I was born in a nursing home in the Southern suburbs of Johannesburg. Why I got this special treatment at a time when home birthing was the norm, I never did find out. When my mother and I got to go home it was to a two storey block of flats on Central Avenue which is the main road through Mayfair. The flats were tiny two bedroom, one bathroom affairs and number 3 was to be my first home.
Edlaw Mansions
My first permanent abode (after the womb, I must stress) Was number three Edlaw Mansions, Central Avenue no less Sadly not Illovo nor Athol nor even Eastleigh my dear But Mayfair, near Fordsburg, the wrong trackside I fear And “Mansions” was poetic licence misused to excess So grand a title far removed from reality, I guess Yet its two bedroom flats served for many a year As refuge and haven for all who lived there A veritable potpourri of people used this address All forced there by hard times, by financial distress And things were seldom as they might outward appear With any signs of prosperity just a fragile veneer In the absence of affluence one could sense nonetheless The unmistakable presence of class consciousness And while the language division was painfully clear Politeness and civility is what you’d publicly hear Those on their way up might try hard to impress With a new woollen suit or a smart winter dress And those of less fortune would pretend to good cheer Then blow their last shilling on two bottles of beer Gone now the mansions, in the name of progress But neither absence nor time can serve to repress The memory of those who arrived in joy or in tear To find warmth in her shelter, to be held by her near
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