Why oh why do I hate Fourways so?

The comedian David Kibuuka, who is originally from Uganda, used to start his set with the words: “Hi, I’m David and I’m from Fourways.”

It always got a laugh, and, until recently, I never paused to ask myself why. After all, lots of black people live in Fourways. So why should the notion that a black dude lives there be so funny-ha ha? And yet Fourways is the most un-African place anyone can think of. Its Ford Fiestas in Provencal-themed Summercon complexes, the gleaming fake spires of Montecasino, the Absa balloon tethered to the ground. There is nothing authentic about Fourways. Nothing.

Maybe that’s the root of my aversion to Fourways. Can’t stand the place. Break out in hives whenever I go near there, which is odd, because there was a time when I spent many hours in the Fourways Mall, trekking from Dischem at one end through to Woolworths at the other, pausing at the Hyperama, Clicks and Edgars in between. Those were the days of my life.

I still remember, vaguely, what Fourways was like before it became so developed, before the mall flattened so many acres of indigenous bush, when there was nothing there except gum trees, dirt roads and a herd of pedigree Bonsmara cattle (developed by the South African professor Jan Bonsma, not that you needed to know that). Fourways was a place you drove past in order to get to the Lion Park or the Dam or Sun City.

Then Fourways Gardens was developed, followed by Fourways Mall, and endless themed clusters and apartment complexes. Dainfern sprung up beside the sewage pipe down the road, swiftly followed by the obverse of everything symbolised by the gated estate, Diepsloot. Once a peri-urban collection of plots and farms, Fourways became a ghastly postmodern echo of Dante’s Inferno, its roads clogged with SUVs and taxis, its dwellings infested with unironic thirty-somethings with names like Craig and Tracy-Leigh, people who dream of 42-inch LCDs and holidays in Bali. I don’t know how anyone can live in Fourways and not feel their soul slowly turning to an indeterminate mush the consistency of watery porridge.

When it comes to which is a ghastlier example of the depredations of developers focused on profit above all else, the north of Joburg or the west, it’s a tough call. The west, perhaps, only because of the relentless, depressing swathes of klinkerbrick that line Hendrik Potgieter Drive. Facebrick is more practical after all, especially if people are going to be bashing their heads against walls in order to dull the throbbing pain that reminds them of the emptiness of their credit-fuelled lives.

A friend of mine, who has lived in places like Brixton and Greenside and frequents restaurants in Fordsburg, refers to anything north of Parkhurst as the “Northern Wastelands”. I always thought he was being a bit harsh. But when it comes to Fourways, I think he may have a point.