In a city chasing world-class status, Johannesburg’s alternative youth measure this goal not through politics or wealth, but by how freely the city’s residents can express themselves and live the lives they choose, no matter how unconventional.
On a Saturday night in northern Johannesburg, the faithful gather not in pews but under the pulsing lights and sloped ceilings of the Sognage night club. The room is dark and hot, with the only light illuminating the members of a band called Cape Cross Delusion. A metal riff from the guitarist fills the room like a hymn, and bodies move in rhythm, their arms raised and heads bowed as they headbang to the beat. Around the mosh pit, the crowd is draped mostly in black, donning leather jackets, fishnets, and heavy boots that thud as they stomp their feet. Many of them are adorned with piercings that glint when the light catches their faces, and dark eyeliner that frames their eyes locked onto the stage. Mbali Ntuli (25) will remember that night forever, her first metal concert, which she describes as a kind of baptism. She laughs when she says this but insists that that night felt almost religious. “It felt like church, or like a sanctuary almost,” she says. “You just feel so good, you know. You just feel so bloody good.”
Johannesburg’s leaders have spent decades chasing the dream of making the city “world-class, the phrase a nagging promise in city plans, political speeches, and tourist slogans. This vision is typically built on the idea of what success looks like in other major hubs such as London or New York. But these cities are not just iconic because of their economic prowess. Their status is also founded on their immense cultural capital, which is something built from the streets up, not from the elites down.
Ntuli’s Johannesburg is loud, expressive and unapologetically different. The alternative subcultures in the city ask the question: what if being world-class was about something deeper? So much of South Africa’s history and identity is about freedom. So why not measure the city’s world-class status by the freedom to be yourself – to dress how you want, love who you want, and exist without fear? For those in the city’s alternative scene, that kind of freedom is what truly defines Johannesburg.
British punk to Joburg resistance
The label “alternative” means opposing dominant cultural norms. It’s an umbrella term for several subcultures that define themselves as breaking away from what society deems as normal or appropriate. Punk, goth, emo, and sometimes queerness are the core alternative archetypes that stand opposed to mainstream ideals of fashion, music, love, and other forms of self-expression..
This rebellious posture has its roots in the punk movements that emerged in 1970s England. The Museum of Youth Culture in the United Kingdom describes punk as a “way of doing”, informing everything “from music through design, fashion, artwork, writing and performance.” It arose from disillusioned British youth who had little faith in their government to address rising inequality, working class exploitation, and labour movements that saw mass strikes and growing unionisation, especially in mining. Young Britons saw punk style, with its distinctive black leather, silver chains, studs, spiky hair and brash makeup, as a way of signalling that they didn’t align with Britain’s social and political conservativism.
At the same time, South African youth were going through their own anti-establishment movements with the rise of anti-apartheid student activism, notably punctuated by the 1976 Soweto Uprisings where police killed over 170 students. Amidst this resistance, South Africa’s multi-racial punk subcultures emerged, rebelling against conservative Afrikaner nationalism that sought to dictate both racial and socio-cultural norms. Their main outlet was music. The country’s first multiracial punk band, National Wake, was formed in 1978 in a student commune in downtown Johannesburg. In his article, ‘Punks of the Witwatersrand’, journalist Chris Webb describes the neighbourhoods of Hillbrow, Parktown, and Yeoville as sites of “political organising, multi-racial collaboration, and artistic exploration”. While the punk era of 1970s South Africa didn’t totally mirror its British inspiration in form and style, rebelling against the apartheid government, even just by making music or living together, was very punk.
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Listen to a new bonus episode of the We Should Be Writing podcast to discover the little-known world of rebellion and resistance within Johannesburg’s underground punk music scene.
Freedom, worn out loud
In today’s alternative Johannesburg, fashion is the first language of freedom. It’s how authenticity, creativity, queerness and belonging announce themselves without a word.
Baitseng Mello (20) believes self-expression isn’t just about looking different, it’s about refusing to disappear. Sitting at a table outside the Matrix, a small retail hub inside Wits University, she stands out in an all-black outfit, complete with an oversized leather jacket, chunky boots and a silver spiked necklace. She tells the story of her sheltered upbringing in Pretoria. Being the only daughter in her family meant that there were rigid guidelines for self-expression. This has changed dramatically since coming to study in Johannesburg. “Today, I dress how I feel. Sometimes I feel masculine, and whenever I [would] express that through my clothes my dad would ask me: ‘Why are you dressed like that? Are you gay? You’re not a boy.’ Even for family events, he would buy me dresses and skirts so I would look more feminine,” she says.
“It’s crazy that being in Joburg has helped me express my femininity more. Back in Pretoria at home, they tried to suppress me and I hated it,” she says. “When it was being forced on me, I thought, no, I’m going to reject this because you’re forcing it on me.”
Sitting near the library lawns on the university’s East Campus, Joburger Tyreece Garach (21) shares that it was her mother’s support that empowered her rebellious style. “I appreciate her because I could not imagine being the type of child [where] when I leave the house, I’m wearing a whole different outfit and then I get to the bus stop and take it off.”
