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Sometimes it would last for hours, always ending with an “amen,” and they could keep that<br />
“amen” going on for five minutes at least. “Ah-men. Ah-ah-ah-men. Ah-ah-ah-ah-men.<br />
Ahhhhhhhhahhhhhhhhhhhahhhhhahhhhhhahhhhhmen. Meni-meni-meni. Men-men-men.<br />
Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhmmmmmmmennnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn.”<br />
Then<br />
everyone would say goodbye and go home. Next night, different house, same thing.<br />
Tuesday nights, the prayer meeting came to my grandmother’s house, and I was always<br />
excited, for two reasons. One, I got to clap along on the beat for the singing. And two, I loved<br />
to pray. My grandmother always told me that she loved my prayers. She believed my prayers<br />
were more powerful, because I prayed in English. Everyone knows that Jesus, who’s white,<br />
speaks English. The Bible is in English. Yes, the Bible was not written in English, but the<br />
Bible came to South Africa in English so to us it’s in English. Which made my prayers the<br />
best prayers because English prayers get answered first. How do we know this? Look at white<br />
people. Clearly they’re getting through to the right person. Add to that Matthew 19:14. “Suffer<br />
little children to come unto me,” Jesus said, “for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.” So if a<br />
child is praying in English? To White Jesus? That’s a powerful combination right there.<br />
Whenever I prayed, my grandmother would say, “That prayer is going to get answered. I can<br />
feel it.”<br />
Women in the township always had something to pray for—money problems, a son<br />
who’d been arrested, a daughter who was sick, a husband who drank. Whenever the prayer<br />
meetings were at our house, because my prayers were so good, my grandmother would want<br />
me to pray for everyone. She would turn to me and say, “Trevor, pray.” And I’d pray. I loved<br />
doing it. My grandmother had convinced me that my prayers got answered. I felt like I was<br />
helping people.<br />
—<br />
There is something magical about Soweto. Yes, it was a prison designed by our oppressors,<br />
but it also gave us a sense of self-determination and control. Soweto was ours. It had an<br />
aspirational quality that you don’t find elsewhere. In America the dream is to make it out of<br />
the ghetto. In Soweto, because there was no leaving the ghetto, the dream was to transform<br />
the ghetto.<br />
For the million people who lived in Soweto, there were no stores, no bars, no restaurants.<br />
There were no paved roads, minimal electricity, inadequate sewerage. But when you put one<br />
million people together in one place, they find a way to make a life for themselves. A blackmarket<br />
economy rose up, with every type of business being run out of someone’s house: auto<br />
mechanics, day care, guys selling refurbished tires.<br />
The most common were the spaza shops and the shebeens. The spaza shops were<br />
informal grocery stores. People would build a kiosk in their garage, buy wholesale bread and<br />
eggs, and then resell them piecemeal. Everyone in the township bought things in minute<br />
quantities because nobody had any money. You couldn’t afford to buy a dozen eggs at a time,<br />
but you could buy two eggs because that’s all you needed that morning. You could buy a<br />
quarter loaf of bread, a cup of sugar. The shebeens were unlawful bars in the back of<br />
someone’s house. They’d put chairs in their backyard and hang out an awning and run a
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