Room 113

I’m already in my red plastic seat, an old couple walk in. “Haai Pappa maar daar’s baie meer “ligtes” hierdie maand”, says the woman as she seats herself next to me.

On my other side a well dressed man, Levi labels from top-to-toe, smells strongly of faeces.

I stare straight ahead tears welling, and remind myself that I am no better or any worse, than these 60 people here for the same reason, and try and breathe subtly through my mouth.

A friendly, him-and-her couple sit and chatter together merrily. They help confused newcomers, indicating the end of the queue with bright eyes. Their matted filthy hair plugged under grimy peaks, their fingernails black and bitten, their clothes threadbare, their faces unashamed.

Sixty people rise and shuffle two or three seats along as applicants are helped. I sit directly behind a woman with long dark hair. She is alone and she is static. Twenty five long thin black hairs reach up desperately, suspended in mid air! Her black sunglasses perch on top of her head and she is blissfully unaware. At each side, long, long, thin strands of black hair attach themselves to the shoulder of each of her neighbors. Reaching towards me straight from the back of her head are thirty horizontal wires of thin black. I get the feeling that they’d be ecstatic if they could reach me – but I pull back (just a little) smiling weakly.

Sixty people rise and shuffle, and I see a twin-set. They look like mother and daughter. They keep to themselves, looking straight ahead. They’re wearing identical jackets and bags and similarly earthy colored cotton clothing. They’re sensible people, they have water bottles, they are well prepared, they’ve been here before. They keep their arms neatly close to their bodies and their lips tightly closed. As “Next!” is called they go up together. I watch as they leave in power walk mode, visibly relieved to be heading OUT.

I close my eyes and try and relax and remind myself that I’m no better, and no worse, than any of these unemployed people.

Skinner str., Pretoria Central, Labour Department – Room 113 – UIF
27 August 2009 – 10am – 12.30pm

I left with a wad of papers to fill out and a list of instructions.

Meeting a friend for a pizza, covered in artichokes and deli delights, in the designer court in Brooklyn square released the floodgates. As my shoulders shook and she uncurled my clenched hand to massage my palm, a picture came to mind. Pinnochio the wooden puppet transforming into his fathers dream – a real person. I laughed at the thought of me shouting out in Cappuccinos “I’m a REAL girl!”