In South African slums, lives lifted by a chance to play

These days, Mathe and Lesand meet almost daily at the library, Mathe is now the librarian. Lesand is, quite possibly, the township's most enthusiastic card-carrying toy-library member.

"Today, I would like to borrow ..." The little girl clasps her hands behind her tattered red wool sweater, squints as she assesses her choices and leans in, conspiratorial-like, toward Mathe, "a puzzle!" An excellent choice, replies the librarian.

"Kids need stimulation. But many kids are so disadvantaged that they have nothing before setting foot in grade school. The vast majority don't go to preschool. The playgrounds are abysmal," says Cynthia Morrison, president of South Africa's toy library association, noting that problems such as poor language and social skills start with a paucity of early stimulation.

Most toy libraries here are government-private partnerships. In the case of the Alexandra library, the British construction company Turner & Townsend and a local nonprofit group help buy new toys and coordinate secondhand donations. Ms. Morrison serves as a mentor to many of the new librarians and helps, organizing toy library conferences and seminars, and helping to secure funding for new projects. "I have been hijacked by toy libraries," she jokes, "because I have seen what they can do."

Lesand and Mathe choose a puzzle of two children on a unicycle. They count out the 100 pastel-colored pieces together, to make sure they are all there. In fact, there are only 96 original pieces, but Mathe has made four duplicate pieces from cardboard – a regular procedure here.

What started as a volunteer job is now a full-time job for Mathe as the chief toy librarian. Her work involves everything from patching up dolls' eyes to disinfecting building blocks to tracking down overdue xylophones. Her $233-a-month salary goes toward her bus fare, her daughter's school fees, and food. Mathe also gives money to her mother and her jailed brother's family – and, if she can, puts a few coins away for a rainy day. She was diagnosed as HIV positive.

"Now I am even more grateful I found this work," she says. "Otherwise, I might have died cleaning convention centers."

Borrowers pay yearly membership fees of 16 cents, and are each allowed two toys for two weeks. Lesand's second choice today is a children's book. Her grandfather at home can't read to her as he is illiterate, but, a top English student herself, she can slowly make out the words. And she likes the pictures. The book is "Sarah and the Circus," and, according to the inscription on the first page, it was custom made, once upon a time, for a little girl named Sarah, in Chicago, on her fifth birthday.

Who knows how, exactly, it made its way to the shelves here. Maybe it was given to a charity. Maybe it was left behind on a family safari to Africa. Lesand doesn't mind or care. For these two weeks, it's hers. She meticulously signs her name on the library card, clasps her puzzle, gives a pleased Mathe a hug, and skips out to play.

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