Kabelo has been screaming  “It’s my house!” for a solid six hours now. Its 3 am. Distorted warbles blow from the Tedelex Speakers that are perched on the wall seperating the two houses. Less than ten meters lie in between the boombox and the bedroom where I am trying to fall asleep.  The neighbours have always been friendly, but never really well-mannered. The much mused upon Sowetan charm; the ubuntu of shared cups of tea and gossip over low-lying face-brick dividers has never been accepting of the concept of politeness. How foreign then the notion that good fences making good neighbours? The same idea HF Verwoerd sold to the masses over the patriotic melody of Die Stem and the tri-colour apartheid flag.  The thunderous shouts of a splintered family at five o’ clock in the morning are our not-so-silent protest against good neighbourliness.

We’ve heard this term before. It meant little brown passbooks carried in the inside pockets of checked trenchcoats. It meant 60 year old men responding to the title of boy.

There’s a green and white tent erected in the middle of the street. It obstructs the flow of traffic. The houses located on its perimeter are barely accessible. The pavements are used as parking. Anyone who notices the tent, who hears the music blaring is invited to join in the festivities. The party-goers who drunkenly pass out in the tent will dissemble it the morning. The woman who lives five streets away will not complain about the noise and disruption, she will help wash the dishes. This is the true defiance. The signpost simply spelling out: We will not be good neighbours. We will be good people.