Tuska, right, and his gregarious brother, also a street artist.
It would be a stretch to call Tuska a friend.
He’s a street artist in Oaklands so we shoot the breeze while the lights are on red. He always dashes up and shows off one of his latest pictures and asks after my family. I do the same and he tells me about his family back home in Zimbabwe. We’re friendly.
It’s a hard life. He stretches his own canvases, scrounges around for paint and brushes and paints all sorts, varying from cityscapes to Bart Simpson’s bare arse. Some days, he doesn’t sell a thing. Yet he’s relentlessly cheerful, a warm smile never far from his friendly face.
On Wednesday, he was still smiling, even though he was distraught. The Metro cops had raided him and his brother that morning. They tried to make a run for it, but gathering up a dozen paintings and paraphernalia isn’t something you do in a hurry. They were caught.
Joburg’s finest confiscated seven paintings and issued him with a fine of R2500. If he wants his paintings back, he’ll have to pay up.
A painting of two fighters which Tuska did for me.
Forget for a moment that this amount represents a vast chunk of money for Tuska. In a city full of desperate people trying to eke out a living, the raid was a cruel, vindictive act that served no-one.
Tuska’s paintings adorn and illuminate the sidewalk. He bothers no-one. Painting is all he knows and even on the good days, it’s a hand to mouth existence.
The cops will doubtless claim they are merely doing their jobs by enforcing the bylaws. Yet this is a crock, more particularly as so many other more insidious laws and bylaws are routinely flouted.
All their five-minute blitz did was devastate a good man trying to make an honest living.
Shame on them.