For the many seniors in prison, the sun has already set on their lives. But beyond the forbidding grey walls of their damp cells, what rehabilitation and opportunities await them in society?

The prison walls are so high even the sun does not want to come in. The stinking corridors and cells are dark and damp; the cold, bitter world that is prison has been their home for years. In most cases, it is poverty that has pushed them to crime. There is punishment, and in some cases, repentance.
But what after life in prison? Do the state and society offer opportunities for mainstreaming senior convicts? They are taught skills at these correctional centers but how do they use them in the sunset years of their life?
I speak to three senior former convicts who served their life sentences. They find society forbidding and unforgiving, but in some cases, have moved on leading productive lives.
<div id="attachment_37504" style="width: 750px" class="wp-caption alignnone"><img loading="lazy" decoding="async" aria-describedby="caption-attachment-37504" class="wp-image-37504 size-large" src="https://www.forbesafrica.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/10/senior-853-1024x683.jpg" alt="" width="740" height="494" srcset="https://cms.forbesafrica.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/10/senior-853-1024x683.jpg 1024w, https://cms.forbesafrica.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/10/senior-853-300x200.jpg 300w, https://cms.forbesafrica.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/10/senior-853-600x400.jpg 600w, https://cms.forbesafrica.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/10/senior-853-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cms.forbesafrica.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/10/senior-853.jpg 2048w" sizes="(max-width: 740px) 100vw, 740px" />Themba Mkhize. Photo by Motlabana Monnakgotla.</div>
Themba Mkhize, 68, is back in his home in Zola, in the historical township of Soweto in South Africa. He was sentenced to 42 years in 1996 for murder and robbery in KwaZulu-Natal. He was 48 at the time.
During his stay in prison, Mkhize fell sick and was taken to a prison closer to specialist doctors; he was told he was going to die.
“I thought to myself, before I die; let me move closer to my family. I was moved to Johannesburg Correctional Services and that’s where I finished my sentence,” says Mkhize.
Mkhize tells me about his experience in prison and the prevailing gangsterism.
“In jail, it’s fights. Every year, there’s a fight between the numbers gangs. You can’t tell anyone that it’s safe inside [in jail]. I then formed a group to fight these gangs; it was a success because we had professional fighters in the group. It was then that these gangs would ask to be moved to other prisons because we would give them hiding. This was until one of the gang members was beaten and died in hospital,” he recalls.
Mkhize served 11 years and eight months in prison and is on parole. While in prison, he spent most of his time doing electrical work, fixing televisions and radios among other things, to earn an income. After release, Mkhize struggled to find employment and solely relies on a pension grant of R1,700 ($114) a month.
Mkhize’s eight children left him after his arrest. His is currently living with his mother and girlfriend.
“Coming out as a senior citizen has affected me a lot. People look at you strangely; you are a thief, someone that can’t be trusted. Some fear me because I killed a policeman. Even my family, some don’t like me. Prison is not okay. But now that I’m old, I don’t care about a lot of things,” he says.
He joined a rehabilitation center in Soweto, but stopped attending it because he felt it wasn’t doing much to help ex-convicts.
<div id="attachment_37512" style="width: 750px" class="wp-caption alignnone"><img loading="lazy" decoding="async" aria-describedby="caption-attachment-37512" class="wp-image-37512 size-large" src="https://www.forbesafrica.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/10/senior-766-1024x683.jpg" alt="" width="740" height="494" srcset="https://cms.forbesafrica.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/10/senior-766-1024x683.jpg 1024w, https://cms.forbesafrica.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/10/senior-766-300x200.jpg 300w, https://cms.forbesafrica.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/10/senior-766-600x400.jpg 600w, https://cms.forbesafrica.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/10/senior-766-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cms.forbesafrica.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/10/senior-766.jpg 2048w" sizes="(max-width: 740px) 100vw, 740px" />Simon Maqaqa. Photo by Motlabana Monnakgotla.</div>
Five kilometers away, I visit Simon Sindile Maqaqa at his home in Dobsonville, Soweto. He is 52 years old and was also arrested for murder and robbery in 1998 and sentenced to life. He was released in 2013 on parole.
“After the parole board let me out into society, the community was okay with me and they were close to me. Later, they started treating me strangely and stigmatizing me. If a crime happened around the area, I would be the first suspect,” says Maqaqa.
He joined a program for convicts called Nacham (meaning ‘repent’ in Hebrew) that helped offenders fit into society.
<blockquote>“Inside prison, I loved woodwork. I went to school and did furniture-making and spray-painting and got my certificate in 2015. [But] when I try registering a company, I fail,” he says.</blockquote>
He goes on to say that the government does not offer enough opportunities for ex-convicts like him.
“They monitor you for 24 hours and let you out for good behavior, but once you are outside, the same government suppresses you.”
