”
People with disabilities are forced to navigate an unfriendly and dangerous environment at the best of times. With Covid-19, pre-existing health conditions heighten anxiety about being exposed to the outside world.
Makgosi is warm and welcoming when we meet her to take some photos on a sunny Tuesday morning. She takes us up to her flat, from where she can see the ocean. She explains this view is one of the reasons she has stayed here, even though it’s not the most affordable and the building doesn’t have automatic doors, which means she always depends on someone to open for her when she leaves.
That’s not to mention the lift, which stops functioning during load shedding.
We ask Makgosi about the spaces in her neighbourhood she enjoys regularly so that we can photograph her there. Her response is that she isn’t able to get to any public space on her own, as the pavements are too uneven and the only option, which is simply too risky, is to go on the road. She reflects on the many barriers she experiences when attempting to access public or, for that matter, any space. From relying on a functioning lift and security personnel to open the door for her to leave her building to having to hire an Uber to go anywhere – be that work, a park or a shop – she is effectively paying an ongoing toll to live in this city.
On afternoons when Makgosi is looking for a little bit of sun, she sits in front of her building to “watch the world go by” along her street. She parks her wheelchair behind a low wall that separates the street from the pavement and says she feels safe there. When feeling a little braver, she moves her wheelchair to the section of pavement that borders the street so that she has a broader view.
Trill Road in Observatory is a typical Cape Town street. Its surfaces are uneven and cars park along both sides despite its narrowness. This inevitably means they are parking on the pavement, taking away space from pedestrians and making it virtually impossible for a person in a wheelchair to move through. The road is also noisy and motorists often exceed the speed limit for a residential street. It’s little wonder that Makgosi is reluctant to use the street to go anywhere – she is afraid for her life.
Since public transport is not really an option for someone in a wheelchair – Makgosi says that for months she has been on a waiting list to access MyCiTi’s “dial a ride” service for disabled people – Makgosi has to use Uber, which is very expensive if used exclusively. Sometimes her partner, who does not live with her, takes her out by car and this has made her realise learning to drive and owning a vehicle is the only way to access the city.
When asked what she would ask of city policymakers, Makgosi says: “Give us transport.” In a city where public transport is unreliable even for able-bodied residents, this is a profound cry for access by someone who is already excluded from most of the activities and services provided by local government.
Makgosi finds solace in knowing that the world is accessible online, and this has become more commonplace during the pandemic. This is how she has stayed in touch with people, shopped for food and earned a living. During load shedding, however, her network is down, leaving her isolated and back at square one. Nevertheless, the pandemic has entrenched her feeling that she will continue to look for internet-based work. “It is a safe space because I don’t have to go outside,” she says.
She has a strong sensitivity for people in distress and during the pandemic she has reflected on the vulnerability of those without a home. She mentions seeing a woman in a wheelchair begging and imagining herself in her place. Her living situation is already precarious because of costs, limited choice and work instability as a result of Covid-19, and she feels that homelessness could easily become a reality for a disabled person. Indeed, this is the lived reality of many of Cape Town’s homeless population.
Makgosi is clearly tired of being the person who constantly points to how inaccessible places are, but she says she has no choice. Her reality is a permanent reminder of what an inaccessible city feels like and she has plenty of anecdotes to illustrate that.
She tells a story of waiting at a supermarket parking lot for an Uber, only to see a government vehicle pull into a disabled bay without regard. There was no emergency that would warrant such action – simply two people, perhaps during their lunch hour, without any regard for who might need that space.
Makgosi also reflects on the protests against beach closures during lockdown. Capetonians were enraged that they were not able to access the beach whenever they pleased. But Makgosi was not able to access any Cape Town beach, except Muizenberg, even before the pandemic. She says: “Covid-19 made me realise that humanity understands accessibility; it is just that they choose not to do anything about it.”
The irony is that everyone is getting a lesson in what it’s like to live with a disability, says Makgosi. The realisation that a global pandemic has limited people’s movement profoundly and that those with so-called Long Covid are having to contend with some physical disabilities has made some people think more seriously about the implications for society at large. And even if we should not act out of fear, but rather because it is the right thing to do, as Makgosi says, it might be a trigger to think about the many things we need to change in Cape Town to make this a truly inclusive city.
Public space holds so much potential to make our city better for everyone, but Makgosi has helped me realise this is a futile effort when a significant portion of that “public” has no access to that space. And so I join her in calling on decision-makers in our city to open up the streets and make transport accessible. As Makgosi says, inclusivity is not just a word, it should be in all the actions that people take. “Not worrying about my safety or the condition of my chair would mean I am accepted in this city because people have designed things with people like me in mind.”
Not worrying about my safety or the condition of my chair would mean I am accepted in this city because people have designed things with people like me in mind – Makgosi Letimile