Billboards Inside of Hilton KwaZulu-Natal

The right stories come at just the right time. They’re like Gandalf that way. Just before every septic tank in the Msunduzi Municipality hit the fan, I sat down to watch Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri. The film had a mixed response in the US, and I’m not here to defend my position on its brilliance. But one thing I will say, it was a perfectly timed viewing experience. Not only does it capture the clashing of order and chaos, but it also shows that civilisation is on a knife’s edge, and anarchy and vigilantism are a messy business. 

A lot of the time we make decisions based on what works for us in a particular moment. Sometimes we pull it off, sometimes we fuck up, and sometimes we fuck up spectacularly. 

What we’re left with are consequences. How we move forward is a decision. And before we proceed, let’s take “resilience” off the table, and file it with “the new normal”. Burn before reading. 

If you’re looking for “all the feels” and an America’s Got Talent big moment, you’ve come to the wrong place. There might be a smattering of kumbaya, but I’m holding off on the magic circle where we sit around and drum together.  

I wasn’t supposed to be here this long. My decision to move back to Hilton was supposed to be a temporary pit stop, but I’ve committed to a spinning bike and NP number plates. I also post on Hilton Chat and am a card-carrying member of The Hilton Rate Payers Association, a security initiative, and a blasted WhatsApp group that up until recently served the purpose of informing me about where Hilton’s dogs are at. Things have escalated spectacularly from there. Why just a few months ago my mother and I walked into the Anew Hilton Hotel to attend a security meeting. How the world has changed. Back in the day we would walk in to start a shift (both of us), play a gig (my mum), pull a sickie from school (me). Mum and I were the types who looked in on community capers, we never joined in. I mean you’d battle to coax us to a book club (and there are books and wine there). 

Being back on our old stomping ground for the first time since my father sold it in 2009 was surreal. What was more surreal was that two of Hilton’s biggest “non-joiners” were attending a community meeting – plus I even voiced an opinion. Next thing you know we’ll be championing a bid to get the Hilton Lion’s Fair started up again. This on top of rumours that I’m planning to run for mayor might just tip the locals over the edge. Fear not, as much as I’d love to add years to the lives of Craig Miller and Pam Passmore, I’m afraid I’m just not that altruistic. But I am that local. It’s time to face the facts.  

I’m all about the facts. So much so that my job involves reading a lot of books. Let’s all fasten our seatbelts for a flagrant brag festival. Since November I’ve read 140 self-help, self-improvement, mindfulness, dazzling science, history, and some real roll your eyes out of your head level shit. I’m now the person people avoid at parties. Luckily we aren’t partying so my self-esteem is A-OK. Anyway the other day I was comforted while reading that the universe is chaos, and once we accept that and stop trying to impose order on it, we’ll be a lot happier. I find comfort in this because I’m not one who believes in “thoughts and prayers” and the power of a Facebook profile picture filter. Shit is whack. Is 42 even the meaning of life? And if it’s not, where do we begin? Thankfully I’m not here to give you meaning. I ain’t no Deepak Chopra. 

What I will tell you is this. Stories are everything. 

So here’s my voice from the chaos, and what I’ve observed. But before we begin I’ll let you in on a secret, all writers are basically lurkers who verge on stalking. A good story starts with what you know, and then you add in a sprinkling (a generous one) of exaggeration. 

Everyone will have their stories from the past week. Here’s mine. If you don’t like it, then write your own. I can’t pretend I’m not white, not privileged, and don’t live in Hilton. I will make one promise… there will be no virtue signaling, we’ve seen enough of that for one lifetime. “Hashtag doing my bit.”

It all began when Facebook and our local-security-slash-lost-dog WhatsApp group alerted me to the potential threat of JZ, which then escalated to about 25 trucks blazing on the N3. It didn’t bode well, but sadly South Africans are used to burning trucks. Some of us might smash an Urbanol or a homeopathic alternative, but for the most part, it’s business as usual. ‘Yoh, that’s a bit kak!’ 

Things went from kak to worse. Not since those two planes crashed into the twin towers have I felt the same levels of ‘What in the actual fuckshow is this new level of fuckshow?!’ We’ve seen looting, we’ve seen burning, but when I saw Brookside Mall get completely torched the tectonic plates shifted. These dudes meant business. You know what happened next, you’ve seen the videos, you’ve read the news. 

