The Homeless Diaries

Tales of a Broken Man

Chapter 1 by Mchunuriser Mchunuriser

Introduction

I have yet to encounter anything quite as exhausting or more brutal than trying to fall asleep on the pavement at the height of a Johannesburg winter. The benefits are few, and the nights are long, but for me, there is nothing more distressing than the **** loneliness that comes with the territory.

I actually envy the junkies on these streets because they all have something that binds them together. While rifts and rivalries undoubtedly develop in their ranks, they still interact, barter, trade, and share. Each **** addict has a genuine appreciation for what the other is going through, and when the chips are down, they stick together.

I deserve to be here as payment for my many imagined sins, but I certainly don't belong here, which has not gone completely unnoticed.

"Why are you on the streets, chief?" one of them asked me.

Of course, I didn’t ask him for a name, and I am pretty certain I would have forgotten it anyway.

"Because I don't have a place I can call home," I responded.

"Nonsense. Everybody has a home," he said, with a surprising air of confidence.

"Is that so?" I asked, fearing I was about to be subjected to some form of life lesson from a bona fide **** addict.

"I have been watching you. You are not a junkie, you don't drink, you don't smoke, and you don't do ****. You don't even hustle."

And here it comes...

"The streets of Johannesburg are no place for somebody like you. Look around, this place will eat you alive. Swallow whatever pride you think you have and find a way off the streets. Just look around you; it's not hard to see where these roads lead. Take the exit while you still can."

I opted for silence while staring blankly ahead. I decided not to argue the point, partly because the junkie's argument had merit but primarily because I was not in the mood for company, not while I was still coming to terms with life at the bottom of the barrel.

Frankly, I could live with being homeless and unemployed. I am even completely comfortable with the idea of ****, which I am told is inevitable on these streets, but the thought that the only people missing me right now are probably prostitutes and strippers is just soul-destroying.

I am pretty certain Wolfgang Storm’s name has featured in at least one WhatsApp group associated with the strippers and hookers of Cape Town, but I can’t imagine I have been so much as an afterthought to peers, colleagues, and even family since wandering into the concrete wilderness.

Money can't buy you happiness, but at least I was able to rent it for large portions of my adult life.

Now, there is no cash to splash; I have become John Cena...invisible. What worth am I to anybody beyond the material?

Every minor victory I have totted up during the past 20 years has, in fact, been hollow, and everything I imagined I achieved as a working professional has fizzled to nothing.

My severe lack of social development has never been more cruelly exposed, which is an extraordinary reality to be faced with, but when I reflect on it now, my days of ‘happiness’ have always been numbered.

Some people who fall on hard times have a life worth fighting for, but what awaits me when I emerge from this gutter? And it really is a question of WHEN, as opposed to IF.

"So, what's your deal?" asked my new hobo in arms. I had actually forgotten about him. While I really didn’t see the point in getting into that with him, it remains a pertinent question.

How on earth did I get here?

What's next?

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