Johannesburg – With a bible-sized political party election manifestos firmly ensconced under my smelly armpits, I write to you from the unbeautiful banks of the filthy Hennops river in Mhlahlandlela, the erstwhile home of Mzilikazi ka Mashobane.
You have known it as Verwoerdburg, Lytt Elton or Irene. They call it Centurion now. Sometimes in the mid-1990s, black people were allowed to live in Centurion.
I could only join them in 2008. But still, in the contemporary lingo of my Centurion neighbourhood WhatsApp group, people like me are described as “suspicious-looking BM (black male) – bearded, tallish, hefty and somewhat menacing”.
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