The statistical probability that an illiterate in 1970s Soweto will grow up and one day find herself confined in a potato truck with the Swedish king and prime minister is 1 in 45,766,212,810.
According to the calculations of the aforementioned illiterate herself.
The difference between stupidity and genius is that genius has its limits.
– Unknown
On a girl in a shack and the man who posthumously helped her escape it
In some ways they were lucky, the latrine emptiers in South Africa’s largest shantytown. After all, they had both a job and a roof over their heads.
On the other hand, from a statistical perspective they had no future. Most of them would die young of tuberculosis, pneumonia, diarrhoea, pills, alcohol or a combination of these. One or two of them might get to experience his fiftieth birthday. The manager of one of the latrine offices in Soweto was one example. But he was both sickly and worn-out. He’d started washing down far too many painkillers with far too many beers, far too early in the day. As a result, he happened to lash out at a representative of the City of Johannesburg Sanitation Department who had been dispatched to the office. A Kaffir who didn’t know his place. The incident was reported all the way up to the unit director in Johannesburg, who announced the next day, during the morning coffee break with his colleagues, that it was time to replace the illiterate in Sector B.
Incidentally it was an unusually pleasant morning coffee break. Cake was served to welcome a new sanitation assistant. His name was Piet du Toit, he was twenty-three years old, and this was his first job out of college.
The new employee would be the one to take on the Soweto problem, because this was how things were in the City of Johannesburg. He was given the illiterates, as if to be toughened up for the job.
No one knew whether all of the latrine emptiers in Soweto really were illiterate, but that’s what they were called anyway. In any case, none of them had gone to school. And they all lived in shacks. And had a terribly difficult time understanding what one told them.
* * *
Piet du Toit felt ill at ease. This was his first visit to the savages. His father, the art dealer, had sent a bodyguard along to be on the safe side.
The twenty-three-year-old stepped into the latrine office and couldn’t help immediately complaining about the smell. There, on the other side of the desk, sat the latrine manager, the one who was about to be dismissed. And next to him was a little girl who, to the assistant’s surprise, opened her mouth and replied that this was indeed an unfortunate quality of shit – it smelled.
Piet du Toit wondered for a moment if the girl was making fun of him, but that couldn’t be the case.
He let it go. Instead he told the latrine manager that he could no longer keep his job because of a decision higher up, but that he could expect three months of pay if, in return, he picked out the same number of candidates for the position that had just become vacant.
‘Can I go back to my job as a permanent latrine emptier and earn a little money that way?’ the just-dismissed manager wondered.
‘No,’ said Piet du Toit. ‘You can’t.’
One week later, Assistant du Toit and his bodyguard were back. The dismissed manager was sitting behind his desk, for what one might presume was the last time. Next to him stood the same girl as before.
‘Where are your three candidates?’ said the assistant.
The dismissed apologized: two of them could not be present. One had had his throat slit in a knife fight the previous evening. Where number two was, he couldn’t say. It was possible he’d had a relapse.
Piet du Toit didn’t want to know what kind of relapse it might be. But he did want to leave.
‘So who is your third candidate, then?’ he said angrily.
‘Why, it’s the girl here beside me, of course. She’s been helping me with all kinds of things for a few years now. I must say, she’s a clever one.’
‘For God’s sake, I can’t very well have a twelve-year-old latrine manager, can I?’ said Piet du Toit.
‘Fourteen,’ said the girl. ‘And I have nine years’ experience.’
The stench was oppressive. Piet du Toit was afraid it would cling to his suit.
‘Have you started using drugs yet?’ he said.
‘No,’ said the girl.
‘Are you pregnant?’
‘No,’ said the girl.
The assistant didn’t say anything for a few seconds. He really didn’t want to come back here more often than was necessary.
‘What is your name?’ he said.
‘Nombeko,’ said the girl.
‘Nombeko what?’
‘Mayeki, I think.’
Good Lord, they didn’t even know their own names.
‘Then I suppose you’ve got the job, if you can stay sober,’ said the assistant.
‘I can,’ said the girl.
‘Good.’
Then the assistant turned to the dismissed manager.
‘We said three months’ pay for three candidates. So, one month for one candidate. Minus one month because you couldn’t manage to find anything other than a twelve-year-old.’
‘Fourteen,’ said the girl.
Piet du Toit didn’t say goodbye when he left. With his bodyguard two steps behind him.
The girl who had just become her own boss’s boss thanked him for his help and said that he was immediately reinstated as her right-hand man.
‘But what about Piet du Toit?’ said her former boss.
‘We’ll just change your name – I’m sure the assistant can’t tell one black from the next.’
Said the fourteen-year-old who looked twelve.
* * *
The newly appointed manager of latrine emptying in Soweto’s Sector B had never had the chance to go to school. This was because her mother had had other priorities, but also because the girl had been born in South Africa, of all countries; furthermore, she was born in the early 1960s, when the political leaders were of the opinion that children like Nombeko didn’t count. The prime minister at the time made a name for himself by asking rhetorically why the blacks should go to school when they weren’t