Two years after the Usindiso building fire, inner-City residents still wait for answers from the city of Johannesburg.
Darkness, green-water puddles and the stench of blocked sewage welcome you as you walk through the streets of Doornfontein, in the inner city of Johannesburg. A part of the City of Gold that has now turned into the city of filth. Yet Mother Nature continues to do what she does best: the Jacaranda trees bloom, their purple flowers desperately trying to make the streets of Angle Road pleasing to the eye.
Two years ago, thick smoke engulfed the city’s sky and wails of loss filled the air as 77 people died when the Usindiso building caught fire. One would have thought that this tragedy would prompt the city council to act, make buildings safe and secure. But that’s just a wild dream for the residents of the Linatex Building.
Yet amid the decay, small acts of resilience persist. Men sit on plastic chairs beside the road, passing around quarts of beer. A few metres ahead, women join them, laughing in low tones as taxis idle nearby. Beyond the parked cars, the Linatex Building rises like a scar, paint peeled away, windows replaced with plywood, entrance dark and damp. Water pools at the doorway, spilling from a broken pipe inside.
This is where 52 families call home. Inside, life continues despite the city’s absence.
Walk down Angle Road today and you’ll see the skeleton of what Doornfontein once was. The Linatex Building, with its art deco bones and high ceilings, still hints at the suburb’s industrial glory; when it was Johannesburg’s first residential neighbourhood, alive with the clatter of factories and the hum of workers streaming to and from the mines.
Through much of the 20th century, these narrow streets buzzed with purpose. Workshops spilled oil onto pavements. Warehouses stored goods bound for the gold economy. Workers lived in tight quarters above the factories, their children playing in alleyways that smelled of diesel and ambition.
But when apartheid ended, capital moved north. The money followed Sandton’s glass towers and manicured business parks, leaving Doornfontein’s buildings to rot. First went the machinery. Then the workers. Then the owners. Roofs began to leak. Drains clogged with debris no one came to clear. Damp crept up the walls, turning them black with mould.
Doornfontein’s decline
By the early 2000s, families had arrived: displaced workers, migrants, people seeking shelter close to schools and taxi routes. They moved into the hollow shells of Linatex, of Walpert Motors on Janie Street, of a dozen other abandoned buildings. They paid rent to whoever claimed to be in charge.
The City of Johannesburg has a name for these places: “hijacked buildings.” Properties abandoned by owners, now occupied and managed informally. The city says syndicates control some of them, extracting illegal rent from desperate tenants.
But the Socio-Economic Rights Institute (SERI) calls it something else: survival. The argue that the term “hijacked” criminalises people who occupy these spaces not out of greed, but out of having nowhere else to go.
According to SERI, many residents pay rent often to informal caretakers, and take on repairs themselves, patching leaks and unclogging drains that the City ignores.
“People occupy these buildings because they have nowhere else to go,” said SERI’s Osmond Mngomezulu. “The City’s failure to provide safe, affordable housing forces them to choose between homelessness and hazard.”
The narrative of mass hijacking is repeated by city officials and in the media. The facts tell a different story.
In September 2025, the Commission of Inquiry into the Usindiso Building fire released findings that shattered that assumption.
The evidence found by the Commission does not support the idea that criminal syndicates have “taken over” inner-city buildings. Only 5,74% of properties showed alleged rent collection by non-owners. Instead, the Commission pointed to poverty and a critical shortage of affordable housing as the root causes driving people into unsafe buildings.
“Bad buildings or unsafe buildings are routinely described as hijacked,” the report noted with undertones suggesting that the occupiers are the hijackers.
The Commission went further: it discouraged the City of Johannesburg and political office bearers from using the word “hijacked” at all. The term, they said, is pejorative, it criminalises the poor for surviving.
Yet the label persists. And so does the city’s neglect.
Surviving Linatex
Outside the Linatex Building, Fredah Motshwane stands at the entrance, surrounded by plastic crates stacked like a makeshift barrier against the street. She is the first person I meet that morning; she waves me over and guides me through the damp corridor, her flip-flops slapping against the wet concrete.
“We moved here on 1 June 2014, after the fire burned the third floor of the Moth Building near Park Station,” she says, her voice calm but steady. She gestures toward the darkened stairwell behind her.
“I have kids, but they don’t stay with me anymore. After Usindiso, I sent them home. I was scared.”
Motshwane doesn’t pay rent. She survives on occasional domestic work and small handouts. “The City says this place is hijacked, but it’s the same City that brought us here,” she adds, folding her arms across her chest.
She pauses, listening to the sound of water dripping somewhere deep inside the building. “Since then, no one has come back. The roof leaks, the toilets are blocked, and we fetch water outside. Still, this is home.”
Inside, the building tells its own story. On the first floor, a single light bulb flickers over a narrow passage. Electrical wires snake along the ceiling, patched together with tape and rope. The walls sweat from moisture, paint peel in long strips. The air smells faintly of burning paraffin and mildew.
At the corner, a small room glows with warm light. Inside, David Thabethe stands behind a wooden counter no bigger than a school desk in his tuckshop.
“This is how I survive,” he says, handing a loaf of bread to a young woman clutching coins. Packets of chips hang on nails on the wall.
“Even when the water stops or the lights go, we still try. The city forgot about us. But we still plan,” he adds.
Further down the corridor, the smell of damp grows stronger. Vusumuzi Dwyili appears from a doorway, gesturing at a broken pipe leaking onto the floor. “That light?” He points at the flickering bulb. “We fixed it ourselves. When something breaks, we fix it. The city hasn’t been here for years.”
His one-room home, barely big enough for a bed and a cupboard, has no windows. The door doesn’t close properly, and a curtain serves as his only privacy.
