It was the best of times, it was the worst of times

For many migrants from elsewhere in Africa, Joburg is a tale of two cities, writes Caroline Wanjiku Kihato

IBEGAN my life in Johannesburg in 1994 as a street trader, selling Kenyan arts and crafts at Bruma Lake. The stall that I worked at was a makeshift space on the pedestrian walkway that circled the parking lot of what was then the Game store.

Every morning, Ochi — the business owner — and I would get to Bruma at 6am to claim one of the spaces, which were allocated on a first-come, first-served basis.

“You must occupy a corner space,” Ochi would say to me, explaining that we could then take advantage of pedestrian traffic flowing from Game and the street, doubling the opportunities to sell our wares. I was never good at business, but I was prepared to sweep the streets if I had to in order to make a living.

Game has since moved, making way for a Chinese mall and a new set of migrants who sell wares from China — anything from blankets, toys and makeup to building materials and “African” crafts made in China. The motley crew of street sellers that encircled the parking lot 20 years ago could not have competed with the global reach of cheap Chinese goods. But I am getting ahead of myself.

I had arrived at what was then Jan Smuts Airport on August 5 1994 with little more than an address and a lot more courage than I have now. I had a conviction that South Africa was the place to be. And indeed it was. South Africa then was electric with hope, possibility and goodwill — not just for South Africans, but for the world. Landing at Jan Smuts, I couldn’t help but get swept up in the country’s optimism.

With an undergraduate degree, a series of disappointments looking for a job in Kenya and a mix of excitement and fear, I journeyed to Johannesburg to make a life that I could be proud of.

Realising I could not make a living selling crafts on the streets, I began looking for formal employment. I would respond to job adverts in local and national newspapers. Even in 1994, it was difficult without the right papers.

I got stuck in the dilemma that most foreign migrants find themselves in. Without a work visa, employers were unwilling to employ me, but without employment I could not get a work visa. Pursuing my master’s degree was my “plan B”, but as a friend of mine put it then, “at least you have a plan B”. Indeed, I was fortunate that I had the option to pursue my studies. Yet two years of doing my master’s would mean investing in resources that I did not have and two years in which I would remain a financial burden to my family.

I enrolled for a master’s degree in development planning and hoped for the best, committed to finding work after hours to pay my fees. A few months after my enrolment I received a merit award, which provided some financial support for my studies. Two years later, I graduated and found work in the growing nonprofit sector.

In many ways, the book Migrant Women of Johannesburg echoes my own journey.

It follows the lives of women from Rwanda, Cameroon, the Democratic Republic of Congo, Tanzania, Uganda, Kenya, Congo Brazzaville, Nigeria, Zimbabwe and Bu- rundi now living in Johannesburg.

Some of them have become successful businesswomen, others have found work and an education in the city. But many continue to struggle to support themselves, eking out a living in the precarious informal sector. In their stories, we are drawn into a city that is in between their romantic memories of the home they left behind and the new life they wish to build in the US, Europe, or elsewhere.

Their Johannesburg is a city that is between the stereotypes of crime and golden opportunities. Their Johannesburg is a place that is in between exhilarating freedom and the fear of deportation, incarceration and failure.

Twenty years on, I remain in Johannesburg, committed to the city, yet there is always a sense that I remain both located and dislocated here.