Elders urged to speak out about abuse

Inside Khayelitsha, grandmothers face a hidden war of abuse and financial exploitation, battling for their dignity and survival.

In Khayelitsha, elders face a storm of exploitation, from sneaky grant theft using fake cards to heartless family abuse, like being locked out or having pensions stolen for drugs. But here's the fierce truth: these grandmas and grandpas are fighting back! They gather, share their tough stories, and learn clever ways to protect themselves, whether it's memorizing police hotlines or using special panic buttons. They even practice mock court battles and form strong community groups, proving that together, their spirit shines brighter than any shadow.

What are the common forms of elder exploitation in Khayelitsha?

Elder exploitation in Khayelitsha manifests as grant hijacking through cloned cards or “shoulder surfing” at ATMs, fraudulent funeral policies, and fake invoices for tribal customs. Elders also face physical, emotional, and economic abuse from family members, including being locked out of their homes or having their pensions stolen for drug money.

By: Mary-Anne Gontsana / GroundUp – extended report

Dawn at Thusong: Porridge, Plastic Chairs, and Phantom Grandchildren

The dented doors of Thusong Community Hall swing wide at nine sharp. Mop water still glistens on the concrete, releasing a sour whiff of Jik and yesterday’s dreams. Volunteers stir gluey oats in dented pots while elders shuffle in, filling red plastic seats that curve like a horseshoe around an invisible centre. Neon tin walking sticks clack in rhythm; pink SASSA bags sway like shields. The front row stays empty - reserved for the living absences: the grandson who never returned the grocery money, the girl who left the tap running and vanished into the tavern at 02:00, the boy whose knuckles cracked against bedroom walls.

By 09:15 the hall seats sixty-two grandmothers and eight grandfathers, every face carrying the same question: “Will this month end the same way the last one did?” No one speaks above a murmur, but steel determination glints behind cataract-dulled eyes. Oats steam; tension crackles louder than the plastic spoons scraping enamel plates.

Nokuzola’s Storm-Cloud Doek: From Toilet Lock-in to Broom-Stick Liberation

Gogo Nokuzola Mbalo, 74, stands when the facilitator waves an open palm. Storm-cloud fabric coils around her head; a threadbare coat - once her daughter’s funeral coat - swallows her shoulders. English phrases slip between rounded Xhosa vowels: protection order, affidavit , perpetrator . She recalls ten years of stove-selling for tik, of nights locked in the backyard toilet while neighbours pretended to be asleep. Her voice never quivers; the room leans forward like wheat in wind.

Then comes the pivot: she summons ancestral courage, shoves the grandchild out with a bristle broom, and proclaims, “The witch in me just woke up.” Months later the same boy limps home - blood caking his dreads, tyre ash on his skin - whispering “sorry.” Gogo removes the kitchen door so no shadow escapes her gaze; since then, not a cent has vanished, not a fist has lifted. The audience splits between gasps of grace and groans of naïveté; either way, the tale hardens into parable before the oats cool.

Where R2 090 Goes to Die: The Grant-Hijack Map

While spoons clink, two paralegals from Ilitha Labantu pass a cartoon flow-chart titled “How Your Pension Evaporates.” Four cartoon skulls mark the stages:

The Swap: The “helpful” teen watches Gogo punch her PIN, then trades the real card for a cloned one on the taxi ride home.
Shoulder Surf: A quick phone-cam over the shoulder at the Post Office captures the digits; by midnight the ATM coughs out the full grant.
Ghost Debit: A rogue funeral policy registers itself via forged fingerprints; monthly premiums vanish invisibly.
Tribal Court Invoice: A fake letter demands cash for cows to bury an uncle in Mqanduli; signatures are “voluntary” once tears start.

Each box carries a tiny weeping emoji. Neon stickers - “Your PIN Is Your Pulse - Guard It” - are slapped onto walking sticks and Bible spines before the speaker finishes.

One Cop, Two Hundred Thousand Residents, and a Marker Pen

Sergeant Xoliswa Nyalambisa steps up in navy blue, body-armour peeking through her open jacket. She lays it bare: Lingelethu West has one FCS officer for 200 000 residents. “Demand a VEP number at the charge desk,” she insists. “If the rookie stares blankly, ask for the station commissioner - loudly.” A grandfather in tweed coughs, “What if the rookie dates my granddaughter?” Chuckles curdle into sighs. Nyalambisa advises smuggling IPID’s hotline number onto toilet walls with permanent marker. “Make the system itch too,” she concludes.

When Dockets Disappear: The Case of the Vanishing Folder

Madlamini Sgwili, 69, arrives clutching a plastic folder thick enough to choke a goat. Since 2022 she has opened four cases against a neighbour who helps himself to her groceries; each stamped receipt is here. Yet last October the detective shrugged, “Your case is a dream, gogo.” Ilitha’s senior adviser, Simnikiwe Maboe, lists three proven ways dockets die: never really opened, merged with a counter-case opened by the abuser, or buried in a “performance” pile until month-end stats look prettier. Her counter-tactic: photograph every page with any phone and email it to yourself - cloud space beats taxi fare, and Gmail doesn’t lose things.

Safety in Numbers: Choirs, Buses, and Stokvels That Watch

After tea - powdered Cremora and four Marie biscuits - the talk turns to shields built from solidarity. A flip-chart maps clubs within walking distance:

Ikamva Golden Games: chair-aerobics on Wednesdays, R5 donation, lungs and friendships stretched at once.
Makhaya Women’s Stokvel: R1 000 rotation plus collective therapy; betrayal equals banishment.
Anglican Ukama: men’s dawn Bible study followed by stick-defence drills led by a former marshal who still salutes.
Gogos on Wheels: monthly minibus to the beach; every rider must shout her ID number and next-of-kin before departure, turning the trip into a moving census.