Maqaqa started a small business selling sweets and cigarettes after his release. With the money he saved, he built two rooms and is renting them out.
“I built them with my own hands because I also studied construction inside prison,” he says.
But there are success stories too.
Fifty-year-old Collin Khumalo from KwaZulu-Natal is a former prisoner currently living in Johannesburg, and he employs more than 200 people.
<div id="attachment_37510" style="width: 547px" class="wp-caption alignnone"><img loading="lazy" decoding="async" aria-describedby="caption-attachment-37510" class="wp-image-37510 size-large" src="https://www.forbesafrica.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/10/senior-133-537x1024.jpg" alt="" width="537" height="1024" srcset="https://cms.forbesafrica.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/10/senior-133-537x1024.jpg 537w, https://cms.forbesafrica.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/10/senior-133-300x573.jpg 300w, https://cms.forbesafrica.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/10/senior-133-600x1145.jpg 600w, https://cms.forbesafrica.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/10/senior-133-157x300.jpg 157w, https://cms.forbesafrica.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/10/senior-133-768x1466.jpg 768w, https://cms.forbesafrica.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/10/senior-133.jpg 1073w" sizes="(max-width: 537px) 100vw, 537px" />Collin Khumalo. Photo by Motlabana Monnakgotla.</div>
I call him and our conversation is engaging. God changed his life, he says.
Khamalo started shoplifting at the age of 14. In 1988, he moved to Johannesburg and continued with his nefarious activities.
“We committed fraud, and then moved to house-breaks, then robbery. It was like a small gang terrorizing the affluent suburbs of Johannesburg. It was then that we moved to cash-in-transit heists, until 1995, when I got arrested for murder, robbery and possession of a firearm and ammunition,” he says matter-of-factly.
In 1997, he was sentenced to life imprisonment and an additional 44 years.
While inside, Khumalo was angry he didn’t have a proper upbringing – his parents were non-existent to him. He didn’t know what the purpose of his life was. He soon became South Africa’s most notorious prison gang member and fought everyone. Khumalo was promoted from rank to rank and moved from prison to prison.
<blockquote>“In 2002, I was sent to a private prison in Venda. That is where my conscience and God started talking to me. I was listening to a man preach… That was the turning point in my life,” he recalls.</blockquote>
Khamalo broke the gangsters’ prison code by leaving a prison gang; he was promised death by all gangs for repenting.
He made a decision to get some form of education that same year and realized his purpose. By 2003, he started goading other inmates to stay away from gangsterism.
“In 2004, I started a program called Fear Free Life (inspire and encourage other men to lead better lives and become better fathers and husbands). When it started, the message was not to be vigilantes. It grew to be a very big thing, I registered it in 2009. By 2011, I was still in prison but it was given a quality assurance by the City Of Johannesburg to run the program in the whole Johannesburg Correctional Services,” he says.
In 2011, the then Minister of Correctional Services, Nosiviwe Mapisa-Nqakula, announced that offenders sentenced to life imprisonment before March 1, 1994, could be considered for parole after serving 15 years of their sentence.
“By the grace of God, I had already attained a diploma in Human Resources and was rehabilitating other prisoners. I did all that without any expectation of going home. In July 2013, I was released on day parole. I would sleep in prison and during the day go out, [I did this] for six months,” he says.
With the vision he had for Fear Free Life, he pushed the program at schools talking about the negative impact of crime, drugs and gangsterism. He invested in the program with funds received from family members. This led to quality assurance by the City Of Johannesburg to run the program across schools, workplaces and prisons in South Africa in 2014.
<blockquote>“Going to prison was for coming across my destiny; it was something that was meant to happen. My prison experience shaped the man that I am today,” he says.</blockquote>
Today, Fear Free Life employs ex-convicts to help clean Johannesburg streets, and have recently garnered city development projects. Khumalo also works with artists.
Men like him prove there can be a life beyond the prison walls.

hands of a prisoner on prison bars

Age No Bar

Worldwide, the statistics on informal economies are as appalling as the conditions of the people in them.
About 61% of the world’s population earns its living in the informal sector, according to the International Labor Organization (ILO) of the United Nations. Closer home, in Africa, 85.8% of employment is informal.
For many, this means substandard or inhuman living and working conditions, lack of social protection, unending suffering, abuse and no hope. And sadly, women are the most vulnerable victims in this cycle of pain and penury.
“Of the two billion in informal employment worldwide, over 740 million are women,” says ILO.
With educational opportunities lacking, and rising unemployment and cost of living, the low-income groups are the hardest hit. Women in the informal sector have no choice but to take on the onus as bread winners, compelled to start small businesses or trades for survival.
