Hillbrow

We locked the doors behind us and pocketed the key. Mick had ways of finding his way back inside. And if he couldn’t, well… we probably wouldn’t be there when he tried. On the way out, I picked up some mail from the other tenants’ boxes. Nothing interesting. Mostly bills, with a few heartfelt family letters mixed in for good measure. And there was a free sample of some new aftershave, but that ended up in the nearest bin along with the rest of the junk.

This part of Hillbrow had seen better days. Once it had been a trendy part of Johannesburg, with the arty crowd flocking to the high-rise buildings to create their own insulated communities. Now it was the centre of the city’s nightlife, with club-goers, students and wannabe rock-stars fighting for the pick of the area’s flatlands. In the mid-eighties, Hillbrow was the place to be. Kids from the suburbs would borrow a car, pile into the back seat and drive into the Brow for a Saturday night that would make their friends jealous for weeks. The place had nightclubs, strip clubs, hookers, pool halls, bars, gyms, amusement arcades… and the most colourful collection of street life in the city. Both by night and by day.

I’d met a guy begging for money at Highpoint one morning, and we’d started talking. Seems this guy had a house in Observatory, with a pool, and a new car. All of which he was funding through standing at the top of these stairs and harassing pedestrians going about their daily business. Who needed a steady job?

Certainly not me.

Extract from Burning Roses, a decadent tale of sex, drugs, rock n roll & magick, set in the clubs and bars of 1980s Johannesburg. Available on Amazon.

Or in paperback from Curiosity in Pretoria, and The Real Mackay in Blairgowrie.

Till next time.

Cheers.