INSTITUTIONALIZED CHILD CARE IN URBAN SOUTH AFRICA

ecent life updates, he rolled up his sleeve to reveal a deep scar on both sides of his
shoulder. “Oh yeah,” he recalled, “I was stabbed.”
I asked him to tell me the story of the incident. He was still living at 5Cees at the
time, but he went out to visit his brother, living in the township of Alexandra. While
visiting his brother, he needed to switch taxis. While waiting for his next ride, a group of
three guys came to him and asked him for his money and phone. When he resisted, they
threatened him with a knife. “You might take my things,” he told them, “but you won’t
kill me.”
The relationship I formed with Lindikhaya had always been a rather playful one,
and I knew he had a tendency towards hyperbole and embellishing his stories. While his
recollection of dialogue during that incident was both dramatic and unverifiable, the scar
on his shoulder confirmed the intensity of the attack. The knife wound went all the way
through his shoulder, emerging on the other side. His recovery process took months.
The most stark reminder of dangers of the neighborhood came at a time that was
unexpected. While we were in the girl’s department doing drawing activities and
listening to their stories, our time was interrupted by a visitor to the center who came to
talk to their care mother. He entered and began to tell his story, saying he was in search
of a girl named Gululeko. He continued to tell his story in Zulu, with many of the girls
translating for us to fill us in on the details.
“This girl had not been seen for a few days. He says that she did not want to go to
school. She said that she kept getting raped when she would try to go to school. Her
parents insisted, saying she must go to school. She went to school a few days ago and that
was the last anybody saw of her. The principal says she never showed up at school.”
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