There is a bleak stretch of road north of the Maluti mountains in South Africa where a local bus dropped me one chilly evening. I was lucky to find shelter at the crossroads where a landlady with a lantern showed me to a spare room. Before the sun rose the next morning, I stood with satchel at the roadside hunched against a mean mountain wind. Sometimes researching material for a book turns the tables brutally. Your material, a sharp wind, and wintry prospects begin to research you.
My whispered prayer: that some soul would take pity on me with a ride to a bus station where I might find transport on to Johannesburg. I’d heard stories about the folly of such improvised travels, about theft and strandings, even beatings and disappearances. And those who sped past me had no doubt been warned against the malice of roadside strangers.
Presently, a sedan pulled over with three young men in hoodies. They squinted at me in the half-light, pegging me perfectly for a babe in the woods, and then agreed to drop me at the city bus station. As they pulled back on to the highway, it dawned on me that I had likely fallen into the clutches of the very ones I had most been warned to avoid. If I were to arrive unscathed at my destination, it would likely hang on building a personal bond with these ‘benefactors’.
They lived in Soweto, they told me, and in colorful language cursed the lack of jobs and the failed promises of the post-apartheid government. One of them hissed, ‘You do what you have to do’ to survive. That was not-so-coded language confirming their lot as ‘tsotsis’, those who rule the township nights with fear and street smarts.

South Africa, but it has long had its own distinct life. Though it now possesses modern infrastructure – shopping malls, schools, churches, museums and sports stadiums – its poor still shelter in improvised homes and unemployment plagues the many who stream into the city seeking opportunities not available in the provinces. From this crossroads came the music of Hugh Masekela and other artists. Many who led the struggle to bury apartheid – Winnie and Nelson Mandela, Chris Hani, Desmond Tutu, Frank Chikane, Hector Pieterson – called Soweto home. photo credit: AndrasOsvat.commons
The conversation turned to their families – their parents and elders in the backcountry. Had they taken the measure of this new South Africa, I asked? This they greeted with hoots of derision. ‘Those fogies are still lost in nostalgia for Nelson Mandela,’ one replied. ‘Those sentiments can’t turn on a single light bulb in our shanty towns, or put maguinya (fat cakes) on the table,’ said another. ‘We’re like you back there, stranded on the side of the road in the darkness.’ Was that a glimmer of fellow feeling, I asked myself? Had I just turned a corner with some young toughs who could have made mincemeat of me for hardly any reason at all?
In time we drew up in sunshine at the entrance of the bus terminal. I offered them cash for their kindness – which they refused as an offense, saying, ‘Family don’t pay’. And then they insisted on accompanying me through the crowd, bringing me safely to the very bus I needed. I couldn’t help but note the deference they were accorded by the hundreds of other waiting passengers. It seems my entourage had an established reputation in those parts. There followed a stern lecture to the bus driver. Do you see this lekgoa (white man), one of them demanded? ‘He is to be delivered to the depot in Johannesburg without so much as a scratch. If not, you’ll be hearing from us!’
With that, they shook my hand – I had no idea what the secret handshake appropriate to such a moment might be – bid me a safe journey and then they were gone. Vanished into the crowd.
I sat on the bus in puzzlement gazing over the milling throng. I wondered to whom else I should direct my gratitude for this extraordinary turn of events. To customary parents, perhaps, who, however out of touch, had raised young men to feel pity for a hapless traveler? Maybe to Nelson Mandela who pleaded with his wounded countrymen to yet hold out for a ‘rainbow nation’ at peace with itself? Or to heaven that had endowed us all with a capacity for mercy against all odds? That may well be the enduring takeaway I was groping for: acknowledging a debt to all of the above. Especially when the road offers but cold comfort and winds that blow bitter and friendless.
What a powerful set of thought provoking stories. I have spent the past minutes transported to far places where you have found transformative lessons. Thank you for these…Hope you and yours are well!
Hello, Bett! Thanks for stopping by the blog – and for going with me to some of these improbable scenes! I suspect your empathetic eye has its own treasury of such places and people. Yes, we are insanely happy here in the Carolinas and hope someday you would give us the pleasure of a visit. And we would have a smorgasbord of story on the back porch!
Great story!
Hello, Barbara! We’ve wondered how you fared during the ordeal of Helene. And now, no doubt a blanket of snow on the mountains! Be well, there, in your hilltop home!
Beautiful story; thanks!
Yes, Ardith! It’s a comfort to know that there are eyes reading such lines that can fill in all the vivid detail because they have been there!
Jonathan, your writing (in terms of style as well as subject matter) continues to amaze and inspire me. Thank you, mera dhost.
Hi, Jim! It is surely that friendship that finds beauty in such homely telling!
Jonathan, your stories always touch on the very core of what it is to be human, and more often than not, on what it is to have the goodness that can come with being human. We need that today.
Thank you, once again.
Carol
Wow, how nice to see a message from our old friend Carol Aldrich Sandlin after so many years! Certainly Jonathan is a good one to link us!
What a powerful story! When we connect with people as beloved children of God, they often live into that identity.
I love this story, Jonathan–I can so clearly see you, and the tsotsis, and that bus rank–and feel the wind off the Maluti mountains! Dale and I have been the recipient of so many similar kindnesses during our years in southern Africa, and the friendships we built there continue to sustain us now that we are more infrequent travelers. Keep the stories coming, please!
Nice story, Jonathan. Yes, gratitude for every little thing in our lives, regardless, seems to be a winning (though sometimes challenging) strategy. If only I can remember! Ha.
XO Esther
Great story, Jonathan. Thank you for sharing it with us.
I am always amazed at the capacity of those who we tend look down on to teach us what compassion and hospitality really looks like. This story perfectly captures things we need to learn and offers a ray of hope for the future of civility!
Jonathan, one of the things I look forward to in heaven is a reel-to-reel accounting of all the times the Lord has saved us (from ourselves or others). Something to look forward to!
Dear Jonathan – your writings bring me back to South Africa and Botswana so vividly. The mystery of the young men who helped you to the bus in Soweto illustrates the innate kindness which sometimes comes to the surface in hard times. We need that so much today in the US. Carol