CWP; Unsung Heroes who Keep Things Clean

“Restoring Dignity Through Work Opportunities” reads the slogan emblazoned on the back of an overall worn by a Community Work Programme (CWP) worker. Rake rested on his shoulder rifle-like, he soldiers on in short but brisk strides towards the Mongezi Juda Library to do duty alongside his colleagues. Before “tshay’sa” time at 4pm, the overgrowth and scattered litter will have been tended to, restoring the library to a state befitting of a public facility. This is their tariff. What brings home the bacon. “They,” of course, being the sweat-drenched legion of government’s Community Work Programme whom you will have bumped into at one point or another all across town. 

Sun hats, orange overalls; doubled over, crouched, sweeping, scrubbing, shoveling, they are the versatile unsung heroes that keep the streets spotless. They weed schoolgrounds, tend gardens, rake up leaves in churchyards and find succour wherever they can during the lash of a Karoo cloudburst. When some well-heeled politician is due to visit, it is they who ensure that the venue is clean. 

Nkosana wielding a rake, one of his prized tools of trade. Image: eParkeni

Nationally they constitute an army numbering some 1.4 million footsoldiers. Men and women engaged mostly in the drudgery of labour-intensive toil, the Mzansi sun beating mercilessly down their backs. The Department of Cooperative Governance and Traditional Affairs (CoGTA) website refers to the programme as an “innovative … job safety net” but lest we get too ahead of ourselves, it is in reality more a survival scheme. A lifeline until something worthwhile comes up. 

Or as small capital to get a shebeen joint off the ground, maybe a cash loan business – “mashonisa” (loanshark-style) – with up to fifty percent interest rates and holding on to a client’s bank card and identity document until there’s money in their account from which the mashonisa will promptly withdraw his pound of flesh. Illegal, sure, but it would seem that this is a common gentleman’s agreement that many have shaken hands on. Also, the practice has – few though they might be – not been without some success stories. 

“Better than nothing,” Simphiwe tells eParkeni of his wages, “at least I’m able to buy toiletries and contribute towards the overheads at home.” In the same breath he is quick to thank God that he has no children to look after. Another mouth to feed would probably mean culling his three daily squares down to two and sometimes going to bed on a grumbling tummy. His monthly pay is R880 for a total of 8 days of work, 2 days a week, hardly what the college diploma-bearing Simphiwe had in mind when he completed his N6 business management qualification. 

Learning to sew as part of the CWP initiative. Image: SA Government

Under ideal circumstances this would be a side hustle, something to help stretch a more steady primary source of income a little further. But jobs are so scarce that what the CoGTA ministry might see as a means to extra cash for youngsters in search of employment is regarded as a serious livelihood by grown-ups with kids to send to school and insurance premiums to pay up. It is not unusual for this sum combined with the child social grant to see to the upkeep of entire households. Or to see a livelier town when the CWP brigade get paid. 

As much as R1.2bn was spent on the programme last year.

Faced by a bloated public service and a stagnant economy, government is at pains to alleviate the misery on the ground even if this comes with some doublespeak. You’d remember talks around a minimum wage of no less than R3500 that unions have been calling for, some advocating for “a living wage,” but these are desperate times and government must at least appear to be doing something about the embarrassingly pathetic unemployment situation. As a result – and the good stories notwithstanding – initiatives like the CWP appear to be no more than a mirage that create the illusion of people enjoying the dignity of work. Also with SA often being referred to as a “welfare state,” it would not be farfetched to view these programmes, along with some public internship and learnership endeavours as subliminal efforts to debunk such statements. Given the pay, work hours and the lack of affording participants more gainful employment, however, one still struggles to find any appreciable levels of dignity in the equation. 

Or maybe we’re being too harsh. After all, there are those entrepreneurial spirits who, despite the negligible remuneration, have made something meaningful of themselves. Everywhere in Kuyasa are men and women from these initiatives who run small businesses and generate profits that empower them from living paycheque to paycheque. Although, in the main, the project is focused on manual labour, there are those CWP workers who operate in the Early Childhood Development space, as an example. Such skills will no doubt stand them in good favour when more stable employment opportunities arise in these areas. In the meantime, though, nobody here seems to be sneering at the wages that continue to put bread on the table, no matter how small.

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