Among the throng of students shuffling to class, you simply can’t miss her. Garach’s matching brown crochet tank top and mini skirt are accentuated by fishnet tights and thigh-high leather boots. Black lipliner frames her smile and the geometric pattern inked on her forehead draws you towards her eyebrow and septum piercings. A spiky neo-tribal tattoo covers her back, topping off her edgy look. Her style not only expresses her personality but her queerness too. “The way I dress, it’s to express my sexuality as well. I’m a lesbian. The way I dress may seem to be for the male gaze, but my eye makeup, all these piercings, it tells them to stay away!” she laughs. “It’s for the women. This is the expression of alternative people and for me, alternative people are the gays.”
The risks of being seen
While Johannesburg is largely experienced as an accepting and inclusive city, it isn’t immune to the challenges facing the rest of the country. For alternative women, their self-expression doesn’t shield them from misogyny. In many ways, it heightens their visibility as a target for it.
Garach and her partner, both femme-presenting lesbians, have frequently had their relationship invalidated because of how they present. Men have flirted and pushed for their cell phone numbers, despite the women reiterating that they are queer. “When we go out together, often men don’t take us or our relationship seriously. Everything is so deeply rooted in patriarchy,” she says. “At the same time, in Braam [Braamfontein] specifically, men are a lot less pushy about it. I think that’s because this is such an accepting place. People are very aware of all these alternative people living alternative lifestyles,” she explains.
Beyond their relationships, alternative women also use clothing to assert who they are, despite the judgment that follows. “Sometimes before I leave the house, I ask myself, should I tone it down, should I cover up, and the answer is no. I never tone it down,” Ntuli says. “You could walk around wearing a short skirt and you get people calling you a slut. They start calling you names, which is annoying.”
Despite experiencing the heavy metal scene in Johannesburg as a kind of sanctuary, Ntuli knows that the ugliness that exists in the rest of society can bleed into what should be her safe space. “Metal is a male-dominated industry, so the scene can be like that as well. When you go to these gigs you need to make sure you’re in good hands because this is South Arica, after all. I love my community but that doesn’t mean that gender-based violence doesn’t happen with us as well,” she says. Regardless of these risks, she’s not letting them stop her from finding solace in the heavy metal scene. “I tell all my female friends that if they haven’t gone to a metal show, that they need to. It is the best experience. It gives women a space to express their strength and just rebel.”
Africa’s alternative youth, beyond Joburg
Unlike many of its African counterparts, Johannesburg is often considered to be more accepting and inclusive. The diversity in the kinds of people that are drawn to the city and make it their own is something unique. For other African youth, their experience of alternative self-expression can be bleak.
Akon Areet (20) knows this first-hand. She is the eldest daughter of South Sudanese parents who fled to Kenya when the Sudanese civil war began in 2023. After a short stay in a refugee camp in Kakuma, the family settled in Eldoret, where they already had a few relatives. Areet’s parents have since moved to the United States to work and send money back to support her and her siblings.
She began experimenting with alternative fashion last year as a way to express herself and her sense of style, which she describes as goth. She has silver piercings on her eyebrows and lips, and her hair is a shaggy pink wolfcut, with the bottom layers dyed grey. Her thick eyeliner accentuates her eyes, making them standout further against the white makeup that covers the rest of her face.
While she feels more authentic than ever, her new identity hasn’t been received warmly. “Kenya is a really conservative place. There’s not really a lot of alternative people here and when you’re different, people will ostracise you,” she shares. A sore spot for Areet is that her self-expression is considered white-washed, especially her piercings. “People tell me that I’m trying to be white because of them, but my piercings are the most African thing about me, in so many ways,” she says. “As Africans, we have a lot of body modifications. We have tattoos, piercings and scarification. I love my piercings because they actually bring me closer to my roots.”
She hasn’t let family pressure stop her, despite sometimes feeling isolated. The alternative scene in Eldoret is virtually non-existent. “There are no goth clubs here. I barely see alternative people. I’ve never met an alternative person from here.”
This is in stark contrast to the sense of community that alternative youth in Johannesburg say they’ve found through their self-expression. “When I started expressing myself, that’s when I found my community, my people,” Mello says of her experience in Johannesburg. “If I kept myself stifled, I wouldn’t have found the other queer and alternative people that are like my family now”.
Freedom is the heart of this city
When contemplating if Johannesburg is a world-class African city, freedom of expression rarely comes to mind. The city’s glaring structural challenges often overshadow the resilience and boldness of its people. But to them, self-expression is a part of what makes living in Johannesburg a world-class experience. “Having a city where acceptance is a big part of the way we live shows we have a mindset of liberation. That’s something really unique to Johannesburg,” Garach says. “I think Joburg is a world-class city simply for that fact that it allows everyone to be themselves. Even if there are people judging in silence, as long as they’re not projecting onto you who they think you should be, who cares!”
This city isn’t perfect nor is it immune to challenges like misogyny and queerphobia that threaten freedom of expression. But even with its imperfections, it gives people the courage to be unapologetically themselves – a truly world-class freedom.
FEATURED IMAGE: For Tyreece Garach (21), Joburg is a city where liberation is a mindset embodied daily by its residents. Photo: Mbali Khumalo.
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