In the North West municipality of Ditsobotla, carcasses from a butchery stink up the pavement across the road from the municipal building. From a distance, the building itself is unassuming — abandoned, even. The gate leading to the parking lot is bolted shut. The windows are shattered; brittle glass — what’s left of it — frames cavernous rooms.
Get close enough, however, and you’ll see heavily armed security guards at every entrance. Razor wire reinforces the distance between residents and the beret-wearing security guard, who sits, clipboard in hand, with a firearm propped up against his chair.
Yellowing photographs of President Cyril Ramaphosa and Deputy President David Mabuza hang on the wall above the reception. The pitiful gallery is the only decoration inside the building. An almost man-sized safe stands uselessly near the staircase heading towards the mayor’s office.
In sum, the building is an apt metaphor for the state of governance here.
It is Friday afternoon when the FM visits Ditsobotla, and the municipal building is largely empty except for a handful of Patriotic Alliance (PA) members from the area.
The PA snatched the mayorship after entering into a coalition agreement with the ANC — a relationship the party considers “fruitful and stable”. A PA member in spotty jeans and sneakers ushers the FM silently to the mayor’s office. The stench from the bathroom on the way is stifling.
The building is dark and oddly silent. It’s a vivid contrast with the streets outside, where the roar of generators from stores and street vendors is a jarring soundtrack to the humdrum of daily life.
There is no money for a generator for the council building itself. Billing in the municipality has collapsed: it is eight months behind on collections; workers’ salaries are paid late or not at all; and the provision of the most basic services has collapsed.
In the mayor’s office, Itumeleng Lethoko tells the FM that her administration cannot be held responsible for the collapse of services in the municipality. “I have only been in office a few weeks,” she says.
That is at least partly true. The ANC-led council collapsed last year, leading to by-elections to replace all its councillors. At the time, the ANC had been in discussions with the DA to work together in the council, but these fell apart due to “different ideologies”, says DA caucus leader Yusuf Laher.
Lethoko — described by some as a “power monger” — is one of the winners in the ANC-PA coalition that subsequently emerged. Though it ceded the mayoral seat, the ANC retains a hold on the day-to-day administration by seconding Mothusi Oagile from the North West provincial government to act as municipal manager. (Ditsobotla has not been able to appoint a municipal manager for the past five years.)
While Lethoko seeks to distance herself from the service delivery challenges in the municipality, the reality is somewhat different. Laher, who grew up in Ditsobotla, points out that Lethoko was the ANC mayor from 2011 to 2016. (After having been an ANC member for about 40 years, she jumped ship to the PA — and once again finds herself in the mayoral seat.) And it was during that exact period that the rot set in, residents say.
Today, the municipality is a service delivery shambles. Residents the FM canvassed point to water and electricity cuts, unfilled potholes and refuse left uncollected for weeks on end.
Some areas have been without water for five years, they say. Driving on the roads is harrowing: the condition is such that they’re difficult to navigate, even in a small vehicle. And many residents have resorted to dumping their own garbage.
Karabo Sekgoa is a small-business owner in Ditsobotla. He worries that the situation is deteriorating so fast that any remaining investors will pull out of the area and create a further crisis of unemployment and poverty.
“I have not had water for the past seven days” he tells the FM. “It’s on and off. I buy water to bath and cook.”
Not an isolated issue
Further afield, in the rural reaches of the Free State and Northern Cape, things aren’t much different.
In Vredeshoop, Khauhelo Maneedi* and Jenna Diaho* watch over a collection of empty containers. They’re standing next to a pothole-pitted stretch of road in the Ngwathe municipality. It’s a cool Wednesday morning in the northeastern Free State, the air filled with the promise of rain.
“We’re waiting for the water car,” says Maneedi. “We haven’t had water since Monday.”
Water shortages in South Africa aren’t limited to rural backwaters, of course — the country as a whole is running dry — but inept officials seem not to care.
Two weeks ago, this took a high toll. Along the lower Orange River in the Northern Cape, seven farm workers died as temperatures soared above 50°C and the towns of Kakamas, Keimoes and Kenhardt ran dry.
No charges have been laid against the official responsible for water supply in the Kai !Garib local municipality, which serves the three towns.
What water there is would seem to be unsafe for consumption. Civic organisation AfriForum last month tested water samples at the Kakamas purification plant. It found levels of waterborne bacterium E. coli to be above 1,203 parts per 100ml; they should be at zero. At high levels, the bacterium can cause life-threatening diarrhoea. The count for coliform — a bacterium that increases the risk of consumers contracting waterborne disease — was more than 2,420 parts per 100ml. It should be less than 10. The FM has seen the PathCare report carrying these test results.
In Kenhardt, Lindah Muller is on a crusade against the municipality. She owns the De Oude Herberg guesthouse. “I didn’t have water between January 9 and 17,” she tells the FM. Luckily for her, the constructors of the three 540MW Scatec solar farms outside the town hauled water to her guesthouse, where they’re staying for the next year.
Referring to the sky-high E. coli levels, she says: “It is a crime against humanity to feed your people E. coli.”
Muller isn’t taking it lying down. “I’ve gathered a committee of citizens and we’re going to fight this municipality’s slapgatgeit. And for next year’s election, I’m going to make posters reminding voters of the potholes, the water and sewage,” she says.
Back in the urban sprawl of Gauteng, Princess township in Mogale City is also having water problems. There, the supply is intermittent, as Eskom’s rolling blackouts cripple pump operations.
“People in Princess will go to the old wells to get water,” says Jeremiah Masole. “The water will dry up for a day or two after heavy load-shedding.”
It’s yet another challenge on top of the many that make life impossible for South Africans. Jobs, for example, are as scarce as clean drinking water.
Take Ngwathe in the Free State. “I’m 45 years old and have never had a job since I left school,” says Maneedi. “They only give [jobs] to 18- to 35-year-olds.”
She and her two children live with her elderly mother, who receives a government old-age grant. Maneedi herself receives a child support grant for her two children — R480 a month each. It’s simply not enough: just the monthly transport fee for her eldest child’s schooling in Sasolburg is R1,355.
“We don’t work and don’t get jobs, but the government wants our votes,” she says. “Tell Cyril [Ramaphosa] we want water, electricity and jobs.”
It’s a sentiment Masole shares. “Unemployment in Princess is huge. People come from the [former] homelands to find a job. Foreigners still think South Africa is industrialised. They also come to find a job. Now, people fight for the little resources available.”
His solution is to “destroy the politicking of race”.
“[It] is destroying South Africa. If we destroy it, we can allow investors to come in,” Masole says.
Diaho is one of the many disillusioned people who spoke to the FM. She has voted in every election that she’s been allowed to vote in. “I’m not going to vote next year. They must ask the 18- to 35-year-olds to vote for them. They get the jobs.”
It’s 45 minutes later, and the municipal water car has finally arrived in Ngwathe. It’s a small JoJo tank assembled on a trailer. The driver starts to fill Maneedi and Diaho’s containers. He is curt, offering no niceties — as if they are the bother.
“Please don’t use our real names,” says Maneedi. “They will cut off our electricity.”
The irony.
* Not their real names for fear of intimidation from local government officials
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