Tag Archives: the ‘ville.

Osama bin Laden is in Mauritius. It RaWKs here biyatches!!!

It may happen one day that you find yourself heading west out of Johannesburg, down Main Reef Road, pass the intersection with Leratong Hospital on your right, en route to Randfontein.
I can’t say what Randfontein offers that would warrant the excursion, but it may be that the fate of the free world depended on it, or not.
Either way you’ll drive past Azaadville; home to 67 Facebookers who’ve chosen to disclose it as their hometown on their profiles, and one who rose to recent notoriety for being the alleged purveyor of Matric exam papers.

A raid on his house by the Johannesburg Flying Squad Reservist Unit and the subsequent email Fwd:FW: floods were precipitated by the following Facebook status update:

***** ****** is if all u matric peeps r needin papers.. i no sum ppl, dat nos sum ppl dat robbed sum ppl, that robbed the department… so if u want papers.. jus leme no (“,).”


Azaadville is a small town by any definition of ‘small town’. Even the term ‘town’ is too generous for the locale. Designated as an indian-area in the dark-days, the residents have remained pre-dominantly conservative Muslims, Hindus and Christians.
Despite its size and unassuming mien, Azaadville has managed to find itself peppered across newsprint from time to time.
Pre-1994, the town provided shelter for residents in neighbouring Swanieville who were wracked by political violence. Its high school was re-named Ahmed Timol Secondary by former President Nelson Mandela, after the school teacher and anti-apartheid activist who died while in police custody. It was home to the “man they called Banjo” as well as nascent cricketing talent Gulam Bodi who bowled many an over in the local fields.

And now Facebook has brought new focus on Azaadville.

This would be a truly pioneering case if investigations prove that the ‘Ville Facebooker in question was in possession of the stolen examination papers. It would be the first time in South African history that a person’s actions on an internet social-networking platform result in legal action.

But what does this mean really? Riyaadh Ebrahim posited the implications around arresting someone based on their Facebook status message. He gives the following example, “If my Facebook status says that I am going to kill someone, can I be charged with intent to murder?”
He claims it’s a curtailment of the freedom of expression.

I changed my status to ‘Saaleha is going to kill Riyaadh Ebrahim at 10.30 tonight in the study using a brass candlestick.’ This is obviously a statement that won’t be taken seriously by any authority.

The ‘Ville Facebooker claimed he was joking.

***** ****** is if all u matric peeps r needin papers.. i no sum ppl, dat nos sum ppl dat robbed sum ppl, that robbed the department… so if u want papers.. jus leme no (“,).”

It certainly reads like a joke. In fact, if any aspirant matriculant read that and thought it was legitimate, I’d say, “Go ahead and try your luck, you obviously need all the help you can get.”
Online social transactions will never epitomised by credibility. You take what you read with a gram of coke. Didn’t they learn that on IRC?

And then of course, you can flip this thing over on its side. There was the anonymous caller to the crime tip-off line. What if the ‘Ville Facebooker really had the exam papers? Now there’s a nomination for Most Retarded Net-User Of The Year.

from the archives


Three poppies from back in the day, before we knew the things we know now, and after we learnt most of the important stuff. (lengthier feel-good retrospective inner-fuzzy-smiley aw-shucks-sweet post to follow.) 

the ‘Ville weekend

Gran needed weekend company and I was keen to drive – anywhere – even if it was down Main Reef Road towards Azaadville, maintaining the ridiculous 8okm/h limit while dodging cars that should’ve been pensioned off to scrap heaps when the Nats were still in power and taxis who use their hazards as indicators (whats it gonna be mfwetu, swerve to the left, swerve to the right? tata ma chance eh? I always a enjoy a good game of Life Lotto).

Ex-Sig. once told me about the perfect drive, where clutch, engine, human and road come together in zen flawlessness. I thought of that moment of universal balance as Billy Corgan asked me to tell him tell him what I’m after so that he could get there faster. Spinning Killers, Peppers, Pumpkins and Live, my quintessential music to drive by, I experienced that one complete union of Drive. It didn’t matter where I was going, just that I was getting there.


The Azaadville weekend’s opening salvo was my gran’s delightful six-rounds of “Why haven’t you found any one to marry? Why are you so fussy? You missed out on [insert crazy x here] and Ayesha’s nephew and etc and etc. Amina-mummy saw you at the walimah and said you’re looking old and must just settle down now. How do your friends and cousins find husbands and you don’t? Why doesn’t your mother tell you anything?” My kevlar failed me against the hail of gujerati-laced bullets.

The possible methods of madness as discussed with Speedy led me to duck and seek refuge upstairs where I found myself looking over at the dome of the darul-uloom. The lighting of it is a recent addition and the embellishment gives off the green of a nuclear-aftermath, rendering Azaadville’s usual blink-and-miss quality null.
And then the battle of the muezzins begins for Asr, the four voices rousing the locals to supplication. Even with a mosque a few doors away in Homestead Park, I missed the energy of the plural azaan in Azaadville.

In classic ‘Ville Saturday Night fashion, supper had to be from Spicy’s at the corner of Taj and Azaad. Watching the denizens cruise by while i waited for the order of chicken tikka, I noticed how the Azaadville stare is an entity in its own right and can never quite be replicated in any other town.

Dawsons, the 24-hour convenience cafe is another new addition to the sleepy hamlet. Cool a concept as it is, I wonder which of the hassle-deens (an inside joke from my family’s days as purveyors of hazeldine and clover milk) wake up at 3am with munchies, niqaabi’s with a leaning towards Peter Tosh perhaps.?Naoozubillah, I’m wicked. No wonder no one will marry me. ha ha.

None of my friends are around this fine Saturday night and I fill time by filling a sheesha, apple and mint, which succeeds only in rounding off my already thrilling evening with a yuck-ick-vomity-headache.

Sleep. Wake. Sunday. I’m striking little lines through seconds until I hit the high-tar back to the city. It’s lunch, goodbye gran, I love you but I have to go hide in my head whenever you start talking.

A quick visit to my buddy Batman before I leave reminds me that all hope is not lost for the ‘Ville and the pod-people haven’t completely annihilated all forms of intelligent life.

Main Reef road is not as taxi-ridden on Sundays and I play only the occasional round of minibus dodge-em.
The tar and Billy sing, “I hear your winter, I hear your rain, I’ve failed your summer ways and I feel no pain….”

~fin~

Afrigator