Shit escalated to full-on Oliver Stone, Game of Thrones, and let’s chuck in some Battle of Helm’s Deep cos it was shit cold and dark. 

I know people who were in the thick of it. In the thick of it, I was not. Was I scared shitless? Absolutely. The thing with fear is we fear the unknown, and what was happening was hella unknown. Howick and the greater Pmb were burning, and white okes in white bakkies were mobilising. I’m not gonna lie, I felt uncomfortable as hell. And then I felt grateful as hell. And then I felt conflicted because white bakkies are akin to K-Way puffer jackets and they make me antsy. Look, every community has a different story. We’ve all seen the videos of white vigilante mobs in certain areas going Full Metal Jacket and making shit awful decisions based on their casual, formal, or smart casual racism leanings. It’s not OK. But I’m not here to tell their stories.

So back to my story. Our local station commander “Captain He-Man” is a boss because he’s a man with a plan. And although women, and in some instances mice, make plans too, in this case, it’s Captain He-Man who needs a proverbial Bells or a Bar One, or an all open access to a car bar. Captain He-Man was lank firm with the okes in the white bakkies, and told them categorically that they needed to have their shit well and truly together. They weren’t to land their asses on Facebook viral for being a bunch of gung-ho clowns. They were to be the opposite of clown town. I’m assuming it went well because I saw a bagpiper on my newsfeed, and that’s a sign that the Matrix is still intact. Wait have I got that right?

Anyway moving on. When the WhatsApp came through that the Sweetwaters Community were joining the men in white bakkies, the SAPS, the various armed response chapters, and the bloody taxi drivers (“What?!”) it was beyond kiff. It was so kiff that we all let out a collective sigh of relief. The not so excellent part was the sigh brought with it a real humdinger of a cold front with an epic frost. This would have been OK except the prudent among us were heeding the warning to not use any bloody electricity because ‘If we blow a load, no one will hear our screams.’ Not even the loudest Negative Nancy or Hurrumphing Harold on Hilton Chat would be able to get the attention of Pam and Craig (the managers).

So on the danger front shit was secure. Other places were not so lucky. Big shout out to all the seriously kiff okes who stood sentinel and froze, while we moaned about how cold it was from under our blankies. We avoided the chaos because some people chose not to risk it, and others chose to protect the shit out of it. Sometimes the dice rolls in a different way.  

But then I received a message from a top human who we’ll call Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman. She’s not a doctor, but I’m not a “real” doctor either so who’s counting? The WhatsApp told me that the medicine situation was a few million points up from a grade-A shituation. Warehouses and pharmacies were the new Tops, and I can’t even fathom what a monumental bunch of supreme asshats would attack medicine. Not just knicking a few Grand-Pa for the Tops looting hangover, no, burning and looting wholesalers and all but completely destroying the supply chain. That was a decision that I’m not going to kumbaya in a hurry. 

So it was that for two days I helped Dr. Quinn and her team, and ferried medicine to the Police Station for the mostly-grateful Hilton residents in need of meds. One woman told me ‘This isn’t how anyone should be running a business,’ and I wondered if the taxidermy collection from the KwaZulu-Natal Museum was marching up Old Howick Road or if someone had magically rolled a five or an eight, or whatever one needs to get the hell out of Jumanji.

And now here we are… the white bakkies have dispersed, K-Way Puffer jackets have migrated back to the Quarry, and local hero Jono Hornby is once again in his natural habitat being awesome. If you want to contribute to his awesome, please check out the Sweetwaters Food Relief Project Facebook page. There are other people in other circles doing phenomenal things. Tell your stories. Hell, I’ll tell them for you if you can tolerate my propensity for throwing in a few f-bombs. 

So what did we learn? Well, I can’t speak for you, but I can speak for myself. I learned that we’re better when we get involved in other people’s stories. Be a verb and do cool shit. Be an adjective and make something extraordinary. Be a noun and add value. Hell, be a comma or full stop and offer someone a breath when they need it.  

And I didn’t promise to not use my favourite saying. And it’s never been so important. If you can, read the book. 

‘If this is your land, where are your stories?’ (J. Edward Chamberlain)       

Be a part of the story. It’s all we leave behind.