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people,” he would say. “So why would you come all the way to Africa if you hate black people?
If you hate black people so much, why did you move into their house?” To him it was insane.
Because racism never made sense to my father, he never subscribed to any of the rules of
apartheid. In the early eighties, before I was born, he opened one of the first integrated
restaurants in Johannesburg, a steakhouse. He applied for a special license that allowed
businesses to serve both black and white patrons. These licenses existed because hotels and
restaurants needed them to serve black travelers and diplomats from other countries, who in
theory weren’t subject to the same restrictions as black South Africans; black South Africans
with money in turn exploited that loophole to frequent those hotels and restaurants.
My dad’s restaurant was an instant, booming success. Black people came because there
were few upscale establishments where they could eat, and they wanted to come and sit in a
nice restaurant and see what that was like. White people came because they wanted to see
what it was like to sit with black people. The white people would sit and watch the black
people eat, and the black people would sit and eat and watch the white people watching them
eat. The curiosity of being together overwhelmed the animosity keeping people apart. The
place had a great vibe.
The restaurant closed only because a few people in the neighborhood took it upon
themselves to complain. They filed petitions, and the government started looking for ways to
shut my dad down. At first the inspectors came and tried to get him on cleanliness and
health-code violations. Clearly they had never heard of the Swiss. That failed dismally. Then
they decided to go after him by imposing additional and arbitrary restrictions.
“Since you’ve got the license you can keep the restaurant open,” they said, “but you’ll
need to have separate toilets for every racial category. You’ll need white toilets, black toilets,
colored toilets, and Indian toilets.”
“But then it will be a whole restaurant of nothing but toilets.”
“Well, if you don’t want to do that, your other option is to make it a normal restaurant
and only serve whites.”
He closed the restaurant.
After apartheid fell, my father moved from Hillbrow to Yeoville, a formerly quiet,
residential neighborhood that had transformed into this vibrant melting pot of black and
white and every other hue. Immigrants were pouring in from Nigeria and Ghana and all over
the continent, bringing different food and exciting music. Rockey Street was the main strip,
and its sidewalks were filled with street vendors and restaurants and bars. It was an explosion
of culture.
My dad lived two blocks over from Rockey, on Yeo Street, right next to this incredible
park where I loved to go because kids of all races and different countries were running
around and playing there. My dad’s house was simple. Nice, but nothing fancy. I feel like my
dad had enough money to be comfortable and travel, but he never spent lavishly on things.
He’s extremely frugal, the kind of guy who drives the same car for twenty years.
My father and I lived on a schedule. I visited him every Sunday afternoon. Even though
apartheid had ended, my mom had made her decision: She didn’t want to get married. So we
had our house, and he had his. I’d made a deal with my mom that if I went with her to mixed
church and white church in the morning, after that I’d get to skip black church and go to my