Sundowners and Old HomeOwnership
Age is a funny thing, it sneaks up on you. One day you’re playing barefoot in the dust, and the next, all you have are yesteryear memories and wistful wishes. Had I known then, perhaps I would have…
Would have what, exactly?
The other day, over sundowners, I found myself in one of those easy, drifting conversations with an elderly gentleman. The kind where you cover everything the Strait of Hormuz, rising fuel prices, the creeping weight of the cost of living, the greed and desperation that feed corruption and inflation yet somehow say nothing at all.
It is a strange thing, speaking so freely with someone whose name you barely know, only to exchange introductions halfway through, as if names are an afterthought to connection.
When I introduced myself, he paused. Said he had a childhood friend with the exact same name. That caught me off guard; my name isn’t common here. Growing up, I was half convinced it had been made up, though I later learned it traces back to the Scottish Highlands, meaning from the warrior’s estate.
As it turns out, he and my namesake were more than just classmates, they were neighbours. Their homes had no fence between them. Their families were intertwined in that easy, unspoken way that made everyone in the neighbourhood feel like kin.
It was a new neighbourhood known as kuma Home Ownership, because it was the first area where Black people could legally buy and own residential stands.
Owning a house in that era was no small feat. It meant you were gainfully employed, respected, perhaps a school teacher, a profession that once carried dignity and stability, unlike now, when teachers can barely afford the basics on their salary.
There was a certain prestige to living in that area. It was, in its own way, the equivalent of today’s leafy suburbs and gated communities except it was in the township. Because back then, the “suburbs” were not for black people. You could only be there if you were working as a gardener or a house cleaner.
The high-density zones were meant for blue-collar labourers, while their families stayed in rural areas reserved for “locals” under a colonial system designed to separate and control.
But homeownership changed something. It marked a quiet shift in permanent urban residence. Homeowners could finally bring their families to the bright city lights filled with education, opportunity, and the promise of something more. People saw what was possible, and flames of rebellion were fanned as the townships became the epicentre for meetings for liberation movement.
Meanwhile, two boys became best friends, young, innocent, and blissfully unaware of the weight of the system they were growing up under nor the war to come after which they would never see each other again.
As the elderly gentleman spoke, his memories softened his voice. His friend’s family, he said, was his family. Their siblings were his siblings. As he named them, I felt something stir in me. I recognised those names.
They were the names of my father’s siblings, including the uncle I was named after.
Suddenly, something else clicked, the old address at my grandfather’s house, ended with “Old Home Ownership.” I had simply assumed it was some old housing scheme label that had long since lost relevance. It had never occurred to me that it had a historical inscription of defiance, the untold story of people who had insisted on the right to own and belong in an era of segregation.
The elderly gent was excited to learn that I was practically family, I called him dad, and he called me son, and we laughed at how small the world is.
I caught him up on the family history, and he nostalgically regaled me with tales of their misadventures: playing hooky to go hunting in the forest (now a cemetery); swimming in the river (now silted up); and the girls they were absolutely terrified of speaking to.
He laughed at that last memory, winked, and said,
Well, we managed to do all right.
WinterABC26 Hidden Histories
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