The city’s digital creatives are redefining what it means to live and work in a ‘world-class African city’.
Johannesburg exists in two places at once. There is the Johannesburg you can touch, smell, feel, and hear, with its jacaranda-lined streets, exploding roads, screams of traffic, glitzy high-rises, and pungent smell.
And then there is the other Johannesburg; the one you’re taking for granted. The one that pulses through fibre cables and 4G signals, the one that lives in Instagram grids and Google Drive folders, in DMs and collaborative Canva boards. The one that causes jumpy thumbs to double tap and fingers to type three flame emojis after a post.
This is the sophisticated and highly functional digital city built not of concrete and steel, but from code, bandwidth, and human collaboration. This is the digital creative economy.
Sitting in multiple digital meeting rooms – not physical ones, because even the concept of gathering has evolved – I encounter creatives who show the slogan still holds true. Not despite Johannesburg’s dysfunction, but because of what has emerged from it.
The mythology and the reality
Johannesburg earned its world-class aspirations honestly. Founded on the world’s largest gold deposits in 1886, it became Africa’s financial heartland, contributing 17% to South Africa’s GDP. Former Reserve Bank Governor Tito Mboweli once declared it a place where “phones dial, the lights switch on, you can drink our water,” services that would seem mundane elsewhere, but which distinguished Johannesburg as exceptional in Africa.
That distinction is disintegrating. Between July 2024 and March 2025, the city reported 97,715 power outages. Johannesburg Water’s aging infrastructure requires R1,09-billion annually just for pipe replacements, funds the cash-strapped municipality cannot provide. The city faces potential bankruptcy, having written off R13-billion in irregular and wasteful expenditure. City Power is owed R10-billion by residents and businesses who have lost faith in paying for services that barely function.
Political analyst Goodenough Mashego’s assessment is blunt.
Johannesburg arrived where it is because of mismanagement, the lack of political will to fix it and because the people who have been running it have had this vision that they can leave
The Centre for Development and Enterprise concluded years ago that Johannesburg is a “slipping world city,” at risk of falling off the global map entirely.
Yet, in this landscape of decay, something unexpected is flourishing.
What is the ‘digital creative economy‘?
“It’s anywhere where there’s an ecosystem of various kinds of practitioners in the realms of entertainment, design, fashion, musicians, fine art, artisans, et cetera,” says Khensani Mohlatlole, a digital creative.
Renaé Mangena, who owns a digital publication, iQHAWE Magazine, thinks that “there’s a difference between the creative space and then the creative economy.”
The creative economy, she explains, is broader — the flow of money through creative industries, how creativity feeds into markets, how cultural production contributes to GDP. It’s the macroeconomic dimension.
“The creative space in itself, maybe it’s just like the more of where we’re at as artists where any form of creativity is produced,” she continues. “I like to think of it as an ecosystem of sorts.”
Mohlatlole emphasises the relational nature of this ecosystem. “There’s a lot of interconnectedness. Like you need everyone else for it to work, essentially, for it to operate as a creative process.”
It recognises that creative work emerges from networks, collaboration, and the provision of services. A photographer needs a stylist, a makeup artist, a designer. A writer needs editors, curators, platforms.
The digital creative economy only functions as an ecosystem that enables work to be discovered, valued, and eventually monetised. And post-Covid-19, the burst of content creators, CapCut editors, and caption connoisseurs has never been more prominent in South Africa.
Photo: Lukholo Mazibuko
How creatives operate in Jozi’s digital creative economy
@oneandonly_rori – Digital Content Producer
Rorisang Sebiloane is unmuted on Google Meets, donning glasses and a large smile, meeting with me in a manner that has become more familiar to Johannesburg’s creatives than any physical studio.
The story of how her media agency, Helang Media, began is quintessentially millennial, shaped by the blend of desire and accident: “In varsity, I used the bursary money to buy an iPhone, naturally, as one does.”
This seemingly small purchase, coupled with a casual suggestion from an iStore sales representative and a friend’s encouragement, led her to start a YouTube channel. Sebiloane soon realised her true passion lay in the digital space, prompting her to drop out of engineering and switch to marketing.