In the hustle and bustle of the grimy streets of Johannesburg’s Central Business District (CBD), it’s the survival-of-the-fittest-entrepreneur – and for the women, it means fighting every form of injustice.
They turn to the streets to keep their families off them.
Rosheda Muller, President of the South African Informal Traders Alliance, says the hardships female traders experience include isolation, vulnerability when doing cross-border trade, bribery, theft, rape and abuse of all kinds. All this as they try to put food on the table for their families.
“There’s no social protection for our women. We are working towards the formalization of the informal sector; to ensure informal traders have protection, maternity leave, and leave when they fall ill,” Muller tells FORBES AFRICA.
At 5AM on a cold Tuesday morning in Johannesburg’s CBD, this writer witnesses the sun awakening the streets, the immigrant traders and the pigeons flocking to scavenge off the remnants of the night. On Rahima Moosa Street, popularly known as Jeppe Street, the smell of piping hot magwinya (deep-fried doughnuts), pervades the morning air. It’s a filling snack at only R1 ($0.08).
Shops here sell everything from clothes to accessories and hair. Together, they contribute to the sights, sounds and smells of the City of Gold.
“Johannesburg is one of the most diverse places when it comes to informal trading,” Muller says.
In the pages that follow, FORBES WOMAN AFRICA speaks to three female traders from Zimbabwe, Mozambique and the Limpopo Province of South Africa, on how they have turned these street corners into their business hubs.
Sharon Muteto 
From Harare, Zimbabwe
<div id="attachment_36590" style="width: 693px" class="wp-caption alignnone"><img loading="lazy" decoding="async" aria-describedby="caption-attachment-36590" class="wp-image-36590 size-large" src="https://www.forbesafrica.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/06/TLH_9376-683x1024.jpg" alt="" width="683" height="1024" srcset="https://cms.forbesafrica.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/06/TLH_9376-683x1024.jpg 683w, https://cms.forbesafrica.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/06/TLH_9376-300x450.jpg 300w, https://cms.forbesafrica.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/06/TLH_9376-600x900.jpg 600w, https://cms.forbesafrica.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/06/TLH_9376-200x300.jpg 200w, https://cms.forbesafrica.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/06/TLH_9376-768x1151.jpg 768w, https://cms.forbesafrica.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/06/TLH_9376.jpg 1366w" sizes="(max-width: 683px) 100vw, 683px" />Sharon Muteto. Photograph by Motlabana Monnakgotla</div>
<blockquote> “They say a person working on the streets is someone who has no dignity.”</blockquote>
We wait by her tin stall on Jeppe Street. Muteto shares her space with a Malawian man and a Congolese woman. They watch out for each other’s stall at break-time. This time, it’s Jay Jay, the Malawian’s turn to watch Muteto’s stock.
Muteto’s stall is held up with crates, a wooden top and cloth covering. She sells clothes and magwinya. A few minutes later, she shows up, dressed in a woolen winter hat, black sweater and chitenge (African print wraparound). She welcomes us to her humble abode, offering the only chair.
Five years ago, Muteto decided to start her own business on the streets.
<a href="http://www.forbesafrica.com/entreprenuers/2015/07/01/a-phd-from-the-streets/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">READ MORE: A PhD From The Streets</a>
“They will say that a person working on the streets is someone who has no dignity,” says Muteto.
The 33-year-old fled Zimbabwe due to the political instability. She had a business selling second-hand clothes in Harare but it failed. That’s when she opted to chase a better life in South Africa. But the barriers bewildered her.
“When I came here, I found out this is also becoming difficult for me. To work and gather up my finances and go back is difficult. I thought, ‘why can’t I just stock here and sell here’?”
Muteto’s first job in Johannesburg was as a saleswomen in an Indian shop. She worked for a pittance; she barely made enough money to send to her 12-year-old daughter in Zimbabwe. And she also had to support a sick mother.
“I knew I was making too much profit for them [her employers] because I know how to sell,” says Muteto.
After a year at the shop, Muteto garnered the courage to set up on her own. Although she has often had to keep criminals from stealing her stock, and deal with harsh weather conditions and low profits, Mutato wouldn’t have it any other way.
“Doing business is in my blood. I am satisfied making my own money, even if it’s small,” she smiles.
Muteto remains hopeful that one day her business will flourish and create jobs for others.
“Women must be very strong. They must sacrifice for their business. They must not lose hope too early because everything has got its own time.
