In 1988 I bought a house in Melville, Johannesburg, and soon discovered that most of the domestic workers in my little cul-desac spoke isiXhosa, but were also exceptionally fluent in English. All were ‘live-ins’, and many had been in the city for many years. Given their close ties to their home villages, they were role models, inspiring other women to travel to Johannesburg, often specifically to Melville with its views across to the Koppies. Over Christmas, most of these women returned to the Eastern Cape, to their homelands. Some took ‘Durban line’ buses to the Kokstad area, while others boarded the ‘Bloemfontein line’ in the direction of Butterworth and Queenstown. In early January, by the time the Pride of India trees in Tolip Street were covered in pink blooms, they were back again.

Three decades later, most of these women are in their sixties, and have either gone home to their villages or are making plans to retire there. Winnie, whose surname I never knew, worked for my neighbour and passed away before she could fulfil her retirement dream. Through the years, many of the women had either children or grandchildren living with them, and most employers helped to send these children to former whites-only ‘Model C’ schools. Some children even attended university in the late 1980s and 1990s. None became domestic workers, most got good jobs and found accommodation in the city centre, though two have since died of illnesses related to HIV/Aids.

Nomahobe Cecilia Magadlela

The woman in Tolip Street I know best is a year older than me: Nomahobe Cecilia Magadlela, born on 16 June 1950.1 She grew up in the Butterworth area and left when she was nineteen years old, after her parents tried to force her to marry an old man she did not love.