It’s 6 AM. The smell of coal and dew settles over KwaMashu. Children run barefoot across the road, school uniforms flapping like flags. This is where I begin my week—watching a community wake up, resilient and quietly poetic.
I stop by Auntie Zanele’s stall for amagwinya. We talk about the weather, politics, and whether this year’s rains will bless the soil or just wash away hope. Later, I photograph worn signage on an abandoned building: “Thuma Mina.”
MARANTU isn’t just a brand. It’s this rhythm. This journal is a mirror to those Mondays when nothing happens but everything is felt.