Illustrative Image: Police vehicles on a murder crime scene in Brakpan.
(Photo: Shiraaz Mohamed) | Sex workers huddle in the rain. (Photo: Anna Cox) | Police tape. (Image: Freepik) | (By Daniella Lee Ming Yesca) As a 60-something journalist who generally prefers a quiet evening, I was persuaded to accompany the local Community Policing Forum on a late-night raid targeting illegal liquor establishments – places accused of violating liquor regulations, noise bylaws and environmental health rules.
The rain was steady, the hour was approaching midnight, and Queen Street, Kensington, looked like a film set for a crime drama: police vehicles idling, blue lights reflecting off the wet tar, officers moving in and out of doorways.
I realised I probably stood out rather dramatically. I had been advised to “keep a low profile” – which is difficult advice to follow when you are a lone older white woman standing in the rain with a notebook and a phone, pretending not to look conspicuous.
I watched a woman in red high heels approach a van parked next to a JMPD vehicle. She leaned into the driver’s window, apparently testing the market. The occupant, however, seemed reluctant to proceed with business – perhaps intimidated by the police cars next to and surrounding him. She soon walked away, business unsuccessful.
I quietly snapped a photograph from behind a police vehicle and found shelter under the eaves of a nearby building.
/file/attachments/2989/IMG_20260306_212026_560399.jpg "The scene during the Queen Street raid in Kensington. (Photo: Anna Cox)")
Moments later, the same woman and three of her friends joined me under the awning, standing right next to me in full view of the police and JMPD officers.
False eyelashes. Very high heels. Shorts despite the cold. Bikini tops despite the rain. Clouds of perfume that could probably be detected from the neighbouring suburb.
One of them glanced at me.
“Evening, Ma’am,” she said politely.
And that was it.
The rest ignored me completely, apparently concluding: Nah, this isn’t competition we need to worry about.
I tried making eye contact – the journalist in me hoping for a spontaneous interview – but nothing. They continued standing right next to me, completely ignoring me, not even offering curious stares.
One woman was on the phone.
“No, you can’t come now,” she told whoever was on the other end.
“The police are here.”
Apparently, “police presence” does not necessarily mean “go home”.
In fact, it appeared to be treated more as a minor scheduling inconvenience.
I lowered my cellphone to waist level and took a few sneak photos without really knowing what was in the frame. As it turned out, the shot worked rather well – the women perfectly aligned, their backs to the camera and their faces hidden. I silently congratulated myself on my unexpected undercover skills.
Limited manpower
Meanwhile, the raid itself continued down the street.
Inside two establishments, officers inspected water and electricity connections, fire hydrants and emergency exits. Others carried out large sound systems – the source of the noise complaints that had prompted the operation, according to Richard Francis, chairperson of the Cleveland Community Policing Forum, who invited me on the raid.
Eventually, everyone – patrons, police officers and assorted onlookers – gathered on the veranda to escape the rain.
For a moment, the scene looked less like a police raid and more like a slightly damp neighbourhood gathering, with loud talking and laughing.
Soon the music stopped, the lights inside the venue were switched off, the doors were locked and officers moved on to the next restaurant.
Francis said enforcement operations like this were often difficult to coordinate.
On the night of the raid, teams shut down several establishments — one in Heriotdale, two in Queen Street and four in nearby Jules Street.
Businesses are instructed to remain closed until the problems identified by inspectors are fixed, but in practice that rarely happens, he said.
It is frustrating for residents and officials alike, he explained, because neither the City nor the SAPS has the manpower to keep returning day after day to enforce the closures.
He said the SAPS generally focused only on whether an establishment had a valid liquor licence, while many of the complaints from residents related to municipal by-law issues such as noise, safety compliance and operating conditions, which the SAPS isn’t really interested in.
Francis sounded slightly discouraged.
“They were all open the next day,” he said with a shrug.
“But we keep doing the raids. At least it sends a message that people are watching. We have no problem with people conducting businesses in the street, but they must adhere to the by-laws, especially safety and noise, which is one of the biggest issues because this is a residential area.”
Business as usual
While I waited in the drizzle, a car pulled up packed with cheerful – and probably already inebriated – passengers.
They leaned out the window and asked if the restaurant was still serving food.
“I think the police are closing it down,” I said politely, confused, wondering how they could possibly not see the obvious police presence, including three police cars parked directly outside the venue.
They were unconvinced.
“We want their food,” one insisted. “It’s the best in the street.”
I tried explaining that I was merely an observer and had no authority over the situation – a fact that seemed fairly obvious given that I was standing alone in the rain away from the action.
They persisted.
Finally, in what can only be described as my first and hopefully last attempt at sounding like an official, I adopted my most authoritative voice.
“Try further down the road,” I said firmly. “They might still be open.”
They drove off.
The police vehicles followed shortly afterwards.
The women under the awning drifted back into the night as if nothing unusual had happened.
I have been on many raids in my career and they are often tense and confrontational – which made the strange calm of this one all the more surprising.
I headed home – very damp, mildly amused and fairly certain that Queen Street returned to normal within minutes of the blue lights disappearing.
I was right. The next evening, I drove past again.
Every establishment was open – the ones the police had shut down as well as those that had mysteriously been closed the night before.
Queen Street, it seemed, had simply returned to business as usual. DM