Sebiloane recognized a powerful, universal anxiety among her peers, stating, “People start to realise that nobody really knows what they’re doing, but it doesn’t mean that you won’t get somewhere or you won’t be successful.” This moved her toward collective storytelling in the form a segment called, These Twenties, featuring interviews with people navigating their twenties, normalisingthe non-linear, often confusing, experience of young adulthood.
When I ask Sebiloane whether digital platform mechanics shape her creative choices, she pauses thoughtfully. “In the beginning, I didn’t really care because I was just doing something that I was passionate about. But then when I sat down and I said, okay, this is something that I want to do and I want to take it seriously, you definitely consider the look and feel and the tone of social media.”
But not always.
She refuses to chase viral moments which is what Instagram and Youtube thrive on. “If I’m doing street interviews, I cannot think, okay, I need a viral moment because that’s not what my platform is about,” she insists.
@okbaddiek – Writer, Content Creator, Fiber Artist
Khensani Mohlatlole’s relationship with social media is more complex and more fraught. “A lot of the things that I’m interested in are by way of the internet as well. It’s quite hard to remove my creative output from it,” she explains.
Unlike Sebiloane, who came to digital platforms after discovering her passion, Mohlatlole has been online since childhood. “I’ve been on the internet since I was six years old. It’s my culture, my school, my home. It already has informed the things that I want to do.”
She recognises the trap of algorithmic thinking. “I will say there are definitely times I’m doing something with a very conscious intent of like, I need to get this many views or I want this much engagement, or I know there’s certain things people will always eat up online.”
But there is another path through this landscape, one that consciously rejects the algorithmic premise entirely.
@anele__nyanda – Film Photographer
A day later, Anele Nyanda appears on my screen, a simple backdrop of a wooden wall, her presence carrying a quiet intentionality. She’s an analog film photographer shooting on 35mm or 120mm film.
After posting her photos on Instagram, iQHAWE magazine discovered her work at an exhibition called Threaded by Faith.
“She sent me a direct message on Instagram and asked if we could sit down and have an interview, well not sit down because we did it like this (virtual meeting), so I can just tell her about my work and my practice,” Nyanda explains.
Nyanda embraces a slower, more intentional creative process, preferring to work solo because, as she puts it, “It takes me quite a while to come up with something.”
This approach contrasts sharply with the fast-paced, content-heavy demands of digital platforms, where constant posting is often seen as necessary for visibility and relevance.
Her philosophy values depth over frequency — fewer images, more meaning. She’s not drawn to social media, saying, “I actually don’t enjoy social media… I feel sometimes a post won’t give my photos justice.” Instead, she favours exhibitions and physical spaces where her work can be fully appreciated.
Still, she acknowledges the tension between her method and the digital norm: “I also understand that now it seems like every time if you’re a photographer, you need to post or do a lot of work online.” This makes navigating online platforms a challenge for her.
Mohlatlole observed that the professionalisation of digital spaces has created new rules and new expectations. If you’re a photographer, you must have an Instagram presence. If you’re a writer, you must maintain consistent output. If you’re a creator, you must feed the algorithm. But not all editorial photographers reject algorithmic thinking as categorically as Nyanda does.
@nondumisoshangee – Creative director and photographer
Nondumiso Shange greets me through the computer screen, connecting and separating us, with an enthusiasm as palpable as her passion for the creative space.
Her entry into the space follows the familiar pattern of digital discovery: she was featured in iQHAWE after they reached out to her on Instagram.
Don’t have kids and you will make it out alive
As a creative, Shange is clear that she is conscious of social media when producing: “If I’m working with Netflix or Multichoice, I’m thinking, how am I going to post this on my feed? What will audience engagement look like? Otherwise, when I’m just doing something for me, then I don’t really think about the feed aspect of things.”
But what if the digital creative economy needs both acceleration and slowness? Both digital-first creatives producing at a consistent basis and traditionally grounded artists developing work that demands time? Both Instagram feeds and exhibitions? Both viral moments and long-form impact? Is it sustainable?
“You have to be super, super flexible all the time. The algorithms change so much, the interests change often,” Mohlatlole explains. “There’s an aspect of you having to ground yourself in something a little bit evergreen and also understand that the moment can change all the time.”
If your next few posts don’t perform well, you might lose out on paid collaborations. It creates a high-pressure environment, even though, ironically, it’s all happening on a platform like Instagram. “Don’t have kids and you will make it out alive,” chuckles Shange.