Zanele Langa 
From Maputo, Mozambique
<div id="attachment_36591" style="width: 1034px" class="wp-caption alignnone"><img loading="lazy" decoding="async" aria-describedby="caption-attachment-36591" class="wp-image-36591 size-large" src="https://www.forbesafrica.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/06/DSC_0175-1024x681.jpg" alt="" width="1024" height="681" srcset="https://cms.forbesafrica.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/06/DSC_0175-1024x681.jpg 1024w, https://cms.forbesafrica.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/06/DSC_0175-300x199.jpg 300w, https://cms.forbesafrica.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/06/DSC_0175-600x399.jpg 600w, https://cms.forbesafrica.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/06/DSC_0175-768x510.jpg 768w, https://cms.forbesafrica.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/06/DSC_0175.jpg 2048w" sizes="(max-width: 1024px) 100vw, 1024px" />Zanele Langa. Photograph by Karen Mwendera</div>
<blockquote>“God gave me this skill to do hair so I love it.”</blockquote>
Five mannequin heads are lined up on a raised wall by a pedestrian walkway on Jeppe Street in the Johannesburg CBD. They are adorned with wigs and weaves of all textures. They all belong to Langa, a self-taught hair dresser from Mozambique.
The 33-year-old speaks fluent Shangaan, a Bantu language similar to Zulu, allowing her to blend in with the locals.
Langa knows the streets of Johannesburg like the back of her hand. But unlike the others, she does not have a permanent stand.
Every 30 days, she makes the five-hour trip to the border to renew her stay in South Africa, a technique many immigrants adopt in order to make a decent living without cumbersome paperwork. It’s a price she is willing to pay.
“God gave me this skill to do hair so I love it,” says the soft-spoken Langa, focusing on a mannequin head, but wary of her surrounds, and the omnipresent policemen.
<a href="http://www.forbesafrica.com/woman/2016/12/01/pythons-peacemakers-vilakazi-street/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">READ MORE: Pythons And Peacemakers Down Vilakazi Street</a>
“They took two wigs of mine last week. We followed them and asked them to bring them back but they didn’t,” she says sadly. The wigs cost about R300 ($24) each.
It’s either fight or flight for these hair traders in the CBD.
Langa has to make ends meet somehow; she had run away from an alcoholic husband and has four children to look after. So she has to be street-smart. During the interview, she ably intercepts passersby, goading them to buy her wares.
Langa hopes to make enough money to one day open her own salon in Maputo, miles away from any intrusive metro policeman.
&nbsp;
Dollen Khashane 
From Limpopo, South Africa
<div id="attachment_36592" style="width: 1034px" class="wp-caption alignnone"><img loading="lazy" decoding="async" aria-describedby="caption-attachment-36592" class="wp-image-36592 size-large" src="https://www.forbesafrica.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/06/TLH_9452-1024x683.jpg" alt="" width="1024" height="683" srcset="https://cms.forbesafrica.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/06/TLH_9452-1024x683.jpg 1024w, https://cms.forbesafrica.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/06/TLH_9452-300x200.jpg 300w, https://cms.forbesafrica.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/06/TLH_9452-600x400.jpg 600w, https://cms.forbesafrica.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/06/TLH_9452-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cms.forbesafrica.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/06/TLH_9452.jpg 2048w" sizes="(max-width: 1024px) 100vw, 1024px" />Dollen Khashane. Photograph by Motlabana Monnakgotla</div>
<blockquote>“We sell [on the streets] because there aren’t any jobs.”</blockquote>
Born and raised in a small village in Thohoyandou, Limpopo, Khashane left her home at the age of 21 to seek work in big city Johannesburg.
In 2001, she got her first job in the informal sector as a domestic worker. Nine years later, Khashane decided to become a street vendor.
“You can end up the whole day without selling nothing,” she says when we meet her.
“Like today…yet I will come back in the morning and open my shop again,” she smiles, concealing her disappointment.
Khashane had no idea what she was getting into and sought guidance from her husband who had some experience selling on the streets. They sold socks for a living.
Back then, they didn’t have a stall; they would place their goods on a potato sack and lay them on the concrete street floor. The couple would lose out on thousands each time the police patrolled the area and forcibly removed their goods.
Khashane recalls the pain of having to wake up early, carrying a heavy bag of goods, every day. Their business has grown. Today, they own two stalls between them. She sells accessories, makeup, clothes, underwear, cigarettes and watches.
“When you are selling here in the street they think maybe you are not normal, but all of us went to school. We sell here because there aren’t any jobs,” she says.
<a href="http://www.forbesafrica.com/homepage/2018/04/16/loud-lonely-streets-life-lagos-hawkwer/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">READ MORE: Loud And Lonely On The Streets – The Life of A Lagos Hawker</a>
The thoughts of feeding her five children keep her going. Four of them are in Limpopo with her mother while the youngest lives with her. Every day, she drops off her two-year-old son at a crèche.
Next to her stall, two Nigerian men sell fruits and clothes. They keep a close watch for thieves. A block away from us, metro policemen are patroling the street. For Khashane, it’s a sight she knows all too well. It’s time to quickly wrap up, run and return tomorrow.

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No Cutting Corners When It Comes To Business For These Women