Ashes beneath the city

The City of Masks

The city always looked different on Monday mornings — busy, impatient, dressed in ambition. Even the sky above Sandton seemed cleaner, as though the clouds knew better than to linger over the poor. Luthando stood by the taxi rank in Alexandra, dressed in his best shirt and a tie borrowed from a neighbor. In his hand was a paper folder that Nandi had given him the day before.

Inside it was a volunteer application form for an NGO called “Bright Horizons Youth Empowerment.”

“They help train young people,” she’d said, her smile bright with belief. “You’d be perfect there, Luthando. You already motivate people without even trying.”

He hadn’t believed that — but he believed in her belief.

So now he was here, stomach twisted with hope and nerves, waiting for the taxi to fill up.

The NGO’s offices were on the edge of Rosebank — a modest building wedged between tall offices. The sign out front was painted in cheerful orange and blue letters: Empowering Change, One Voice at a Time.

Inside, posters lined the walls — smiling faces, bold slogans:

“Youth Are the Future!”

“Together, We Can Break the Cycle!”

“Opportunity for All!”

At the front desk, a young man in a branded shirt greeted him. “Morning, brother. You’re here for the volunteer intake?”

“Yes,” Luthando said, handing over the form.

“Cool. Go straight to the hall. They’re starting the orientation.”

The hall was filled with about twenty young people, all chatting, some excited, others shy. The energy was new — not the heavy air of the township, but something that smelled faintly of possibility.

A woman in a crisp blazer stood at the front, radiating confidence. “Welcome, everyone! I’m Ms. Khumalo, director of Bright Horizons. You are now part of a growing movement to empower your communities and yourselves.”

Her voice was smooth, rehearsed. “Here, you’ll learn leadership, communication, and entrepreneurship. You’ll be our ambassadors in the fight against unemployment.”

Applause followed, though it sounded uncertain.

Luthando clapped too. Something in him wanted to believe every word.

Over the next few weeks, he threw himself into the work. They ran workshops at schools, collected donations for underprivileged youth, and organized cleanup campaigns. He was a natural speaker — people listened when he spoke. His story carried the weight of real struggle, and others felt it.

Nandi would sometimes stop by after her clinic shifts to drop off medical pamphlets or chat with the volunteers. Her presence alone lifted him.

“You look good in this environment,” she told him one afternoon. “It suits you.”

He chuckled. “Because I’m surrounded by people who talk too much?”

“No,” she smiled. “Because you actually mean what you say.”

One Friday, the NGO prepared for a big event — “Youth Voices Johannesburg 2025.” Sponsors, journalists, and politicians were coming. Everyone was nervous.

Ms. Khumalo called Luthando into her office. The air smelled of perfume and polished furniture. “Luthando, right?” she said, glancing at her screen. “I’ve been hearing good things about you.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“You’ll be on stage tomorrow to share your story. Keep it positive — focus on resilience and opportunity, not struggle. Our donors love success stories.”

He hesitated. “But my story is struggle.”

Her smile tightened. “Yes, but we prefer a hopeful tone. Make them believe their money changes lives. Understood?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The next day, the event was a spectacle. Banners waved, cameras flashed. A group of rich sponsors in tailored suits took front-row seats. The volunteers sat behind them, wearing bright orange shirts with the NGO’s logo.

When it was Luthando’s turn to speak, he stood at the microphone, staring at the sea of expectant faces.

He began softly: “My name is Luthando Maseko. I come from Alexandra township, a place where dreams are often smaller than the shacks we live in.”

A murmur rippled through the crowd — a mix of discomfort and curiosity.

“But in that same place, people wake up every morning and try again — because hope doesn’t need luxury, it just needs breath.”

The room fell silent. His voice grew stronger. “I joined Bright Horizons to find a way to lift others like me. But what I’ve learned is that sometimes, the most powerful change doesn’t come from money — it comes from dignity.”

Applause erupted. Even Ms. Khumalo clapped, though her eyes were unreadable.

Afterward, several donors approached him, shaking hands, complimenting his “authentic spirit.” But their smiles faded quickly as they turned to take photos beside the branded backdrop.

Luthando watched, uneasy.

Nandi, who had attended, came to his side. “You were incredible,” she said.

He looked at her. “They clapped, but I don’t think they heard me.”

She sighed. “They heard what they wanted. But you said what mattered.”

Weeks passed. Luthando became one of the most active volunteers. Yet, cracks began to show. The projects that were promised never materialized. Money collected for youth programs vanished into “administrative costs.” The food drives always seemed to run short, though photos of overflowing tables filled the NGO’s social media pages.

He overheard a conversation one afternoon between two senior staffers.

“Ms. Khumalo’s meeting the sponsor again?”

“Ja, she’s taking another ‘consultation trip’ to Cape Town. Business class, of course.”

Luthando’s stomach tightened.

Later that week, he helped deliver boxes labeled Community Supplies to a storage room. He opened one out of curiosity — and found it half-empty, stuffed with old clothes instead of the advertised electronics and learning materials.

That evening, he confronted Ms. Khumalo.

“Ma’am, with respect — people trust us. They donate because they believe we’re helping.”

She looked up from her laptop, calm as a snake. “And we are helping, Mr. Maseko. But we also have expenses. You think buildings pay for themselves?”

“Then why lie about what’s in the boxes?”

Her expression hardened. “Careful, young man. You’re speaking out of turn.”

“I just want honesty.”

She leaned forward. “Honesty doesn’t pay the bills, Luthando. Optics do. If you want to change the world, learn how it works first.”

He left the office shaking, anger boiling in his chest.

That night, he sat outside the shack, staring at the flickering candle beside his mother’s bed. Ayanda was asleep, her homework books scattered. The wind whispered through the gaps in the roof.

He thought about everything — Sizwe’s downfall, the fake smiles of donors, the endless circle of survival.

He felt trapped again — not by poverty this time, but by the illusion of progress.

When his mother stirred and whispered his name, he took her hand.

“Ma, how do people stay good when everything around them is corrupt?”

She smiled faintly, eyes half-closed. “By remembering who they are, not who the world wants them to be.”

Her words soothed him like rain on dry ground.

The next morning, he returned to the NGO, quieter than usual. When Ms. Khumalo passed him in the hallway, she smiled her perfect smile. “Good morning, Luthando. Ready for another productive day?”

He forced a polite nod. “Always.”

But inside, something had changed. The light that once burned with belief now flickered with something sharper — the beginning of awareness.

He realized then that the city wasn’t just divided between rich and poor. It was divided between truth and performance.

And Bright Horizons, for all its slogans and promises, was just another stage where masks were worn for survival.

That night, as he walked home through the noisy streets of Alexandra, the rain began again — steady, unrelenting. He didn’t run for shelter. He let it soak him, wash away the lies that had clung too long.

The city lights shimmered through the storm, blurred but beautiful — like something real struggling to be seen beneath all the glass.

And beneath that rain, Luthando made a silent vow:

“If the system won’t speak the truth, then one day, I will.”