A lot of companies nowadays look at content creators and influencers as mini ad agencies. Photo: Supplied
Money, money, money, must be funny, in a digital creative’s world
Ideas cost money. Economic privilege is an ongoing battle for creatives.
Sebiloane faces the monetisation crisis that characterises much of South Africa’s creatives where there is this gap between reach and funding access.
“I think that they don’t take it seriously,” she says cynically of institutional funders and brand partners.
“We’ve seen a move of influencers being taken seriously. Unless you have a certain number or certain reach, forget about making money from your content.”
Shange is brutally honest about her own position: “I will say I am more on the privileged end. Not because I have money but because my parents have money.”
“I’m not worried about paying for rent. I’m not worried about groceries. I’m not worried about a roof over my head. I’m not worried about little things that some creatives do have to worry about on a daily basis.”
“Expressing my creative freedom is a bit easier for me as opposed to somebody who’s like actually, they need to work for money.”
Shange makes her living through direct commissions through offering her services as well as paid brand collaborations. Until then, “everything I do is out of pocket.”
“Success looks like me being able to pay rent,” muses Mohlatlole bluntly. She’s been deliberate about treating her creative work as a business from the beginning. “I’ve done the whole nine-to-five thing. My creative work has always been a business in my head.”
She has developed multiple revenue streams as a result.
“I take subscriptions on Patreon,” Mohlatlole explains. “My digital projects bring in the most revenue. And then from time to time, if it seems like a good idea, I will also do paid partnerships with brands.”
The creative cost of commercial work is undesirable at times, “Making ads is like torture. It’s like dragging your balls across glass,” she says with dark humour.
“A lot of companies nowadays look at content creators and influencers as mini ad agencies more than like working on actual storytelling content.”
Despite this, she’s pragmatic about the economic necessity. “If the money is good enough, I’ll take a check. Provided they align with what I can produce.”
Nyanda does not have the same mentality, but she would like to. “Because my work has just been very conceptual, I ask people to help me (for free). I haven’t been able to monetise. It’s just been passion projects.” When push comes to shove as a creative, “you have to work on the kindness of your friends to help you out,” says Mohlatlole.
Is it seriously every man for himself?
“The other thing with the digital space is that it’s quite dependent on you calling the shots,” says Mohlatlole, “but there’s such a lack of government funding and support.”
Mangena has experienced this first hand having to run a magazine.
@renaé_mangena – founder of iQHAWE Magazine, Digital Content Producer
“It needs money,” Mangena starts, giving a dry, mirthless chuckle with the kind of weariness that comes from knowing the biggest obstacle is always the budget.
She makes an analogy: “I can never go and say become the Minister of, I don’t know, a tech industry but I don’t know the first thing about the tech industry.” Yet somehow, cultural and creative policy is made by people disconnected from the realities of the sector.
Johannesburg’s 2040 Growth and Development Strategy doesn’t even mention the cultural and creative sector, despite the fact that Gauteng province, of which Johannesburg is the economic heart, contributes 46,3% to South Africa’s creative industry GDP and generates the highest employment impact in the sector.
Though there may be funding programs that require local governments agencies to partner with arts and cultural organisations in their cities and towns, iQHAWE is no stranger to the non-guaranteed system of applying for funding.
“I can’t start season three of These Twenties without money!” exclaims Sebiloane.
“At times, it feels like if we had their undeniable support, it probably wouldn’t feel as fickle. It really is all on us,” says Mohlatlole with furrowed eyebrows.
Reimagining a world-class status as a city
They’ve described an economy that barely exists yet clearly does; one that’s generating real income and real cultural impact despite being structurally unsupported.
They’re building world-class work in a city where new high-tech offices are built while waste piles higher on the next corner, where public parks will continue to rot and where first-come, first-go at perpetually faulty robots is the new norm on the road.
But tomorrow, they’ll all log back on. They’ll post and create and collaborate and network and build.
Because Johannesburg’s world-class status now belongs not to its infrastructure, but to its people. And they’re not waiting for permission to prove it.
FEATURED IMAGE: A woman in a dark room whose face is lit up by the screen of her phone. Photo: Lukholo Mazibuko
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