Granny Evelyn

Alexandra Township outside Johannesburg, South Africa, has little in common with the Northwoods retreat where I now live. I used to think it was so crowded nothing green could grow there, but this picture shows there is at least one, no, two trees in the area. In the background is one of the notoriously violent hostels built to house workers brought from the African homelands to the city to fill job needs under the old apartheid regime. I have been told that more than two thousand men live in that building. Surrounding the hostel are small houses. Some are reasonably comfortable, but to pay the high cost of the mortgage (or bond, as it is locally called) multiple shacks were built in the yard and rented out. I described one of these courtyards when I visited Imelda.

Granny Evelyn lives in a similar courtyard. She is one of the grannies from the group at the Baptist Church that I talked with about reading with their grandchildren. Besides her own grandchildren, Granny Evelyn does child care for a dozen small children whose parents are trying to make a living in this challenging environment. My friend Ruth dropped off a box of chocolate Easter eggs for the little ones to enjoy. Eleven teenage orphans living on their own will stop by in the evening for the hot meal Granny Evelyn prepares.

Only a few grannies came to the meeting that day. They talked about how to grow the group. "You can be a granny without being old," they said. "Can the younger grannies come?" These older grannies have a lot to teach younger grannies like me about unselfishly giving of ourselves.

Imelda's

One day last week I went back with Ruth to Imelda's in Alex. We took cakes to serve a group of businessmen coming to look at the grannies support project with a view to getting involved financially. While Ruth and Imelda talked in her small combination living room and kitchen, I enjoyed the sunshine outside.

I counted eight doors opening onto Imelda's courtyard. Ten doors opened into the neighboring courtyard where three little girls played with a naked babydoll. Imelda's house has three rooms and running water. Many don't. In the middle of each courtyard was an small, sheet metal building that reminded me of an old-fashioned outhouse. That's what it was, only these outhouses had flush toilets--one per courtyard. Behind each outhouse was a tap over a wash tub for everyone in the courtyard to use.

Imelda took us to visit a pregnant teen. We left the car in the stony courtyard of a tuck shop/bar. Imelda led us down a narrow ally with a gutter of putrid water running down the middle to the shack where the girl lived. The girl's father was there, as was her sister, and her sister's two small children--one a darling little girl with a pink T-shirt and a charming smile. The room can't have been larger than nine feet by twelve, but it was cramped with a fridge, a small chest freezer with a microwave on top, a tiny, black and white television and an oven/two burner cooking unit on a chest of drawers. The lounge furniture on which we sat consisted of a backless wooden bench in front of the curtain that separated the bedroom.

We walked out into the street for a little privacy. Ruth asked the girl about her first pre-natal visit to the doctor. It had not been a positive experience. Imelda will offer to go with her next time. Ruth promised to help with baby clothes when the time comes--a small token of hope in a desperate situation.

Imelda is concerned about her teenage son. She has talked with him about her own status and the dangers of promiscuity. He shakes his head. He isn't willing to postpone sexual gratification until he finds a life partner. I wonder about this teenage girl. She may have never slept with anyone except the father of her baby, but how many women has he slept with? What is his HIV status? How can we convince teens that sex is worth waiting for?