A Newcastle dreamer turned Braamfontein car guard, Sabelo, reveals the unseen struggles and quiet courage behind Johannesburg’s informal guardians of the street.
It’s a Tuesday afternoon, and the streets of Braamfontein are pulsing with the energy of students rushing between lectures, taxis weaving through narrow lanes, and street vendors hawking everything from vetkoek to sunglasses. Standing at the entrance of the Wits Art Museum, reflector vest draped over his shoulders, is Sabelo. His eyes dart between moving cars and distracted pedestrians, scanning the small piece of asphalt he calls his “office.”
“I wanted to be in the media,” he says with a wistful smile. “But life happened.”
Sabelo is 32 years old, originally from Newcastle, KwaZulu-Natal. After matriculating in 2015, he spent years unemployed, battling the growing despair that grips so many young South Africans. “I couldn’t just sit at home and starve,” he explains. To survive, he took a job in a fruit and vegetable shop run by an Indian family in his hometown. It kept food on the table, but his dreams of studying and building a career in the media slipped further away.
In 2020, with little more than determination and a change of clothes, he boarded a taxi to Johannesburg. Like thousands of others, he believed the City of Gold might hold opportunities Newcastle could not. So, he found himself in Braamfontein, hustling as a car guard.
For most Wits students and lecturers, car guards are part of the urban wallpaper. They whistle directions into tight parking spots, wave cheerfully as you drive off, and wait for loose change in return. Wits Vuvuzela asked who these men are and how they survive.
In Gauteng, South Africa’s economic hub, car guarding has become both widespread and precarious. A 2015 Tshwane survey of 144 car guards revealed that most earned between R51 and R150 per day,barely enough to cover basic needs, let alone support a household. “Sometimes R50 is all I go home with, and I have to survive on that with the hope someone will give me something,” he said.
Many, like Sabelo, hail from other provinces, drawn to the city’s promise but caught in its unforgiving reality. Studies found that across South Africa, average daily earnings for car guards range from R32 to R350, depending on location, with most shifts lasting around nine hours.
However, these numbers don’t tell the full story. Car guards often pay daily “bay fees” of R20–50 to mall managers or agencies, along with the cost of reflector vests or radios. In practice, much of their income is clawed back before they even start their shift.
As the sun dips, Braamfontein becomes unpredictable. Students leave classes late, and nightlife starts to stir. For Sabelo, danger takes on many forms. He recalls an incident where a man offered him cash to step aside and leave cars unguarded.
“He wanted me to walk away,” Sabelo says, shaking his head. “But I refused. People trusted me to watch their cars. I couldn’t take the money and betray that.” That moment captures his philosophy: being a car guard is not just about collecting coins, it is about honouring the trust of strangers.
“Sometimes I’m the only barrier that’s standing between the car and a criminal,” he explains. “This work becomes dangerous, especially at night.”
Beyond the numbers, Sabelo’s life illustrates the humanity behind this informal sector. He doesn’t describe himself as merely earning money. For him, the role carries a sense of duty. “If someone comes back to their car and it’s safe, that’s when I know I’ve done my job,” he says
He takes pride in that trust. The irony is that despite his invisible labour and hours of watchfulness on the street, Wits people rarely acknowledge him. Yet in his own words, “Sometimes I feel like I’m the security that people didn’t know they had.”
As streetlights flicker on in Braamfontein, the Wits Art Museum glows softly in the dark, a beacon of culture and ideas. Outside, Sabelo pulls his jacket tight, bracing for another night. His story reflects the contradictions of Johannesburg: a place of possibility and despair, of dreams deferred and hustles embraced.
For Wits students and lecturers who pass him daily, he is both familiar and invisible. But behind the reflector vest is a guardian, a dreamer, and a survivor who reminds us that the city’s heart beats not only in its classrooms and offices, but also on its streets.
FEATURED IMAGE: A photo of Sabelo Hadebe directing cars in braamfontein by Phenyo Selinda
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