Data pinned on the wall claims elders who attend at least two such circles are 40 % less likely to lose a grant - ten witnesses outrank one trembling hand.

Mock Court, Real Power: Cardboard Magistrates and Padded Sticks

Two volunteers stride forward: 71-year-old Mkhuseli Mabija, once a long-haul trucker, and Buntu Nodada, 24, drama-school graduate. Buntu kicks an imaginary dialysis bag while Mkhuseli clutches his invisible chest. The facilitator hands Gogo Mbalo a dummy protection-order form; ticks bloom beside physical violence, economic abuse, emotional cruelty. She walks to a cardboard box labelled “Magistrate,” solemn as Sunday. The scene is absurd - everyone roars when the form rips - yet when rehearsal ends, the real paper feels lighter in every hand.

Gadgets and Gizmos: From Nokia 3310 to Bluetooth Panic Buttons

Young volunteers weave between tables demonstrating digital shields:

SIM Pin: a four-digit lock so even a stolen SIM can’t be ported.
Voice Memo: a 30-second clip - “My name is… today is… X is hurting me,” filed under “Church Songs.”
Samsung Panic Press: five jabs on the power key shoots location plus five seconds of audio to two chosen numbers.
A grandmother waves a 2003 Nokia. A volunteer dangles a matchbox-sized Bluetooth panic button - squeeze and it dials any pre-set number. Cost: R120. A hundred units are ordered before chicken stew cools.

Under the Papaya Tree: Grandfathers and the Padded-Stick Solution

Ten grandfathers linger outside, smoke curling from cheap cigarettes. “Comrade September,” a former MK guerrilla, speaks last: his granddaughter trades his hypertension tablets for coloured dreams. Reporting her feels like surrender. The men decide to revive Friday umbhoko - stick-fighting with pipe-insulation padding - on an open lot across from the mall. Rule: only blood relatives may duel, and a mediator must witness. “We will beat the fear out of each other,” September grins, half-joking, fully meaning it.

Night Vigils, or the Silence That Screams

Ilitha’s staff packs pamphlets into battered cardboard boxes. A junior whispers their morbid yardstick: cases tagged “NV” mean “no vigil.” In Khayelitsha, an elder death without overnight hymns usually signals a looted grant and relatives in hiding. Conversely, five tents and loud praise-songs become an unofficial success indicator - proof money stayed in the right pockets until the final breath.

The Long Walk to the Taxi Rank and a Bible That Carries Plastic

Streetlights cough fitfully as elders drift toward the cracked pavement. Gogo Mbalo’s SASSA card now lives inside a hollowed-out King James, taped beneath Psalm 23. She steers her envelope - unsigned protection-order forms - like a fragile seed. “While the tree is still small, I hold the seed,” she says. The quantum taxi door jams; two teenagers wrestle it open, saluting, “Go well, granny!” She boards without flourish, storm-cloud doek pressed against the back window - a lone flag against an army of night.

What are the main forms of elder exploitation in Khayelitsha?

Elder exploitation in Khayelitsha takes various forms, including grant theft through cloned cards or "shoulder surfing" at ATMs, fraudulent funeral policies, and fake invoices for tribal customs. Additionally, elders often suffer physical, emotional, and economic abuse from family members, such as being locked out of their homes or having their pensions stolen to fund drug habits.

How are elders in Khayelitsha fighting back against exploitation?

Elders are actively fighting back by gathering to share experiences, learning self-protection strategies like memorizing police hotlines and using panic buttons. They participate in mock court battles to understand legal procedures and form strong community groups and stokvels, creating a network of solidarity and mutual support. They also engage in activities like stick-fighting drills for self-defense and utilize technology like SIM PINs and panic press features on phones.

What specific tools and methods do elders use for protection?

Elders employ a variety of tools and methods for protection. These include memorizing police hotlines, using special panic buttons (both physical Bluetooth devices and phone features like Samsung Panic Press), securing SIM cards with PINs, and recording voice memos as evidence. They also learn to demand VEP numbers at police stations, photograph legal documents, and utilize community networks and stokvels for collective vigilance and financial security.

What challenges do elders face when reporting abuse to authorities?

Elders face significant challenges when reporting abuse to authorities. These include a severe shortage of dedicated officers (e.g., one FCS officer for 200,000 residents in Lingelethu West), potential corruption or indifference from police, and the disappearance or mishandling of dockets. Cases can be poorly opened, merged with counter-cases by abusers, or intentionally buried to improve performance statistics.

How do community groups and activities contribute to elders' safety?

Community groups and activities play a crucial role in enhancing elders' safety. Organizations like Ikamva Golden Games, Makhaya Women’s Stokvel, Anglican Ukama, and Gogos on Wheels provide spaces for physical activity, emotional support, and collective vigilance. Being part of these groups offers a social safety net, making elders less isolated and providing multiple witnesses, which can significantly reduce the likelihood of grant exploitation.

What is the significance of the "Night Vigils" in Khayelitsha?

The presence or absence of "Night Vigils" serves as a somber indicator of an elder's situation after death in Khayelitsha. A death without an overnight vigil and loud praise-songs often signals that the deceased's grant was looted and relatives are in hiding, avoiding the community's scrutiny. Conversely, a well-attended vigil with multiple tents and praise-songs indicates that the elder's finances were likely intact until their passing, reflecting a measure of respect and proper handling of their affairs.