Life in the cracks of a world-class City
Johannesburg brands itself as a “world-class African city.” Billboards promise innovation, investment, glass towers reaching for the sky. Yet for residents of Doornfontein, that slogan feels like a cruel joke.
The city’s own records list over 600 “bad buildings” in the inner city, structures deemed unsafe or illegally occupied. Linatex is one of them. In a 2024 media statement, the City’s Human Settlements Department confirmed that the building is used for “temporary emergency accommodation” and is “under assessment.” Repairs to plumbing, wiring, and waterproofing were promised. Plans to remove “illegal occupants” were mentioned.
No public timelines have been released. Two years after Usindiso. Two years of waiting.
Nearby, at Walpert Motors and Lalanathi, the story is the same. Both are privately owned, and the city insists the owners are responsible for maintenance under municipal by-laws. The City’s “bad buildings strategy,” managed by the Office of the Chief Operating Officer, promises to “improve safety and ensure lawful occupancy through assessments, partnerships with owners, and gradual relocation of residents.”
But SERI researchers say this language masks something simpler: systemic neglect. “It’s easier to call people illegal than to confront the housing crisis,” Mngomezulu says. “The City’s constitutional duty is to provide safe, alternative accommodation before eviction. Yet it seldom does so.”
The numbers tell their own story
The Usindiso Commission of Inquiry, convened after the 2023 fire, found that up to 188 buildings in the inner city lacked basic fire-safety compliance. 65% had no working extinguishers. 80% had exposed electrical wiring or blocked emergency exits. Many had no provision of basic services, no water, no electricity, no sanitation, no refuse removal.
The Commission’s recommendations were clear: provide basic services to bad buildings immediately. Invest in infrastructure. Adopt a coherent plan to address homelessness, including a recalibrated Inner City Housing Implementation Plan (ICHIP).
Sizwe Pamla, spokesperson for the Gauteng Premier, confirms that the report has been received.
“The city manager is responsible for ensuring compliance with the Occupational Health and Safety Act,” he says. “The Department of Employment and Labour holds broader enforcement responsibilities.”
The report’s release, he adds, will be finalised once “an opening in the Premier’s schedule” allows.
For residents like Motshwane, the delay feels like an afterthought.
“They talk about safety, but we’re still here in danger,” she says.
Each building tells the same story: survival without state support. At Walpert Motors, now home to forty families, Thobile Zondo sweeps the cracked concrete floor of her one-room space. A thin curtain separates her sleeping area from her cooking corner. Sunlight filters through gaps in the boarded windows.
“We’ve been asking for toilets, for windows, for repairs, but nothing,” she says, leaning her broom against the wall.
She pauses, watching a neighbour carry a bucket of water past her door. “But we clean together. We make this place liveable.”
Their stories expose the contradiction at the heart of Johannesburg’s urban narrative: a city chasing investment and luxury developments while criminalising its poor for surviving. For yearning for basic rights. For wanting dignified living conditions.
From decay to defiance: the spirit of Doornfontein
Just across the road from Linatex, at 32 Van Beek Street, laughter spills from Skateistan, a skateboarding and education centre built between warehouses. Inside, children zip across ramps, their helmets flashing under fluorescent lights. Upstairs, others sit on desks, bent over homework.
Educator Enos Rankwe, once an engineering student, mentors dozens of children daily.
“We give them a place to dream,” he says, watching a girl land her first kickflip. “After school, they come here for food, lessons, and skating. We teach kindness, not just tricks.”
For many of these children, some from Linatex and Walpert, Skateistan is the only space where childhood feels safe.
“Here, they’re free,” Rankwe says. “Even for an hour, they forget what’s waiting at home.”
Dr. Yvette Esprey, a clinical psychologist at Wits University, calls this “social cohesion in motion.”
“Shared, creative spaces like Skateistan rebuild trust and agency in environments shaped by trauma,” she said. “They’re a counterbalance to neglect.”
Yet the contrast is stark. The city’s Joburg 2040 Growth and Development Strategy (GDS) envision a “world-class African city” built on innovation, inclusivity, and resilience. Ten years have passed since former mayor of Johannesburg, Parks Tau’s address promising to turn “challenges into opportunities.”
The inner city reflects something else: systemic inertia.
SERI estimates that over 20,000 people live in “bad buildings” across the inner city, including migrants, women-led households, workers earning below the minimum wage. Despite commitments to refurbish or relocate residents, the city’s Special Projects Unit has not released a public progress report since 2022.
Edward Molopi from SERI is blunt: “The city’s approach frames inner-city poverty as criminality rather than a housing crisis. People are forced into these conditions because they’ve been excluded from formal housing markets. Instead of support, they face raids, evictions, and stigma.”
Tomorrows city, today’s neglect
As the afternoon light fades, the children at Skateistan roll past the decaying walls of Linatex. Their laughter echoes down the street, bright, defiant, alive.
In Doornfontein, survival is not passive. It’s an act of protest. From Fredah’s determination to keep her children safe, to Thobile’s daily cleaning of a floor that isn’t hers, to Enos’s skateboarding lessons, each story reveals a city sustained not by policy, but by people.
For all the city’s promises of being “world-class,” perhaps Johannesburg’s real greatness lies elsewhere: in the resilience of its poorest residents. In their refusal to give up on a place that has already given up on them.
FEATURED IMAGE: Johannesburg’s inner city is notorious for decay and danger, yet its young skaters carve out pockets of freedom in the midst of it. Photo: Likho Mbuka
RELATED ARTICLES:
- Wits Vuvuzela, Mayor outlines turnaround vision, but opposition questions delivery , May 2025
- Wits Vuvuzela, The collapse of Johannesburg’s service delivery, Dec 2024
- Wits Vuvuzela, PHOTO ESSAY: Joburg water woes , May 2021
