The Dehli Avenue red sand soccer ground in Mayville that the writer played on, as a child.
Image: Facebook
YOU know how people say you can never really leave your hometown? For me, it’s true.
Mine still hums in my head, like the old jukebox at the corner shop that just won’t quit.
It’s a constant mix-tape of Dil Deke Dekho floating from one window, Miriam Makeba’s Pata Pata drifting down the street from another, all mixed with the scent of curry leaves and the distant thump of a shebeen drum.
That was Mayville, my corner of Cato Manor. And if my grey hair is anything to go by, the kind of respectable grey I like to call a sign of genius, these memories have had a long time to settle in.
Mayville was not just a place; it was a universe.
We had the First and Second River Temples side-by-side, the Ahmedia Mosque’s call to prayer giving the day a sacred rhythm.
A typical old wooden and iron house in Bellair Road, Mayville.
Image: Supplied
We had the Rubicon for treats, the Sheherazade Cinema for dreams, and the Mayville Sports Ground for everything else, the football, the cricket, the gossip, and the smell of roasted mielies.
We had characters like the Azalea Road Gang (who gave the place some kind of character, even if it was the wrong kind) and proper leaders like Mr Billy Peters.
I even went to Mayville High, a school perched on a hill not quite high enough to justify the name. It was there a geography teacher once told us, with a straight face, that the little rivers flowing into the Nile are called “juveniles”.
He later admitted it was a joke. Honestly, between that and my primary school teacher explaining that noses run and feet smell, it’s a wonder any of us learnt anything at all.
But here’s the thing about this jukebox in my head. Sometimes the music skips. It gets stuck on a low, grinding sound. The sound of bulldozers.
They called it the Group Areas Act. I call it legalised robbery. A fancy piece of paper that said our homes, our temples, our Bhana’s Shop, and the dreams we had at the Sheherazade “Bioscope”, all of it was suddenly worthless because of the colour of our skin.
They wanted the best land, and they wanted total control. So, families like mine were told to pack up their furniture and the memories stuck to it, and trek off to places like Chatsworth and Phoenix.
The government and the Durban Corporation then left our beautiful, vibrant piece of prime real estate to rot. They let it fall into ruin through pure neglect.
A thriving little metropolis, bulldozed into a ghost town.
What makes my blood simmer, even now, is that this was not ancient history. And it’s not just my story. It’s the story of people from Durban North, Seaview, Sezela, all over.
I see them writing books about their old neighbourhoods, their eyes getting that same misty look.
We’re all still trying to get back to that jukebox.
And here’s the thing that really gets me: this idea of just taking what you want, of uprooting people, it’s not a ghost from the past. You still see it happening in parts of the world today, unjust, forcible occupation of land. It’s the same ugly song, just with different lyrics.
Now, look, I’m not saying we should all just move back. Chatsworth and Phoenix, where many ended up, are vibrant places today. They have their own dramas, comedy, and pathos.
It’s home. But the land where Mayville once stood? It’s still not what it could be.
A valuable piece of real estate, underdeveloped and largely under-utilised.
A constant, physical reminder of what was lost.
This brings me to my point. We can’t just rely on nostalgia to build a future. We can look back with fondness, heck, my memories are the wallpaper of my mind, but we have to build forward with sense. We have to learn from the mistakes of the past.
And the biggest lesson?
Your home, your business, your community hub, it can never be truly yours if it can be taken away on a whim.
People need proper, orderly, legal title to their property. They need to hold that piece of paper that says, in black and white, “this is mine”.
We are told South Africa has one of the best land registration systems in the world. Well, let’s use it. Let’s use it to protect people’s hard work, to build communities that can’t be flattened by the next terrible idea that comes along.
Forgiving the past is one thing. Forgetting it is another. Forgetting is how you let the bulldozers roll in again. We need to build a South Africa where the only thing that gets legally repossessed is our old, grey-haired memories, and even those, they can never, ever take away.
** The views expressed do not necessarily reflect the views of IOL or Independent Media