Ashes beneath the city

The first light of Johannesburg did not rise gently — it clawed its way over the rooftops of Alexandra, spilling gold over tin and dust. The sun, indifferent as always, caught on the jagged edges of corrugated iron and the rippled pools left from last night’s rain. In the narrow passage outside the Masekos’ shack, steam curled up from a neighbor’s pot, carrying the sharp scent of boiling maize meal through the morning haze.

Luthando lay awake long before the sun broke through the cracks in the roof. Sleep, for him, was a thing that came in small mercies — never a full night, always a restless doze between dreams that felt too much like memory. He rolled over carefully, avoiding the squeak of the metal bed frame so as not to wake Ayanda, his sixteen-year-old sister, still curled up on a thin mattress on the floor. His mother’s gentle snore came from behind the hanging blanket that separated her side of the room.

He sat up and ran a hand over his face. His palms were dry, cracked at the knuckles from washing cars the day before. On the small wooden table lay his most valuable possessions: a neatly folded shirt, a stack of worn CVs wrapped in a plastic sleeve, and a cheap cellphone with a broken corner.

“Another day, mfowethu,” he murmured to himself. Another day of searching.

He dressed quickly, the familiar morning ritual unfolding like muscle memory — splash water on his face from a cracked basin, smooth down the creases in his shirt, polish his shoes with a rag. He looked at his reflection in the metal mirror: twenty-five, tall, lean, with eyes that still held a spark even when life tried to dim them.

“Ma,” he called softly.

A cough, then her voice: “You’re going early again, mntanami?”

“Yes. Maybe I’ll catch someone before the queues get long.”

His mother, Zanele, emerged from behind the blanket, tying her faded headscarf. Her face carried the quiet strength of a woman who had seen too much and complained too little. “Don’t forget to eat something,” she said, handing him a piece of dry bread.

He smiled faintly. “I will. You rest, Ma.”

Outside, the township buzzed to life. Children ran barefoot along puddles, shouting in play. Minibus taxis honked like impatient birds. Somewhere, a preacher’s voice rose through a crackling loudspeaker: “The Lord provides! Even in your struggle, He provides!”

Luthando tucked his CVs under his arm and walked toward the main road, the smell of burning plastic in the air. Each step echoed his thoughts — the rhythm of worry, the drumbeat of hunger.

He caught a taxi to Sandton — that shining city of glass just across the highway, yet worlds away. He’d often thought of it as another planet: the place where money wore perfume and spoke English like it owned the alphabet.

When he stepped off the taxi at the Gautrain station, the transformation was jarring. The air felt cleaner here, even the pavements glimmered. He walked past cafes where people typed on laptops, sipping cappuccinos that cost more than his breakfast. He stared at the towering offices — finance, tech, communications — each name like a wall he couldn’t climb.

At the first building, he spoke to the security guard. “Good morning, bhuti. I’m here to drop off my CV.”

The guard looked him up and down, eyes lingering on his scuffed shoes. “You must leave it at reception. But I’ll tell you now — they only take online applications.”

“I know,” Luthando said softly. “But maybe someone will see my face.”

He smiled politely and stepped inside, greeted by cold air-conditioning and a receptionist who didn’t look up from her computer. When she finally did, her expression was practiced — polite, distant.

“I’m looking for any open positions,” he said. “Intern, assistant, anything.”

“You can check our website,” she replied flatly, returning to her screen. “We don’t take physical CVs.”

He hesitated, then placed one on the counter anyway. “Thank you.”

By midday, he had visited six buildings. Each one said the same thing in a different tone: No vacancies. No walk-ins. Apply online. By the time he reached the seventh, his shirt clung to his back with sweat, and his stomach growled.

He stood outside a sleek café, watching people through the glass — laughter, laptops, sparkling water. For a moment, bitterness rose in him like bile. Not envy, exactly, but a kind of exhaustion that came from watching others live in a world you could touch but never enter.

He turned to leave — and nearly collided with a man in a dark suit. The man looked irritated. “Watch where you’re going.”

“Sorry, sir,” Luthando said quickly.

The man’s gaze dropped to the CVs in his hand. “Looking for a job?”

“Yes, sir. Anything I can find.”

The man sighed. “Everyone’s looking. Maybe if you people studied something useful.” Then he walked off, the smell of his cologne lingering like insult.

Luthando stood frozen for a moment, his jaw tight. You people. The words echoed, sharp and familiar. He wanted to shout back, to explain that he had studied — Public Administration, diploma — but no one wanted to hire someone without “experience.” Experience he could never gain without being hired first.

He took a slow breath. Anger wouldn’t feed him. He found a quiet bench and sat, closing his eyes against the glare of the city.

When he opened them, his reflection stared back from the building’s mirrored surface — small, weary, but still upright. “Not today,” he whispered. “You don’t give up today.”

By late afternoon, he was back in Alexandra, walking home along the dirt paths. The township glowed with the tired warmth of evening — kids chasing a soccer ball made of plastic bags, the smell of frying vetkoek in the air, laughter rising from somewhere unseen. Despite the hardship, life here refused to die.

He bought a small bag of tomatoes and a loaf of bread from a street vendor, handing over his last coins.

When he reached the shack, Ayanda was outside, studying by candlelight. “Did you find anything, bhuti?”

“Not yet,” he said, forcing a smile. “But maybe tomorrow.”

She nodded, her eyes too wise for her age. “Ma’s been coughing a lot.”

He glanced inside — his mother was resting, her breathing shallow. Worry tightened in his chest. He sat beside Ayanda and looked up at the stars — faint through the haze of city lights.

“You know,” he said quietly, “when I was your age, I used to think the city was a place of miracles.”

“And now?”

He smiled sadly. “Now I think it’s a place that tests if you can still believe in them.”

They sat in silence, listening to the hum of distant traffic. Somewhere, a radio played Brenda Fassie’s “Vulindlela.” For a brief moment, it felt like hope — fragile, flickering, but alive.

Luthando leaned back and whispered to himself,

“Tomorrow. I’ll try again tomorrow.”

Above him, the city lights blinked like indifferent stars — and beneath them, in the heart of Alexandra, a young man’s fire refused to go out.